The Silence of Insomniacs

Chapter Nine

When I don't answer right away, Oliver stops and gazes at me, willing me to answer. All words get caught in my throat as I take in his state: hair wild from my hands, lips puffy, eyes swollen and tired.

He is one sight to see.

"Yes," I breathe as I grasp his face, pulling him back to me, "you know that."

And as we continue to do what we do in the back of Noah's truck, the sun slowly starts to creep above the horizon, watching us carefully, as if it had the eyes of God.

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Oliver kisses me one last time as we sit outside of his house.

"I'll text you, okay?" he says, and I nod before he pecks me on the forehead and slips out of the car. He turns back to me when he arrives at the front door and gives me one of his shy smiles before going inside.

I wait a second, staring at the place Oliver was just standing before pulling off into the slippery street of Fairbanks.

I gaze straight ahead, only half-aware of the quiet world outside the somewhat claustrophobic comfort of Noah's car: my hands stroking the wheel, the almost soundless changing of the gears, the pattern of traffic lights. The trees full of snow pass in a blurry until it looks like nothing but a white blanket draped over the sky.

The Perkins do not live far from my house, maybe a few miles at most – it'd take about fifteen minutes to walk there and eight minutes to drive – however, it feels like hours to get home.

I look outside and see a small, pale boy running through the snow, a sad look blanketing his features. I slow down and watch as he stops and turns around, as if he's leaving something behind.

I recognize the look in his eyes – it is the same look Noah had in his eyes the first time we saw Jo in the woods. It is hope. It's as if whatever the boy is looking at is a bright star in a hopelessly dark universe; his own version of hope.

He turns to me, and in his face, I see thirteen-year-old Oliver leaving my house on that night five years ago. I blink, and he is gone, replaced by the strong winds flowing in between the tree branches.

It isn't long before I am pulling into the driveway of my too-modern-for-Fairbanks home. It sits on top of a little hill like a cupcake on a sugared plate, so proud on the snow-covered landscape. It blends in well, strong stone walls of the land and a door of aged oak.

The windows look out onto the rolling countryside, casting a gentle gaze over dead trees and rustling winds. It is as modern as any city dwelling, more so perhaps. I may need this house in small, little Fairbanks for my soul, but I have no intention of living here forever like most people do.

In my home is the scent of lavender, as if it is springtime outside. The strong scent brings out the delicate purple hue of the walls, the very same shade that is the colour of spring forget-me-nots in the morning light.

I never loved living in a large home, however, my mom did. While my dad preferred cozy and friendly, my mom wanted it all; she wanted the perfect, white-picket fence American dream.

This house was the perfect space for both of their needs and wants. It was their "cottage" in the sky, furnished with everything rustic, the old being a stage for new creations, new paintings daubed on perfect squares of canvas.

My dad had said when we moved in here that "a space is just space until you bring your own personality to it, make your mark, express what is sacred to you." And I had believed him up until the moment he walked out the door and never returned.