Chapter three
Chris laid still on top of his bed, looking at the void which was his ceiling. He felt empty, as if he were a shell of a vassal. His arms and legs itched, prickling, as a sense of yearning drummed deep in his gut, trying as it may to claw its way out of its forgotten place. his eye lids grew heavy, but wasn't ready for that long slumber, and so he turned away to his side, looking to his window. Already had it grown cloudy, hardly a glimpse of blue left. Chris breathed in slow, as he heard the sound of the front slamming shut. Footsteps soon began to rapidly move up the stairs, till they were outside his door. They didn't bother to knock, only tenderly opening the door, peeking through to the dark shadowed room.
"What are you doing home?" Micheal asked in a gruff voice.
Chris turned halfway squinting his eyes at his brother, he looked tired and worn, his white shirt hanging out of his dark trousers, and his tie loose around the collar, his top button undone.
"Lessons were cancelled." Chris faintly replied.
Micheal nodded, looking about the unclean room, gazing at empty packets of food mixed with a sea of clothes, scattered in all corners. "Napping?" He asked.
"No, just contemplating our meaningless existence as a species."
"Great,” she sniffed, “I'm going to make curry tonight, just for a heads up."
Chris only looked at his brother, feeling his eyelids drop.
"It's always great talking to you," Micheal muttered with a disdained look about his face, as he left the room, leaving the door ajar.
Chris rolled onto his back, gazing up once more to the ceiling and welcoming the rest that ached in his bones, and cried for sleep, as his eyes finally concealed shut.
He was drowning, that was clear, gargling for breath, as water filled his lungs and oxygen escaped. His arms extended upward towards the distance light, that shook, and trembled with every desperate attempt to touch it. The water was cool on his skin, chilling to the bone. His eyes wavered in mist as they blurred out his vision. His voice broke, begging for relief from his agony, as his throat began to burn. Helplessness coursed through his veins, he could no longer tell his tears apart from the water that surrounded him, and fell deeper, further down away from the surface. He began to scratch, and fight, his nails piercing through his soft flesh, as he clawed into his neck, trying to rip the pain away. Cuts stung and sung with pain, but Chris would not stop, he embedded his nails deeper into his skin, the warm scarlet, seeping into the water, clouding its clear blue. Gashes became harsh as Chris's nails dug frantically at his throat. A bubble leaving his mouth for every cry that sounded….
Chris awakened with a jolt, panting breath, as his hand abruptly in a blink went to his throat, feeling for any wounds. Chris hissed, as he pulled his hands back, he looked down at his fingers seeing the fresh blood staining his skin, he turned his hands over, his nails bleed, quaking as he looked, seeing red lining each nail. He felt as if he should have cried, but he could not, he felt cold, as he realized he was wet, water dripped on his sheets and pillows, streaming down his cheeks and face, trickling down from his chin, soaking his clothes. He hugged himself, rocking his body back and forth in panic. His neck stung, and his throat was sore, as if he had been crying out for eternity. The feeling sheared into him with a cool bloodied knife, twisting in his gut, he shivered, clutching his chest, his wet jumper clinging to him. The droplets of water found themselves on his lips, Chris licked them tasting salt, and an urge rooted in him, wanting for more. But he was cold and stiff, and his clothes grew heavier by the moment. He moved off the bed, removing every fabric of clothing on him, tossing them aside, quickly dressing in warm fresh garbs, smelling of springtime lavender, and dried fruit, it fluttered in his stomach, calming his every nerve. He gazed back to his bed, to the wet sheets and pillows. It had bleed deep into the cloths, pools of damp water where he laid. Chris removed the pillowcases and sheets, gathering up all that was wet, placing his phone in his pocket.
He pulled the door open with his bare foot, his feet crashing down on the old wood, a shudder trailing from his toes to his head. He drifted down the stairs, walking to the kitchen, spotting the washing machine, he dropped his washing onto the round kitchen table, swiftly opening the washers door, and placing in the washing tablet and fabric softener. Then pushing his load of sheets and clothes into the small space, just barely fitting in. He turned the washer on, and with a sigh fell back on a stair opposite.
"Did you have an accident or something?"
Chris jumped at the voice turning to see his mother in the other room, the double doors open to the elderly study.
"No i-" Chris stopped, "just a bad dream, woke up in a pool of sweat." He lied.
His mother hummed loudly. Her head tilted to the side, as a concerned expression appeared on her face. "What happened to your throat?"
Chris's hands lifted to his neck, feeling the long gashes, cut along his throat.
"They look like nail marks." His mother said squinting her eyes for a better look, as her body leaned forward, herself placed too far to see with certainty, without her glasses.
"I just woke up with them." He shrugged.
His mother frowned, looking back to her desk, "well, it's not a good sign if you're hurting yourself in your sleep" she spoke, placing down something small. "Tell me if it happens again, i need to be responsible and take you to the doctors or hospital."
"I will," Chris muttered. Feeling something vibrate in his pockets. He pulled out his phone looking at a text sent from Amy.
"Amy says she has an after school today, she needs someone to pick her up afterwards." He told his mother.
His mother groaned, "I do not have time for this shit." She breathed.
Chris bobbed his head to the side, ever so slightly, glancing to where his mother sat.
"You're doing a puzzle of postman pat."
"And it is the most fun I have had all day." She muttered. "You know," she said after a while, as Chris watched the bundle in the washer spin around, "you lot have a lot junked up in the loft. i found a family of mice up there today along with the puzzle." She smiled after a moment, "gave them bread crumbs and some water. Is it hard to domesticate mice?" She called.
"How should i know?"
"Thought i should ask, you never know what someone knows." She rumbled, looking down at her puzzle, "there's a piece missing," she sounded detached. "God this is going to drive me nuts," muttered to herself.
His father soon walked through the door, shuffling his feet on the doormat.
"Hello," he said happily.
Chris didn't respond and carried on to stare at the washer. His father sat down on the bottom step of the stairs, untying his shoelaces. "So had a good day?” he asked, "Christopher," spoke more firmly after a long second.
Chris turned his head to his father, "it was fine," he mumbled.
"It was fine," his father mimicked in a mocking voice, he smiled, laughing jollily. Chris smiled, not being able to hold back the grin at his father's laugh. His father stopped for a second, looking at Chris, looking at his eyes, feeling a light warmth building into him, but quickly blinked his eyes away from the sight, shaking his head. He set back a smile on his face, "Want a tea?" He asked.
Chris nodded. His father raised up his body seeming to be inches to the ceiling from where Chris sat, feeling as though he were an ant in his father's eyes. His father strode happily as he headed over to the kettle, ignoring fleeting warmth in his chest.
"What happened to your neck?" He questioned after a moment.
"Oh, I just sorta woke up with them." He answered awkwardly.
His father's brows raised, "really?"
"Yeah, weird right?" Chris said rubbing the scuff of the back of his neck.
His father's eyes lowered to his nails, seeing the blood, but said nothing, as the kettle hit its boiling point. Once he was done making the two teas Chris's father sat down at the table, opposite him. "Do anything new at college?"
"Not really," he spoke, sipping the hot tea, avoiding his father's gaze.
His father placed a short smile on his lips looking at his son.
"Micheal's going to be making curry tonight." Chris said cutting into the silence.
"Good, good." His father nodded.
Chris frowned, “not really, last time he cooked, the fire brigade had come round.”
“Took ages to fix that kitchen,” his mother muttered from the other room.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” his father shrugged off.
“Why can’t you or mum cook?”
“It’s not one of those days,” his father mused, in a distant faded tone, his eyes glancing back and forth from Chris's eyes, as if it were a sin to stare at them for too long.
“Chris?” he promoted,
“Yes?”
“Um, what happened with your eyes?”
Chris shrunk down on his seat, wanting to melt into the wood.
“I'm not saying it’s bad, they just look-” he hesitated, “different.”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, “they just turned this way.”
His father squinted his eyes a bit, “well eye colours can change over time.” he reasoned to himself.
“Really?” Chris spoke, a hint of hope in his voice.
“I think,” his father responded.
Chris bite his lip, hard, the metallic taste drifting onto his tongue, his eyes locked on to a spot on the wall, where the floral wallpaper began to peel. Minutes passed by in his dream like state, only arising out, when he heard the loud clatter of pots and pans. His head hurled to his side, seeing his brother meddle with a saucepan and frying pan. He whistled as he began to boil the rice and cook the meat, adding the sauce. He bobbed his head in a sort of dance, and Chris watched amused, smirking as he tried not to laugh, when his brother began to sway his hips side to side.
He looked over to his father who was then reading a book, his hands holding it out, a bit too far from his face.
He leaned to his side looking into the study seeing his mother no longer there, but a near complete puzzle of postman pat with a single piece missing. He turned away nevertheless when he smelt the smoke, he looked over to the stove, his brows creased when he saw his brother gape intensely at him, seeming to be lost, as he gazed at Chris's eyes, not noticing the emerging smoke, or fire alarm. He snapped out of it, as his father began yelling at Michael.
“Christ! Mike, you're burning the food!” he shouted, dropping his book onto the table, rushing to turn the stove off. He slapped Michael's head once the heat settled down. “What the hell were you doing?” he screamed. “You could have burned the shitting house to the ground.”
“Sorry, i-i just-” but he couldn’t find the words, trying his best to avoid Chris's eyes. “I wasn’t paying attention.” he mumbled “takeaway?” he asked.
“I’ll call the Indian,” his father sighed.
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