LEVAN
The house is abuzz with silence.
The noisy quiet returns to my ears, replacing the music of freedom and outdoors with its caged-up cacophony. And just like that, I'm back to my reality, where I belong. The sun doesn't shine on this house, the sky doesn't shelter it, the wind doesn't help it breathe. The house is him, the house is Ava, the house is me and yet it doesn't feel like home.
I can't believe it was only about some thirty minutes ago that I was going through an awkwardly good time with Tenerife Cohen. I was smiling, hell, I might have just been laughing. I only felt most smiles on the inside, like small bursts of fireworks in my chest; they made my blood warm up, electricity flow through my veins, and tidal waves crash against my brain. There was no way I was going to let them out, I never have, but they escaped from within me so unexpectedly that I shocked myself.
It felt difficult, even alien to so much as want to smile. I think the last time was the day my mom taught me how to walk on a tightrope. I must have been five, and it was a bright sunny day, probably the sunniest day in history of sunny days and yet the sun wasn't harsh, it was forgiving and soft as it filtered through her pale hair, creating a halo around her face. She looked like an angel. I swear I always saw feathers peeking out from under her clothes. Sometimes, her feathers were bloodstained. I assumed it was because they grew out from her back; like grass from the ground, like hair from scalp. I also assumed it must hurt, but I wondered if one day I could have my own set of wings.
She was an adventure, a total and complete loon. In fact, she had the tightrope set up in our backyard complete with two ladders on each side and a trampoline under. She walked it with the stealth of a lioness but in actuality, she was walking on air, I knew. My mind was blown. She made me climb up the ladder, held me by the shoulder as I grabbed her waist, and she started walking backwards, making me follow her. Her pale blue eyes held my gaze, telling me that there was no way I could fall. Yet, out of fear, I grabbed the rope between my toes and cautiously took only a step at a time, in slow motion. When I looked around, it was as if I was treading air. Invisible air.
Several minutes later, when I reached the other end, I was ecstatic. I opened my arms wide, the feathers of my invisible wings swaying with the wind; I plunged onto the trampoline underneath us. I jumped, laughed, and doubled over. I turned into a total and complete loon, too. Just like mom. It felt like I'd found out my new superpower. I was going to tell all my friends about it, and ask them to call me Aeroboy. No more Levan, Levy, Lev, blah or blah. I was a superhero.
Now as I stare into the mirror, nothing stares back at me. Not even the organs, like they did a couple of days ago. They've faded too, just like my skin, my veins and bones. It's like I've become the invisible air. I can see through myself. I'm jaded, I'm faded, my mind is scattered and on the loose. It's taking over me, the shrieking silence; it's making my ears bleed, and the blood that comes out of me is black and dense and blurry, like the darkness that surrounds me. I cover my ears with my hands and crawl into a corner; I stay there hustled until the sun leaves for good. Then I crawl into bed and morph into a starless night.
***
It's nine when I'm finally reminded of Ava . Who am I kidding? She's always at the back of my mind, looming, but I chose to ignore taking an action. She hasn't come out of her room at all. There hasn't been a single sound in the house since I entered it. I toss my legs out of bed and walk out of my room, pull out a set of keys to her room from under the rug, and unlock the door. I peak in and find her sleeping with only a soft yellow lamp on. I walk closer to her bedside; it feels like alien territory, almost too strange, like I shouldn't be here. I find a couple of books scattered on her bed and conclude that she must've been reading to avoid getting bored. I pick up the empty wrappers of granola bars and throw them in the bin.
Next to her bed, a picture of mom, dad and I, a solo candid photo of mom as she laughs, and one of dad and me at the baseball game we once went to, all stand on her drawer. I look at how happy we were before mom faded into the wind. Dad looks young, bright, and cheerful, unlike he is now; old, dull, and miserable. I look at mom; she's standing behind me with her arms around my shoulders. I look at the smile on her face as she looks at dad. The picture starts to move, I can almost hear her laughter floating through the air, coloring it orange, red and pink. Her magic starts to wrap me in it, I start to get lost, so I shift my gaze to Ava, sleeping unaware. I think about how mom would still be here if it wasn't for her.
I gather the books, put them on her desk and turn the lamp off. I decide to leave, but the lamp flicks on again when I reach the door. She's sitting up, snuffling still as she rubs her eye and yawns. I wonder if she saw me ogling the pictures and her. I know for a fact that she's sneaky, always trying to barge into my life like she's a part of it. But she isn't, so I repel her like we're the negatives of two magnets.
"Levan?" she mutters, I gulp and tell myself that I shouldn't have been in here at all.
"I'm sorry, I'm just leaving," I tell her. She frowns and her shoulders fall.
"Don't," she murmurs, chewing on her bottom lip. Her eyes wander around the room. "Is dad home yet?"
"I don't think so..."
"I hope he's not drunk," she says quietly, looking at her hands.
"I hope he is and falls into a gutter," I say, Ava giggles. I smile too, for the third time today. It immediately makes me frown.
"I'm hungry," she says. She must be, all she's had today are three granola bars. I sigh; I may have developed some kind of sensitive button for her. I don't like it, I don't want her to know.
"Well, come downstairs and I can make you some soup?" I offer. Her face explodes with how huge her smile is and how wide her eyes are. Shit.
"You would?" she blinks with disbelief.
"Sure," she lets out an ear-piercing squeal, jumps out of bed, grabs my arm and races down the stairs, all within seconds. I watch her walk on thin, invisible air.
***
I make the only pack of soup left in complete silence. The fridge is almost empty. I remind myself to get groceries soon and that makes me wonder how long my savings would last us. I should probably be out looking for a job but there's no way in hell anyone's hiring me with that bruise on my face.
Ava watches me trying to cook for her with big eyes, a smile so wide she could barely contain it and the excitement level of a puppy. Again, It's not like we don't talk, but we talk only when it's really required. For most of my life, I've ignored her and I'd like for it to stay that way. When she was a baby, I wouldn't even look at her, I wanted her to go back to wherever the hell she came from. I wanted to throw her crying, wailing, stinking, tiny body into a bin, let the trash trucks take her away and dump her along with all the garbage so she could never come back.
As soon as Ava came into the world, I'd gone from Aeroboy to Satan in record time. She took my mother. She took my father. She took my family. I fucking hated her. And most times, I made sure she knew exactly what I felt about her. But now that I see so much of mom in her, I'm more jealous than hateful. Why does she get to resemble my mother more than I do? I was the one she loved; she was the one I loved. I was her light. I was her stars. I was her rain. I was her flowers. I was her oceans and the sky. I was her world. Not Ava. She was nothing.
However, her familiarity to both mom and I extinguished my loathing for her as we grew up. Maybe not, maybe I just got tired of hating her. But that doesn't mean I can tolerate looking at her. Too much of Ava gives me a headache, an earthquake, and a flood all together. After all, she looks like my dead mother. I keep my eyes on the boiling soup; I stir it occasionally so it doesn't stick to the base of the pan, and pour it in a bowl when it's done. Ava tells me she'd help herself now and I don't argue. I haven't grown an overtly sensitive button for her yet and I'm thankful.
She's slurping up her soup quietly when I hear dad's car pull up in the driveway. Both of us look at each other, her big blue eyes darken with fear. I take a deep breath, grab a cleaning cloth, and start wiping the counter. Cleaning helps me act busy, so I do it all the time when dad's around. The smell of alcohol enters through the door before his body does. It's wafting through the air like a moth and I can almost see its dirty brown trail. Neither of us looks at him as he stumbles in. My eyes float to Ava and signal her to casually make her way back upstairs, and she does, practically dodging our father as she puts her bowl in the sink and leaves. At the top of the stairs, she eyes me for a moment, asking me to leave too, but I continue with the cleaning.
Meanwhile, dad has managed to stumble into the living area and plopped his drunken ass on the couch. His jacket hangs from his index finger and his eyes droop. I conclude that he's going to fall asleep and not be a jerk tonight. I sigh and clean out Ava's bowl.
"Levan," he slurs, it makes my blood bubble, I close my eyes. Take a deep, long breath, I command myself. "Make me a bit of coffee," he orders.
"It's almost ten, you don't need coffee. It'll keep you up all night." I snap, not even looking at him. Then I hear him start to grump.
"Do what you're told, you useless shit," he grumbles, "I pay for your fucking lives and you can't make me a cup of coffee..."
Now, this is the kind of shit I wish Ava never has to hear. I roll my eyes and set the pot in the coffee maker. Whatever, he can stay up all night, put his head in the toilet, and puke for all he wants. I don't give a flying fuck. He continues rambling about how both his children are hopeless and how he'd rather have none. Natter, natter, blah, blah, same old shit on a drunken loop.
I pour the coffee into a cup and when I go the living room, he's already dead; his face is ashy, his body is cold, and the stench is revolting. At least I wish he was dead, but I know that he's only passed out. I put the coffee on the table next to the couch and watch him snore the alcohol off. It's been a while since I saw him up close, he has aged; there are fine lines all over his face. There's a permanent frown on his forehead. His hair looks like a rat's nest. He stinks of filth and whiskey. I wonder how they tolerate him at work. He's my father and he disgusts me. I shake him by the shoulder to wake him up a little.
"What the fuck, Levan, get lost..." he mumbles as I force him to stand up.
"I will," I reply immediately and make him put an arm around my shoulder as I walk him to his room.
"Don't you dare talk back to me, you little shit. I'm your father! Can you show some respect?" he slurs. I'm sure he won't even remember a single fleck of this tomorrow.
"Well, nobody taught me how to," I tell him, my voice cold.
"Yeah right, your mother is dead, I forgot," he snickers darkly. My palm twitches, I almost punch him in the gut, but I know what that would start. I dump him on his bed, his arms under him, his legs dangling off the edge as he continues snickering. "I always forget," he mumbles against the mattress. I shake my head, turn the lights off and leave him in that twisted position, wishing he wakes up with an aching back, shoulders, arms and neck.
When mom died, nobody told me how badly it would hurt. If I knew, I would've jumped into her grave and let them bury me with her.
I lock the door to my room and dig my bag for the granola bars I stole from the kitchen this morning. I pick up my notebook before I start having my dinner. I flip past all the starless nights; the pages about Ten, and others that I wrote after I came back home. I sigh when I land on a blank one.
I grab a pen, sit down on the floor, and let words consume me again. I write about spending centuries without smiling, the dead trees that built this house, the silent noise eating up most of my brain, the invisible air I use to walk on, the darkness feasting on my organs, veins and bones, my shoulders deforming and drooping and about how much life really weighs. After that, I start another chain of a million the girl whos.
The girl who eats random combinations of ice cream toppings, the girl who floats and dances as she walks, the girl who smiles all the time and doesn't get tired of it, the girl who has hair so dark that it would stain me if I brave up to touch it, the girl who has eyes so warm and brown that I never want to look away, the girl who talks too much but sounds like a song, the girl who wonders why I don't smile more often, the girl who makes me want to peel my skin off and fly, the girl who has wonderful plans, the girl I just can't wait to see tomorrow and I don't even know why.