You'll Never Be Alone

She holds her brother's sweaty hand tight as the credits fade. For a single breath, they sit in the void. Then the world is alight and reality resumes.

Blinking, she stretches and looks around blearily. Faded grey seats of cheap foam; a metal bin overflowing with paper boxes and plastic cups; an overturned carton of popcorn, its contents strewn across the threadbare carpet; a neon green exit sign occasionally flickering. A sharp whiff of orange fizz from her brother’s half-finished soda. Undertones of stale popcorn, and the faint stink of unwashed bodies - theirs. They sit in the theater alone. 

She pulls herself up and brushes kernels from her overalls. Her hand comes away moist from a patch of spilled soda. Pouting, she motions her brother up. He shimmies to the edge of the seat, legs dangling, and looks at her helplessly. She grabs his hand again and eases him down. He sips his oversized drink, adjusts his glasses, grins at her with a mouth half-full of milk teeth. She smiles back.

Hand-in-hand, they go up the ramp and out into the deserted corridor. There’s another bin. With her free hand, she pulls the hole-punched tickets from her back pocket and counts them aloud as she drops them in. One, two, three, four, five, six. Beside her, he yawns in between sips. The sound of it makes her yawn as well. 

As they walk, they pass reminders of worlds seen earlier in the day. Armies of superheroes; action stars with guns and intense stares; dinosaurs, maws agape mid-roar; colorful aliens; cartoon animals with wide empty grins. They watch her and she watches back, wondering what it would be like to live on a deserted island far from here with only her brother and some animals for company. Then she sees the way the posters peel from the walls, contorting their features, and their grins start to look like leers.

The corridor opens into a foyer, also empty, except for a clerk at the front. His beady eyes are set into a fleshy face, and he watches them warily. When they reach the counter, she finds that her head barely clears it. It's littered with cookie crumbs and smeared droplets of barbeque sauce that make her stomach growl. Too nervous to meet his eye, she looks straight ahead at his belly instead. 

The clerk apologizes, says there are no more movies tonight.

She’s sad, but she's not upset because it’s what she expects. It doesn't stop a pang of disappointment when her brother hangs his head in dismay.

They pull away from the counter and make for the door. From behind, the clerk asks with belated worry if they have a way of getting home.

She nods at him over her shoulder and steps out into the night. 

All the light in the world is yellow and faded, cowering beneath streetlights set too far apart. There is no-one else on the street; they are alone. Large, dark windows loom on her right as they pass an empty store, its Closed sign hanging on an angle by moth-eaten thread. She stops looking inside the stores when something moves beyond the glass, making her jump and quicken their pace.

She keeps their progress steady, feet sinking soundlessly into the pavement, eyes trained ahead. The cold stings her face. A wind starts up, pulling a sheet of newspaper across their path and into the gutter. A car rolls lazily down the street ahead, the hum of its engine filling the quiet until it disappears around the corner. She looks up and sees insects trying in vain to reach a streetlight’s bulb. Beyond, there is a pale coin of sky where the moon feels its way through heavy clouds.

He squeezes her hand tighter. She looks over and he’s shivering, the soda forgotten. She tosses it aside and grabs his cold little hands, rubs them together, exhales on them one by one, lets the heat flow from her body into his. He hugs her and she rubs his back. They set off again. 

Up ahead, between streets, there is a stretch of pavement where even yellow light fears to go. The comforting void envelops them both until her only tether to the real world is the warmth of his trembling hand in hers. He is young enough to be afraid of the void, yet too young to know that worse things can happen when the lights are on. Still, his fear spawns a knot of unease in her tummy.

They are almost out when a man’s voice echoes into the night. Fake-friendly, inviting. They walk ever faster, but he sees through the void, and his voice grows steadily louder. Soon it is just behind. 

A shape lurches toward them and her brother shrieks. She pulls him with her and they set off at a run. She can hear their footsteps now: light, hurried, frantic. Something lopes weightily in the void just behind. It draws closer. The wind surges into her face, into her ears, makes her hair stream behind, fluttering like a flag of surrender. 

Then she feels a rush of air, a smack as something hits the pavement, a roar of pain and shame. Slurred insults reverberate around them. Then they are alone.

Her limbs burn in protest but she keeps walking, pulls him along with her. He begins to cry and she sees he lost his glasses in the void. Snot and tears shine on his face. Each of his breaths is a ragged gasp, high-pitched and wheezy. She points down the street at the next corner and he nods in between sniffs. Almost there. 

The front gate hangs open, overgrown bushes on either side standing ready to smother them. She pushes past, hauls her brother up the steps, grasps the doorknob and heaves the front door open. 

Inside, the lights are on. She softly shuts the door, flips the latch, kicks away her shoes, pulls off his trainers. He keeps trying to adjust his glasses before remembering they aren’t there. His breathing comes faster, continues to whistle. Worry gnaws at her stomach.

In the living room, their father is sprawled on the couch, snoring loudly. A stained Metallica t-shirt stretches tight across his belly; a strip of hairy skin spills out beneath. She spies empty beer bottles clustered on the coffee table like bowling pins; a shattered plate on the kitchen tiles, unswept beneath an overflowing pile of dishes; the TV on but muted. He doesn’t even stir at the sound of her brother’s breathing.

They tiptoe past him, pinching their noses against the stink of alcohol. Their mother groans from the next room, but neither of them blinks - she always does that in her sleep. They glimpse her as they pass by: curled into a ball, bruises on her arms and face, deep in slumber.

Her throat constricts in fear. They are alone.

Reaching the bathroom, she searches frantically for his puffer. Needles and empty syringes are strewn across the grimy counter. A discarded rag hangs over the edge. Beside it is the wallet her mother had earlier pulled a banknote from and thrust into her hand. She rummages through drawers of unused needles in crinkly plastic, red-stained makeup remover pads, and boxes of tampons. Twice she comes across puffer cartridges - useless without the puffer itself.

Beside her, he leans over and braces himself against the toilet with one hand, his body contracting with each breath. His cheeks puff out and his eyes are wide and fearful, too exhausted to cry. 

Tears of desperation fall down her cheeks as the last drawer opens empty. She slams it closed and looks around helplessly. His each gulp of air is now a high-pitched whine, piercing her ears. Her eyes fall again to the rag on the counter. She pulls it away, sending needles skittering across the linoleum, to reveal his puffer lying overturned like a beached whale on black ice.

She hands him the puffer, lets him lift it to his lips, helps him press the button. They lock eyes and breathe together. She counts them through each breath.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Her stomach loosens as the whistling fades and the tenseness in his shoulders gives way to a slump of fatigue. His breathing is calm. His mismatched smile reappears. She smiles back shakily. 

With a sniff, she flips on the faucet and runs her hand under freezing water that feels warmer than her skin. She grabs the rag, wets it and tenderly wipes her brother’s face clean of snot and tears. To her surprise, he takes it from her and wipes hers back, leaving moist streaks across her eyelids and cheeks. Then he clambers into her arms.

As they hold each other close, sharing delicate breaths, she whispers him a promise.