Irisa

When you're badly sleep deprived, often the best kind of sleep is the one where you fall, untethered into a dark abyss. Like a black hole encompassing you whole, ripping you away from not only reality, but yourself as well. It is that exact blissful ignorance of non-existence that is so very sweet to a mind that is both overflowing and numb with feelings.

So when a knock resounds right beside my ear, both soft and impossibly loud, it is that very black hole from which I am wrenched out of and thrown into wakefulness. To say that I wake up feeling bewildered is an understatement.

I look around myself, eyes wild and a breath lodged firmly in my chest. For a few moments the world is barely more than a smudge of sharp colours but then out of that blur three figures emerge. Standing right in front of me. A girl on one end, short, brown, Asian. She's looking at me with an intense gaze but a smile sits on her thin lips. On the other end stands a tall boy, athletic built and ruffled blonde hair. His bright eyes remind me of Asteria and the block of air constricting my throat gives a little. Finally, the person standing in the middle comes into focus.

"Henry?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Henry.

Henry?

But why the hell has he come back?

When I say his name, the circle of silent trance that had taken a hold of us all finally breaks. The tall guy rubs the back of his neck and gives me a warm grin. I feel too awkward to smile back at him. I look at Henry and notice his unsettling gaze which I still can't seem to decipher, and track his eyes down to where they are fixed on my arms.

With a terrifying jerk I remember what I've put up for display. I wrench my sleeves down to my wrists, holding the hem tightly in my fists as I fold my arms over each other on the table.

My nails dig into the skin of my palms, deeper and deeper.

One encounter with Henry was enough to drive me to scratch and draw all over my arms before passing out with exhaustion on the lunch table. I'm not sure what a second encounter will do to my already fraying composure. What I am sure about is that I don't want to find out.

I reach for my bag and my phone, making to stand up and make a run for it. But just then the girl steps forward and sticks out her hand.

"We're Henry's friends," she tells me, a smile warmer than the sun set firmly on the curve of her lips. "That's John," she gestures to the tall brunet standing a foot away from me and he waves at me in response. "Henry you've already met, I'm afraid."

Her small jest causes Henry to roll his eyes, but then he let's go of his rigid posture and nods at me in acknowledgement.

Gradually my heartbeat slows down and the grip my fingers have on the inside of my palms loosens. The way she's standing, the girl, facing me completely but with enough space between her and Henry that it allows for a clean getaway if I want one. This, accompanied with her smile manages to put me a little bit at ease.

"And me," she says brightly, "You can call Iz."

I look at them all, at Henry who looks at me for a moment and then looks away, and then at his two friends, bright and warm and welcoming. Asteria's smile and her shining blue eyes flash in front of me.

"I'm Irisa," I tell them, extending my hand to grip the girl's.

Her fingers are painted a deep shade of red and her wrist sports an assortment of bangles. Exotic and bold are the words that come to my mind when I look at her. But I should know better than to find labels to file people under, and so my attention shifts to something she had said.

Just as she is about to step back, I blurt out, "What do you mean I can call you Iz? What's your real name?"

The second the question leaves my lips I know how wrong my words sound. How abrasive even to my own ears. The way her hand goes limp in mine, her body jerking in a physical recoil from my words, further add to the blow of what I've said.

"I-I mean," I cough and clear my throat, taking back my hand from hers and folding my arms around myself. My skin prickles underneath the material of my sleeves. I know that by now there isn't much space left to draw on, and yet the stifling need to scratch and scratch until I can feel the nib of the pen leaving behind abrasions on my skin consumes me fully. For a split second I wonder how Dr. Zia ever thought that this group friendship could be good for me, when all it has done so far is drive me further into my destructive habits.

I consider leaving then, running away, marching straight past the trio of friends standing in front of me and then through the hallway, out of the school and all the way back home. Only that the concept of home doesn't bear much comfort either.

"I'm sorry," I tell the girl, forcing myself to look into her eyes, shut off now when once they were so bright. From the corner of my eyes I can see Henry and John stepping closer to her, our little circle of misery and awkwardness turning even sourer by the second. "What I meant to say was that... that it sounded like your name isn't Iz and that you shortened it or-or anglicised it for my benefit." Breathing in deeply, I let go of my arms and let them hang in front of me openly. "I can learn to pronounce your actual name..." my voice carries off into a small whisper, "you don't have to change it for me. You shouldn't have to change it."

Dr. Zia had once told me that people often hide away the parts of themselves they consider undesirable. That how sometimes these parts can be the very same ones which bring the person a sense of pride. It confused me, back then, how something can be both. Shameful and proud. But now, as I look at this girl standing in front of me, bold in every manner of her being and yet flinching away at my confrontation, I finally understand.

"Oh," she says. Her eyes skitter around, as if she's a deer caught in the headlights, deciding whether to trot back into the woods or put up a parade. When the light flashes back in her eyes, bright brown and warm honey, I know that she has decided to stay. "My name is Lawaiza," she says. She takes out her phone and types the syllables for me: lah-way-za'. "Aiza for short."

"Good to meet you, Aiza. And you," I say, turning toward John who I find is already looking at me with a grin on his face.

"Can we join you for lunch?" he asks me, "Or well, whatever is left of it."

"Sure."

John shoots me a wide grin and takes a seat opposite me, a spring in his step as if he has been waiting for me to say yes. As if he has been waiting for anyone to say yes to him his whole life. Next is Lawaiza, Aiza, who taps me on the shoulder in a silent thanks and walks over from behind me to sit beside me. And then Henry is the last man left standing. His eyes skitter around, deep green like a forest after dark, and he's breathing a little too fast and for a moment I think he's scared only that I can't fathom what he would be scared of. He hangs his head, wisps of short black hair fall across his forehead, and then he looks up to stare at me, past me, at Aiza. A moment passes in tense silence and then he nods once and takes a seat at the front of the table.

Later that day when I come back home, the smell of cinnamon and sugar is what greets me the moment I step through the door. It seems as if the warm, spicy scent has filled the entire ground floor of the house. I hitch my bag higher up on my shoulder and my feet carry me to the kitchen, where the smell is the strongest. As soon as I pass the open plan door and get my first peak inside, I see gran standing at the sink, scrubbing away at some pans and bowls. Two trays are set on the island and on them is the source of the smell — over two dozen cinnamon rolls, half with brown sugar sprinkled on top and the other half plain glazed. Naturally my hand reaches for the glazed one.

It's just like gran to get so lost in whatever she's doing, be it her work or a book, cooking or cleaning or knitting, that she loses touch with her surroundings. As if it's just her and her little bubble. I relate to her in this way, and it's surprising because it is the only thing that I've been able to relate to with her, so it finally feels like she is after all my kin and not a total stranger. But then my brain reminds me that her isolation is self-created and that it springs from a place of happiness and comfort, whereas mine stems from anxiety and trauma and the need to stay afloat in a world where it feels like I'm constantly drowning.

I clear my throat to get her attention. "Hey."

She spins around, fingers wet with soap suds, eyes warm and crinkling at the corners. "Oh! Irisa, you're back."

I return her smile. Putting my bag down against the kitchen counter, I start rolling up my sleeves to go and help her wash, then catch sight of the ink still filling up my forearms and pull the sleeves down hurriedly. "Let me," I say, walking up to her.

"Oh no, no. Please. You girls may think me old and elderly but there's still fresh blood coursing through these veins." She does a little jiggle of her hips and smiles at me as if she's letting me in on a secret.

"Um... okay," I say.

I rub my nose and turn on my heel so that I'm facing away from her. Away from her happy face and loving eyes. Love that I still find myself unable to return without feeling as if I'm betraying the memory of my parents.

"You made cinnamon rolls," I comment lamely after a few minutes have passed where she's humming to herself in blissful oblivion and I am standing there in the middle of the kitchen feeling every bit like an intruder.

"Yes, we did!" she says, looking at me from over her shoulder. "Your sister and I. She came back home with a sweet tooth on her mind and I suggested we make something. She found this special recipe for some light cinnamon rolls and then ran off to whisk the ingredients. I mean I just stood there and guided her, really. She did the rest." Gran stops to take a breath and then smiles at me with adoration. "I think she's turning out to be quite the little baker, if I do say so myself."

In my head I reply to her that you can't say so, because in reality that is so unlike Asteria. Before when we were back home, mum couldn't get her to even step into the kitchen no matter how hard she tried, let alone stand there for hours and bake. But I don't say that. And the thought that maybe Asteria is actually changing, is growing up and out of the shadow that I seem to be stuck under, is both enlightening and terrifying.

"You can have one before dinner if you want," she says. She smiles at me and gestures with a nod of her head. "Go on."

I hesitate, then reach for a glazed one.

"We made the glazed rolls especially for you," she says and my hand stops mid-air, the bun just an inch from my lips. I can smell the sweet molten sugar, the glaze still a little soft and the roll still a little warm beneath my fingers. Gran doesn't look at me, she continues washing the dishes and talks in a low voice, as if she's just musing out loud. "I remembered your mum once telling me how Ria liked sprinkles and granulated sugar on everything and how you would always prefer a plain glaze." A soft laugh comes from her, light as a whisper and almost sad. "And then she'd say how she had no idea how both of you ever came to develop your taste pallet since both her and your father only like chocolate glaze."

The air becomes hot and clammy. The tension whips itself into the fabric of our existence in the space of a few milliseconds and now it's hard to breathe or even move.

"Liked," gran whispers after a few moments. I turn around to look at her just as her shoulders drop. Her broken sigh is too loud in the quiet kitchen.

I reach out to her but stop with my hand hovering just about her shoulder. My tongue feels swollen and my breath comes out in uneven puffs.

What do I say to her when my own coping mechanism is based on a rickety stool of art and catharsis? How can I help her heal when I'm broken myself?

Gran decides for me. She sniffles once, then turns on her heel to look at me, eyes bright with barely any hint of sadness. "Go wash up," she says, "I'll be heating the leftover lasagne for dinner so come down soon."

"Okay." I nod.

I pick up my bag from beside the counter, put the cinnamon roll back on the tray and make my way upstairs to my room. It takes me over ten minutes to wash off the ink from my arms. When I look up into the mirror, it's fogged over. I wipe off the condensation in one clean swipe so that I'm looking at my face. Blue eyes, short blonde hair. I look sad. I feel sadder still just because I look sad.

My hands are braced on the sides of the sink, my skin hot against the cool porcelain. I look into my eyes and stretch my lips to see my reflection smile at me. If I try hard enough, it looks real. I wonder, if I try even harder still, maybe it'll become real as well.

At dinner when gran asks me about my day, I pull up my practiced smile and tell her about Lawaiza and John and Henry. About the test in G.P. and the squirrel sitting outside the window during lunch period. I smile and talk until she's satisfied and then let Asteria have the stage.

After cleaning the dishes and tucking Ria into bed, when I climb under the duvet in my own bed, ready to try and sleep, my phone goes off with a soft ping. I roll over to fetch it from the side table and slide my thumb down the screen to view the notification.

You have been added to a WhatsApp group: Mates in Straits.

One new message: Mates in Straits.

I open the chat with a confused frown.

Lawaiza Asif: Welcome to the group Irisa! It was great meeting u today ❤

And goodnight fam, see ya all tom!!

I stare at the screen, taking the words in, understanding their implication. Slowly a hopeful smile works its way onto my lips.

Irisa Adams: It was really nice meeting you all too 😊