Sleep is the enemy. It has a way of excavating all the resolutely entombed vestiges omitted from the archives of my life. Its uncanny ability to incarcerate me in moments already lived settles dread into the depths of my heart. Sleep breathes life into the memories that tug at the darkest strands of my brain, allowing them a stage front and centre in my mind. And their performances are breathtakingly agonising.

"Seriously?" My head shoots up at Charlie's voice. I'd been quieter than silence itself re-entering his house, yet still he stands, bent over the synthetic marble counter, fingers laced around a dark mug. "You left at one," he speaks again, spending a glance on the red numbers illuminated above the oven timer. "It's now five."

The sky is no longer painted the midnight black it had been when I'd first embarked on my run. In its place is a stormy blue, tinged by an amber haze resolving across the horizon. Feebly, the first light of day prowls beyond the glass panes facing into Charlie's kitchen, casting bronze hues across the cream coloured walls.

"Tilley?" Charlie's expression resides in the shadows, escaping the shy glow by mere centimetres. "Did you even sleep?"

My calves burn with each step drawing me closer to the kitchen island. My shoes drag along the tiles beneath me, but the muscles in my legs don't feel strong enough to lift them any higher. Truth be told, the prospect of sleeping strikes white fire into my veins. The fear of what may come with it blazes so intensely that my blood runs cold.

"Water?" Charlie offers, selecting an opaque plastic cup from one of the cupboards lining the wall above the countertop.

I nod once, slipping into one of the wooden high chairs behind the bench. The act of swallowing feels as though I'm peeling dried glue from the roof of my mouth to the back of my throat. I'm not sure I could talk even if I felt like answering Charlie. My brother runs the cup underneath the tap before reaching to place it in front of me.

I empty its contents down my throat in one, setting the cup down as if I'd just thrown back a shot. "Thanks," I finally croak, the water oiling my rusted vocal cords.

"Were you running for that entire time?" Charlie persists with his questions, reclaiming my cup in his hand and filling it once again with water. I simply raise one shoulder before letting it fall as he hands me the cup. "Why do you do this to yourself, Tilley?"

"Shut up," I murmur, lowering my head to my hands.

Since the fire, I haven't had a sleep not riddled with the demons from my past. But waking up never liberates me from the terror that screws my eyelids shut for the duration of the dream. When I'm finally discharged from the horror of sleep, reopened scars that sting with every relapsed memory seep blood through my mind. And each time, I run from them. I run until my thoughts blur into paralysis, and physical pain overtakes emotional strain. Until the threat retreats to the back of my head, eagerly awaiting the next time I shut my eyes for too long.

"Here, I cut you some watermelon," Charlie states, the sound of plastic scraping the bench following his voice.

I raise my head slightly, dropping my hands from my face. "Thanks," I force out, my eyes landing on the roughly cut pieces varying from perfect rectangles to peculiarly shaped polygons.

"Do you know what you're going to wear today?"

My stomach plummets. "I'm not going."

Charlie's eyes burn holes into the top of my head. "Like hell you aren't."

"Go to hell," I hiss back at him, once again dropping my head to my hands.

I dread funerals almost as much as I do sleep.

"Let's find you something to wear," Charlie ignores my previous comment, discarding his mug in the metal sink.

My face twists with disgust. "I don't want to wear one of your stupid one-night-stand's leftovers again," I groan, sliding from the stool onto the square white tiles.

"Unlucky," Charlie retorts, and although his back is turned to me as he starts down the narrow hallway, his smirk radiates off him.

I expel a lengthy sigh after my brother, my shoulders stooping forwards as I follow.

+++

"In the path of righteousness there is life, and in its pathway there is no death."

Black lines every pew. Smiles lilted, eyes set on the white robed man gracing the carpeted platform, the faces of those who have come to mourn smear into dreary blemishes throughout the liturgical hall.

"Why the fuck are we doing this is in a fucking church?" I hiss towards Charlie. He sits to my right, hands clenched so tightly in his lap that his knuckles no longer retain colour.

"Shut it, Tilley." Charlie's lips barely make any movement as he speaks.

"This is so fucking ridiculous," I mumble, moving to rest my elbows on my thighs. "The fucking priest can suck my dick."

Several gazes curiously graze over Charlie as he brings himself to his feet. "Come with me," he commands lowly.

Dragging myself from my seat, I trail after my brother, shoulders back and chin extended in the air. The eyes of those on either side of the isle do not falter, but over the years I've learnt not to lend them a second thought. People are always staring. The glances today are not the stares of the mothers who warn their kids away from people such as me and my brother. Instead, they are perforated by pity, and outlined by the conviction that their families wouldn't be caught dead in this situation.

Charlie breaks through the outer doors, slamming them shut behind us. From the exterior of the building, I can still hear the echo resounding from the impact of Charlie's strength reaching into darkest corners of the hollow roof.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ariella?" Charlie's words erupt from his lips in a violent steam. "This isn't about you. Have some fucking respect for once in your life." Dark eyes are trained on me, wide and unyielding. The material of his suit, taut across his shoulders, seems to strain as his chest rises and falls.

Charlie's words sweep around me as if lost in the utter lack of wind. Once upon a time I might have allowed his comments to slash at my knees, and weaken my defence. But now, everything has changed. I'm not that little girl anymore. He's not the brother he once was.

"You think you know me," I say with a humourless laugh. "You think you know Ty and Lyss." I match Charlie's menacing glare. "You left us. Why the hell should you have a say in any of this?"

Charlie's jaw clenches. "I didn't see you getting off your ass to plan this goddamn funeral."

"You putting this together was your way of attempting to make up for things," I evenly tell him. Inside me, anger no longer brews. It's as if the pot was kicked on its side, and its contents trickled through every crevice of my being, establishing themselves into my core. "It's not enough, Charlie."

Charlie takes a single step forwards, his hands clenching by his sides. "Forgive me for trying to piece things back together." His words rumble through his throat, escaping in a low growl.

My gaze doesn't falter. "Maybe you should've started that when you still had all the parts."

Charlie's eyes flicker like flame smothered inside a candle. "Imagine what mum would say if she saw how you're acting at this funeral."

My breath drops, clamouring to the pit of my stomach like a key fallen down a stormwater drain. "Low blow Charlie," I grind out, having to force myself to take in and expel another breath. "Low fucking blow."

Charlie's eyes merely scan mine. They hold high the torch of victory. Mum has been the ultimate weapon stored in Charlie's artillery since the first time he employed her image to wound me at her funeral. Once intimidation fails to gun me down, the grenade is released.

"Can you just come back inside and sit quietly until it's your turn to speak?" he urges, exasperation tugging at his voice.

There's a point where every emotion becomes too much. Sadness turns to numbness. Envy turns to bitterness. Anger turns into an explosion. But one explosion isn't going to be enough, this time.

"Go fuck yourself, Charlie," I say bluntly.

"Goddamn bitch," he snarls back, wringing one outstretched hand in the air before flinging open the church doors and storming back into the undersized chapel.

My heartbeat pulses faintly through my eardrums as I'm left sharply eyeing the trembling stained glass entrance. I suck in the deepest breath my lungs can take, screwing my eyes shut. Cloudiness dribbles through the centre of my brain by the time I release the air trapped in my lungs. I shake my head once in an attempt to clear it before starting down the unrefined sandstone steps leading to the gravel floor.

Charlie's dirt-streaked white Ute is crookedly positioned at the rear of the car park. Dust billows from the ground behind each step I take towards my brother's prized car that is complete with every enhancement underneath the sun. I slam my elbow into the glass of the passenger window, watching as cracks climb from the impact site towards the frame of the car like a spider web. The cavity now settled into the once unscathed window bestows pride upon the nettle grasping my lungs. I reach my arm through the hole, ignoring the shards of spiked glass provoking blood from my skin. My hand grasps the inner handle and I fling the door open, instantly yanking open the glovebox.

Charlie's beloved pocket knife, given to him by our mother on his sixteenth birthday, rests above the various papers and scraps littering the compartment. Griping the painted black handle of the oversized jackknife, I slip back into the open space of the car lot, kicking the door shut behind me. I lower myself to a crouch, releasing the serrated steel blade from its wooden clutches. The gleaming black tyres encasing Charlie's custom white wheels have not one blemish. Impertinently applied and top of the range, they call to my noxious proclivities. I drag the knife across a section of the sidewall of the first tyre several times to weaken the arduous rubber, before thrusting the blade into it. Rocking backwards on my heels, I pull the knife from Charlie's tyre, the corners of my lips titling upwards.

After devastating three of Charlie's tyres, I bring myself to my feet. If the fourth tyre isn't slashed, insurance cannot be claimed. I can only hope that Charlie isn't bright enough to slash the last tyre himself. To conclude the damage to my brother's car, I dig the blade into the paint of the car, dragging it from tray of the Ute to the tinted front headlight. My ears sting from the inexorable screech induced by the action as I launch the knife back through the jagged opening in the window.

Every emotion drawn from my brain has been interred into the blackest rifts of my mind from the moment I could decipher feelings. Now, they simmer right beneath my skin. Collectively they whirl through my veins, thumping with each beat of my heart. All the lies are running crystal clear before my eyes. Every ounce of pain I've ever felt thunders against my chest. Knowing right from wrong never aided me in protecting myself from those seeking to run me into the ground. Maybe right isn't right. No one ever seems to get ahead in life playing by the rules.

Rays of sunlight batter against my shoulders as I once again break into a run. As the church rests only blocks away from my house, the roads are unlined. The cars are scarce and the potholes are many. Blackened trunks of trees are dotted amongst the dirt along the roadside and their branches occupy the ground. The fires have barely spared a single tree.

Mum would never had held a funeral in a church. She didn't believe the countless scriptures that state that in death there is life. For those left behind, death is a full stop to life. Those lost are left at a standstill, never to breathe another breath, never witness another day. The world keeps turning, the seasons keep changing. But they're still gone. There is no life in death.

My house is as I'd left it. Withering police tape still clutches to the outskirts as if clinging for its life. The structure is still fallen, ash still scatters the floor. Part of me had adhered to the hope that I would return, and my siblings would be waiting. Tyler would wrap his arms around my waist and hug me as if it were the last time he was ever going to see me. Alyssa would be waiting, ready to fire off questions about my whereabouts. And once I'd answered each one with heavily ladled sarcasm, she'd slink over and envelope me in her embrace and remind me that she hates it when she wakes and I'm not there. But Tyler isn't here to calm my anger. Alyssa isn't here to keep me grounded.

My eyelids feel like a wall of tiny rocks scraping over my eyes as I blink back the tears pricking my eyes. Stones fill my lungs, trapping the air within, and lassitude settles over me like a blanket woven with platinum. But I will not sleep. Not until I right the wrongs played against me.

•••

A/n: heyy, i just wanted to say thank you so so much to all those who have given this book a chance and are still reading. sorry it's taking me so long to update, my freaking adhd hates on my writing far too often. thank you guys for still sticking with my book regardless.

anyway, your support and your comments and votes mean the world to me and i'd love to hear what you think so far.

-ash 💙