FATE

6. Brooke Collins

JONAH

Usually, when I get home from school, I stare at a picture of my mom on the wall. I don't say anything to it because I don't trust myself enough not to cry while I do that but I stare at it. It's like I'm showing her that I survived another day without her.

That I miss her.

That I'm home.

Home doesn't feel like home without her anyway but that particular picture makes me feel like she's still here somehow. It's been six years since she died and that picture is one the things that reminds me that she even existed. It was taken before I was born, before she even got married to my Dad, although they were dating at the time. Her strawberry blonde hair fell around her face in pretty curls and her blue eyes lit up as she grinned happily. I don't know why she was so happy the day it was taken but it sure beats the look I saw on her face the night she died.

I get little breaks in my sadness where I'm allowed to feel something close to happiness when I stare at that picture. It makes me feel...warm?

Warmth is not the word I would use to describe what I feel right now.

Because the space where that picture should be is currently empty.

"What the fuck?!"

"Language Jonah", I hear my father say from the kitchen. I roll my eyes and turn to the kitchen doorway. A young woman with a disturbing orange pixie cut walks out with a bright smile on her face.

"And who are the hell are you supposed to be?", I ask.

She furrows her eyebrows together and stares at me. I'm guessing she didn't expect that reaction to her presence.

Or she simply doesn't appreciate cussing teenagers.

She purses her lips, "Ginger"

"Are you a stripper?"

She flinches at my remark.

Ginger sounds like a stripper's name.

"Be nice Jonah", my father says as he walks out of the kitchen.

"Where's my mom's picture?", I ask, my eyes shifting between the both of them.

"I slid the frame under your door", he says dryly, "you don't always have to lock your room, you know"

"I lock my room to keep you out", I snap and the ginger lady takes a deep breath.

"You did say he was an interesting child", she remarks, smiling mischievously.

"Is this the new one?", I ask, "another disappointing downgrade, I see"

My father frowns, his eyes burning in anger. His orange haired partner moves closer to him, the smile leaves her face and her expression is replaced with fear. She holds onto his arm as though I'm going to try to hurt her and he's going to protect her.

"I've had just about enough of your rude attitude Jonah", he says spitefully, "if you can't learn to respect my friends, then-"

"Then what?", I ask.

His lips press into a thin line but he glares at me still. The atmosphere is tense. I begin to breathe heavily. He shouldn't have taken down her picture. I know he did it to fight back his guilt, he couldn't bear to see it while he was with his lover but I'm going to make sure he's reminded of it every time he comes home. I'm going to make sure he's reminded of how he lost all my respect for him. It's his fault we're here. It's his fault she's not here with us.

I walk quickly past the both of them, brushing my shoulders against him.

"Jonah", I hear him call but I don't answer. I climb up the stairs quickly and head straight for my room.

---

My journal sits on the desk in front of me. My pen lies on a blank page that should be filled with words. There are no words to fully describe how I feel. It's feeling everything and yet feeling nothing at the same time.

I take a deep breath as I stare out through the window. The moon is in view, staring back at me, mocking my loneliness or is she telling me that she's just like me- all alone in the vast night sky with no one like her but twinkling stars to keep her company.

The blade sinks deeper into my skin and I hiss slightly at the feeling of the blood escaping my veins. The red liquid proves to me that I am somehow real. If I wasn't, I won't be bleeding, would I?

Sometimes I doubt my own existence.

My heart aches and the tears stream down my cheeks so I drop the razor and bury my face in my hand. Loss is inevitable, that much I know but I also know that it can be avoided, that the decisions of one person could cause the death of another- way too early.

I live my life hating my father, despite all the 'good' things I could say he has done for me, like giving me a home to stay in for example. All of that doesn't seem to matter because you could do a thousand good things in one lifetime and one tiny little sin could take you to hell.

I grab the razor and press it against another part of my skin, drawing a straight line across- like art on a bare canvass. The tears cloud my vision and I think about how weak I am for even crying. I wonder if anyone else can see how weak I am, like Brooke Collins.

Drops of blood hit the open blank page in front of me.

It may just be one of those reactions to meeting someone new that normal people usually have but Brooke Collins spoke her words slowly, like she was scared of saying the wrong things, like I would have snapped if she had spoken out of line. When I touched her hair, her body was tense and I would have stopped immediately if she didn't look up at me with those safe eyes with captivating allure in them- like a child ignorant of life and its realities.

She most definitely would not understand me, not the way Hailee does.

The window blinds dance gracefully as cold breeze enters the room.

I stare at the framed picture of my mom sitting on my desk. The glass is cracked but I can still see the joy in her eyes.

Joy I wonder if I'll be allowed to feel again.