But First, The Eyes

Hollow

I began my day mildly worried.

By the time I shoved my covers off me, cleaned the grime from my face, and sang off-key to some K-pop in the shower, I became increasingly uncomfortable with the silence in the house. Not only was the home silent, Charlie's room held none of the noises I expected to hear when I woke up. Not a peep.

Charlie was a quiet sleeper; he barely made a noise as he breathed in and out. He emanated an eerie serenity. Not quite here, but not quite gone.  

As a kid, I used to place paper under his nose to check that there was still an air current there . A small well of anxiety would grow within my chest as I watched his seemingly-lifeless form siting slumped in his chair, facing the television tittering on about the weather. With no one else to stop me, I started to test his breathe with my hand. And then the newspaper he kept strewn across the coffee table. And then, finally, I started placing items there. Envelopes and opened letters. My terror that he wouldn't wake up lessened; what was left was a gamified way to safely store my fears. I boxed it away, only to see it in my neat little storage closet during family holidays and gatherings.

Besides that, when he'd wake up, I had the added enjoyment of watching him get up, bewildered as to why all of his bills were sliding down his chest.

Before I could think on it more, I clamored down the stairs and into the living room. 

"I wish I could sleep this late," I muttered to myself.

As I entered the living room, my eyes hung on his chair, morning saturation giving it more life than the night before. Dust motes floated through a shaft of morning sun. It could be peaceful in its own right. But for there to be peace, there needed to be a feeling of fullness. Contentment. 

The hollowness of the house was unsettling.

I looked away. 

My eyes quickly surveyed whether Charlie's boots were knocked over near the door—they weren't. The choice had been automatic to look; almost ingrained. My mind wanted to grab snatches of clues to indicate that maybe everything wasn't all right. It was primal and chaotic. And exhausting. 

I closed my eyes instead.

Do I call him? Is that what I do in this situation?  I squeezed my eyes shut tighter. Or should I wait for someone to contact me?

The questions seemed to send a shot through me. A current. I opened my eyes, shoving my shoulders back. "You're being ridiculous," I said, feeling slightly ridiculous myself. "He's probably out picking up a coffee or something."

I padded into the kitchen, conscious of my movements. My stomach registered that I was near the cabinet and growled low to itself. Before long, a bowl was piled high with needlessly sugary cereal and some milk. When I thought of the day ahead and all of the wishing and hoping and plying people for a summer job—or maybe an internship—my heart-rate jumped. Sugar was probably not the best thing to add to the mix, but it was what my nerves needed. Some good ol' comfort. 

I dropped a spoon into the bowl and took my prize to the couch. 

Another day, another meal watching daytime television.

Soon, my eyes were as glazed as the cereal. I could feel a smoothing happening; I was less focused on Charlie possible absence or walking into the Forks Forum that afternoon. Instead, all I cared about was that I was eating my frosted flakes fast enough to stop them from going soggy and that the girl on Wheel of Fortune made it to the final round.

Thankfully, she did.

I held my bowl on my lap, fingers tapping out how I really needed to get going, but I ignored it. Starla—the girl killing it with the guesses—made it to the final round. It was heartfelt and grand and she was just trying to get the final prize because it was a car and she needed one to go away for college.