Childish Things

The December air stings my hands and bare knees, icy pain crawling up my body like a vine up a tree. I kick up some of the fallen leaves and watch as they flutter back to the ground in a tattered mix of browns and reds. The glow of sunset bathes the world in a sheen of warmth despite the cold and reflects on the stream’s surface beside me.

I’m turning eighteen tomorrow. No one will notice. I can’t blame them. Lucas is coming home tomorrow, and that’s quite the big deal.

I don’t want to think about it. I crouch and twirl a leaf stem between my fingers, watching it spin rapidly back and forth before letting it fall to the ground. “This is stupid,” I mutter, and I jump to my feet, forcing out a new vigor to keep myself moving.

I decide to take my shoes and socks off and place them by the stream. It hurts my feet to stand on the icy ground, and my feet will probably get cut up by the rocks in the water, but that doesn’t matter. I just want to feel everything. Or something.

The first step in is about as cold as I expected it to be, the initial shock against my skin feeling just as new as all the times before. The sensation brings me back to the very first time I had come out here. It had been around this time of year as well, but it had been Lucas’s suggestion. I remember the awe I felt while we played explorer, following the stream for what seemed like hours as day became night. We had had so much fun back then. The memory makes my head hurt.

I balance carefully on the gravel bottom, the water sloshing around my ankles as I walk against the current; the mental effort is pulling me away from my need for sensation, so my caution wanes pretty quickly.

I’m cold and in pain, but it’s the nice kind that makes me feel invigorated. The chills that bleed through my skin and run into my veins exhilarate me, and for the first time in a while, I truly feel fine. The water that licks at my feet, the rocks that are now cutting into the thick skin of my heels, the sporadic sounds of the last pinecones falling to the ground, the constant hum of the universe around me that one can only hear when surrendering to it completely; this is what I’ve been looking for.

I keep walking, and the needle-like pain in my limbs develops into a constant burn, its intensity growing more and more by the second. Looking behind me, I realize that I’ve gone far enough to where I can no longer see my shoes on the bank. The sky is getting darker as well. If I don’t leave soon, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it back. Do I even want to?

Leaves crunch from somewhere behind me. Startled, I whirl around as what was once a pretty mix of oranges, reds, and browns is now shifting to the blue glow of dusk. My vision darts between the forestry around me, and I can’t seem to find anything but the acres upon acres of trees. Still, my stomach churns as dread wraps around my throat in a vice grip. There’s nothing there, I tell myself, and yet the uncertainty just serves to make me feel worse. I decide to cut my losses and head home.

I walk a little faster now, not willing to admit I’ve been rattled by a little noise. That would be lame. But then it comes again, closer this time. And then again, and again, until it sounds almost like footsteps.

I stop, mere meters away from my socks and shoes. A thrill of fear shoots through my body like lightning at the realization that nobody knows I’m out here. A panicked voice in my head says: This is it. You’re gonna get killed by some lunatic in the woods because you were being an idiot.

You’re gonna die. You’re gonna die. You’re gonna die.

The more rational part of me debates whether I should grab my shoes and socks or just make a run for it without them, and it’s while I’m standing stock still like an idiot that the offending figure steps out from behind one of the thicker trees.

“Noah,” the voice comes as a croak, but I recognize it nonetheless. He steps out from the shadows, looking no worse for wear despite having been in a hospital bed for almost a month. I can’t meet his eyes. Just remembering the accident, how lifeless they looked as the blood drained from his wounds while I was uselessly suspended by my seatbelt with little more than a bloody nose…I’m not ready. Instead, I focus on his lower face, which looks surprisingly smooth after being nearly cracked open. But I suppose a month is plenty of time to heal.

“Lucas!” Emotions swirl as bliss and sorrow and confusion blend together to create a tight warmth within me. My stomach flips. I’m not ready for this yet. “I thought you were coming home tomorrow.”

Coming closer now, he gives an embarrassed grin and rubs the back of his neck. “I asked to come home early. The doctors said I was free to go a little after I woke up.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“You would have known if you hadn’t been out here all day without your phone.”

His reply sounds calm enough, but I still feel hot shame crawl up my skin. He’s always been good at making me feel small without meaning to. “Are they mad?”

He looks back in the direction of the house. “Them? Nah. They’ve been in a pretty good mood since they came to pick me up. Just grovel for a few minutes and you’ll be fine. They wouldn’t ground you so close to your birthday, after all.”

“Yeah, right.”

My voice is quiet, and a weird silence develops between us. I meet his eyes for the first time. The warmth of embarrassment is quickly washed away by an ice harsher than any winter wind. He’s regarding me with a cold glint in his eyes that I’d never seen before. I quickly avert my gaze, obviously the weaker sibling, and grab my things from the bank. The disconnect between the softness in his voice and the look in his eyes convinces me to lag a couple of steps behind.

The longer I hang around Lucas, the stranger things seem to be. Mom and Dad seem business as usual, although they dote on him more than they used to. Makes sense. Lucas avoids me most of the day, and wherever he goes, Mom follows.

“Are you feeling okay? Do you need water? Are you hurting? Where’s your medication?” I was so sure that he would get annoyed by her constant worrying, but he seems to be enjoying himself. Every so often though, his mask of complacency slides off, and that eerie coldness overtakes his features.

My birthday comes and goes without much fanfare, but at least I get a cake, and Dad gets me a nice stainless-steel travel cup that I will no doubt take with me everywhere. After the cake is put away and the family relaxes in the den for a bit, we all split off to go to bed. Not a word has been uttered between us two since he came to get me from the woods, and the silence continues as we head down the hallway together to our rooms. “Goodni—” I call after him. But his door is already slammed shut.

I awaken to a crashing sound coming from the hall bathroom. I sit bolt upright and strain to listen, partially hoping it was just part of whatever dream I was having. There’s more noise after a moment, the sound of plastic containers hitting tile, so I creep to my door and put an ear to it. Finally, I hear a curse, and before I know it, I’ve left my room and arrived before the bathroom entrance, the door wide open.

There are bottles of shampoo and soap strewn about. More worrisome, there are shards of glass on the floor, some smeared with little bits of blood. Lucas is standing with his back to me, hunched over the bathtub and still muttering curses. I chance a step closer. “Lucas?”

He swivels around, and there’s a rage in his features that burns me. He gets to his feet, and now I can see that the blood is coming from his hand. Even as he clutches a rag to it, stray droplets fall to the floor. He’s breathing heavily, his shoulders heaving up and down with every harsh breath. I want to deescalate things, but I don’t know how.

“Get out.” His voice is low and gravelly as I step further inside. The mirror’s been shattered.

“No, are you oka—”

He cuts me off. “Get out!” Lucas grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me out the door, my back hitting the wall roughly. He slams the door and I slide down to the floor, tears beginning to well. I sit there for a while, listening to him muttering curses and fumbling with bottles.

That’s not him, my mind supplies. He’s not himself. He wouldn’t hurt you. I curl into myself, bringing my forehead to my knees as my eyes clamp shut with spilling tears. My shoulders ache, but even more than that, there’s a pain in my heart, and I find myself uttering the words, “I’m sorry,” over and over again like a chant. Flashbacks of the accident come flooding back to me, the small ache in my back nothing compared to the pain from the original impact. I again remember looking to my side and seeing Lucas with his face covered in blood. “I’m sorry,” I had said. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t notice when the door opens, nor when he finally steps out into the hall. It’s only when a gentle hand is placed on my shoulder that I look up from between my knees. He seems calmer now, much like he often did before the accident. I feel my face twist in anguish as I keep saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He gives me a soft shush and helps me up, leading me back to my room.

I’m starting to feel numb, and I settle idly on the bed while he closes my door quietly. He crosses the room and envelops me in a hug, rocking me back and forth. “No dude, I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”

We sit there for a bit, and he begins stroking my hair like he used to do when I’d cry when were kids. “What happened back there?”

He pauses a moment and frowns awkwardly as we pull apart. “I don’t know. I just feel…mad. Like all the time now.” He rubs his chin, and looking more closely, I can see the signs of a scar forming. “The doctors said it was normal for someone with brain injury. It might go away…it might not.”

“Oh,” I say dumbly. “Are you mad at me?” I shift my focus to my lap as I feel his gaze burning holes into the side of my head.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I was driving.” A sharp, jabbing pain shoots into my arm, causing me to snap my eyes back to him. “Hey!”

“It was an accident, moron. I’m not mad at you for something that was beyond your control.”

“But if I had been more careful—”

“Then what? You think that other car wouldn’t have still rammed us? They were going to hit us no matter who was driving.” His words are comforting, but the knot of guilt that has been forming since the accident won’t subside. I keep my mouth shut about it though. He leans back to rest on his elbows and his eyes move to some unidentifiable spot on the ceiling. I decide to do the same. The silence that settles between us is far more comfortable than the last, and the heaviness that had been weighing my heart feels somewhat lifted with the amicable brotherly air returning for the first time since he came home. Still, I hate to see him suffering like this.

My attention is drawn back to his busted-up hand. “What do we do about that?”

Lucas looks down in surprise, having seemingly forgotten about it. “Shit. I still need to clean up.” He tries to get up, but I grab him by the wrist.

“Not just that,” I say. “I mean, you know…” I gesture vaguely. “Are we going to tell them?”

“Kinda have to, don’t I?” He smiles ruefully and holds up his battered hand. “It can wait ‘till tomorrow though. I’ll probably have to start going to therapy or some shit.”

“Right,” I say. I rid myself of the night’s negative feelings with the shake of my head, and I adopt what I hope to be a livelier expression. “Need help cleaning?”

We return to the scene of the crime, soap bottles and bits of shattered glass still on the floor. I crouch and start gathering pieces, bit by bit, while Lucas begins putting the soap bottles back in their proper place. Occasionally our eyes meet and we start laughing a bit at the ridiculousness of it all.

After it’s all said and done, we’re left standing in the hallway again. It feels eerily similar to earlier in the night, and yet, also not. There’s a new sort of comforting weight, like we’re finally picking up where we left off almost a month ago. This time he says it first: “Goodnight.” He gives a small salute and closes the door softly; definitely an improvement from earlier.

I make it to my own room in a daze, not entirely unconvinced this is all the result of some stupid dream. I won’t delude myself into thinking everything’s alright now because I know it’s not. What’s left of the mirror is a reminder of that. But at least it’s a start.