Irisa

I see myself running after a little girl. Through halls and doorways, through gardens and empty, deserted roads. One scene melts into another as I fade in and out of frames. But I keep running. My heart hammers inside my ribcage, my lungs burn, my feet ache. My fingers, ice cold, are held out in front of me as I try again and again to stop the girl, because I know that danger lies ahead, I know it deep in my bones. I need to save her, I have to. But she's always out of reach, her blonde hair almost touching my fingers, but never quite coming in my grasp.

Suddenly the scene melts again and I step into something soft and powdery. Snow. The ground is covered in freshly fallen snow, and we're running on a hill, headed straight toward a cliff.

"Stop!" I call out, but it seems that the wind blows my words away before they reach the girl.

She giggles and she laughs, her laughter carrying a musical note that makes my soul ache because it sounds so familiar.

I shout again, I scream until my voice turns hoarse.

Then the girl stops, less than a feet from the edge.

Her white sundress flows in the air, as if she were dancing.

Slowly she turns around. For a moment, her face is blurred, as if I'm looking at her through a fogged glass window. There's a pause in time, the wind stills and my steps falter, and then the fog lifts.

No. Not her.

Asteria smiles at me, now taller, older. A teenager's body brimming with energy. She starts to walk backwards.

Eyes growing wide, I pick up pace and scream at her to stop. But my words disappear in the wind that's kicking up a storm.

My hand reaches out, my fingers brushing the soft texture of her frock, and I begin to smile in relief. Then she falls from my arms.

Her glowing face morphs into one of terror, of betrayal. As her body disappears in the gaping black hole, I scream.

I wake up with a start, my mind wrenched from the nightmare and thrust into wakefulness. Only that in that instant, waking life feels like a nightmare as well.

My hands clutch the sheets around me in a fierce grip, reminiscent of the way they'd almost managed to grasp a hold of my sister, almost but not quiet.

In the end she had still fallen. Away from me. In the end I'd lost her, too.

Gasping with the effort it takes to not melt into a ball of panic, I throw away the sheets and run out of my room, headed straight for Asteria's. When the cold brass doorknob meets my feverish skin, it burns.

I open the door to Ria's room and let myself in. And then I see her, growing limbs tangled in the sheets, hair splayed all over the pillow and covering half her face. She snores softly, and in the quiet room my choked sob is too loud.

I walk over to her bedside and kneel down on unstable legs. With shaking hands, I reach out and touch her face.

"Oh." I whimper in relief.

Her skin is so soft beneath my clammy hands, her hair silky smooth. I caress her cheek, sift my fingers through her hair, brushing the stray locks off her face and behind her ear. I lean down to kiss her forehead.

Then I stand and walk over to the adjacent wall facing her bed. Finally leaning against something solid and firm, I slide down until I'm sitting with my knees raised in front of me. Gazing at Asteria's sleeping face, aloof and lost in the dream world, my lungs finally allow me to breathe.

And then I cry. With one hand pushing against my lips so that I don't wake her up.

I cry until there are no more tears left, until my heart has stopped racing, my limbs have stopped aching. I cry until I convince myself that my little sister really is here, that I haven't lost her.

Later, as I'm walking back to my room, I hear the door to gran's room creak open behind me. I stop, but I don't turn around. I can tell that she's standing there, waiting for me to say something. But I don't because I think my voice might betray me.

"All okay, love?"

I nod without turning around to face her.

I don't want her to ask me any questions because I'm not certain if I'll be able to provide an answer. I can't explain myself to her, at least not in words that will make any sense, as to why I feel the need to check up on Asteria, night after painful night. And, besides, I doubt she'll be able to understand my fear of losing the only real family I have left.

So I don't turn around.

"Goodnight, gran," I say.

For a few beats she doesn't reply. I can feel her gaze piercing through me, so I chance a glance at her, looking at her from over my shoulder, from the corner of my eyes.

She stands in the doorway to her room, the moonlight from the window at the end of the hallway washing her face in a soft, white light. When she smiles at me, her grey hair framing her face, she looks impossibly old and tired.

"G'night, love."

I don't trust my voice not to break, so I just nod at her and disappear into the safe confines of my room.

Taking in a deep breath, I exhale heavily. I'm exhausted, but my skin still burns. I walk over to the window, and as I pass the desk, I pick up a pen. I throw open the shutters and take a seat on the window ledge. Resting my head against the frame, I let the cold air wash over me, soothing as a balm. Then I uncap the pen and start tracing on my forearm, beginning from below the wreath tattoo, and carrying on until the pen runs dry, late into the early morning hours.

_____

I don't remember falling asleep, but I wake up when the car stops. My head rests against the glass window, cold with the rain falling on the other side. I open my eyes to a world of grey. Cold and wet and nostalgic.

When Aiza had suggested that we should all go out to watch a movie today — to educate ourselves and learn some culture — her eyes were so wide and hopeful that I hadn't found the heart to tell her I wasn't feeling up to it. Especially not after her and John had spent the majority of the lunch period fighting over which film to watch, because, according John, The Nun was definitely not cultured, and for Aiza, it absolutely was. But, at the end, when Aiza had suggested that I should hang out with Henry until it was time to go to the cinema, because she had to run home for errands and John had football practice, I had found myself unable to say no for a completely different set of reasons.

It's not that I'm averted to the idea of Henry and me spending time together. But the way his piercing gaze seems to see right through my defences with such a practiced sense of ease, makes me feel on edge. Makes me feel more vulnerable than I've felt in a long, long time.

So, now, as I sit up straight, brushing the loose strands of hair behind my ears and supressing a yawn, I catch Henry looking at me with those thoughtful eyes. "You must've been really tired," he says. "You slept through most of the ride."

And I find myself at an utter loss of words.

I look down at my hands, resting in my lap, covered in ink from wrist up. When I raise my head to look at him, I find his eyes trained on my hands as well.

I open my mouth, unsure of what to say. Should I tell him the truth? No, I can't. But I also know, I know, that he won't accept anything else either. That he'll see through any other story. So, I close my mouth and raise my shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.

"Alright," he says after regarding me for a moment. He nods and turns off the car. "Let's go."

We get out and walk swiftly through the pouring rain to the single-storied, grey-coloured house we've parked in front of. Henry unlocks the door and lets me in first before coming inside himself and locking the door behind him.

We stand in a dimly lit hallway. Brushing a hand through his slightly damp hair, Henry clears his throat. "Well, uh, welcome to my home."

And that's that.

How did we go from staring at each other from across Dr. Zia's office, to this moment right here, I've no clue.

He manoeuvres past me, our wet shoulders brushing as he does, and starts to lead the way.

The hallway that we're in is short, lit with a yellow-lighted bulb hanging from the ceiling. Two shoe racks line one side of the corridor, set on the ground and overflowing with all kinds of shoes. A shelf is fixed to the wall above. Henry hangs his keys on one of the hooks on the shelf, the black and white panda keychain dangling for a few seconds beside a row of other keys, umbrellas and coats. On the other wall, a framed picture hangs of a woman, her arms draped around the shoulders of two boys.

"That's my mum," Henry says, pointing to the picture. "And that little goof is my younger brother Nicholas. Nico."

"Which goof?" I ask. "I see two of them."

"Ha, funny," he says, his lips stretching out in a crooked smile. He resumes walking and I turn my head back to the picture, studying it for a moment longer. I look at his mother, smiling, brown eyes happy and brown hair windswept, and at his little brother who's a spitting image of Henry himself, with the same green eyes, the same wavy black hair. The photograph reminds me of my own family, or rather, the one I had. And something in my heart aches at this thought.

I turn around and stare at the back of Henry's head, and wonder why his father isn't in the picture.

"And this," Henry gestures to an open-plan room which the hallway opens up in, "is the lounge." He first points to the brown sofa set and T.V. on the right side corner of the room, then at the small dining table in the middle, "And the dining room." Finally he points behind me, to the other end of the room with its counter top, separating the living area from the kitchen. "And the kitchen. Cosy, huh?"

"Mhm." I turn around to look at him and smile. "It's beautiful." What I want to say is that it doesn't look cosy, it looks like home where people who love each other live together.

But I don't.

"Alright well, I'll go freshen up. The bedrooms and the bath is through there," he gestures toward another small hallway right behind the sofa. "Make yourself at home."

When he has left, I let my eyes roam around the room. On the stack of school books on top of the dining table, on the dishes piled up for drying on the kitchen counters. On the flowery wallpaper, slightly yellowed, but still beautiful, the purple lavenders still in full bloom. I walk over to the fridge to get myself a glass of water. When I close the door, my eyes catch onto a picture of the sunrise tucked under the cutest pineapple magnet I've ever seen. With nimble fingers, I take off the picture and inspect it closely. It's the same one Henry had given to us last week. I still remember my surprise when he'd held out a copy to me, can still feel the way the blood had rushed to my cheeks and ears.

"You're wet."

I turn on my feet, startled, to find a younger Henry leaning against the wall at the entrance to the room, looking at me suspiciously.

Looking down at my rain-splattered shirt, I clear my throat. "Yeah, it was raining when we came in."

"Okay..."

I shake my head, then offer him a smile. "Hi, I'm Irisa. Henry's... friend," I say after a pause. "You must be Nicholas."

He straightens up a little at the sound of his name, stands taller. Then returns my smile. And that is where the similarities between him and his brother draw to an end.

His smile is the widest, goofiest smile I've ever seen. And suddenly I feel the urge to admit to Henry that yeah, I can tell who the goof is now.

Nicholas walks over to where I'm standing by the fridge. "Ry took that," he says, gesturing at the picture that I'm still holding.

"Oh, uh-yeah." I laugh lightly. "I know."

I slide the picture back under the pineapple magnet and turn to find Nicholas regarding me with a mischievous smile.

"Tell me the truth," he says, with sudden and absolute seriousness. "Are you my brother's girlfriend?"

I almost spit out the water that I've just drank, the glass slipping from my hand before I clutch it to my chest. "What?"

"I mean, you can tell me," he insists, taking my hand and leading me toward the chairs beside the dining table. "I can keep a secret if that's what you guys are aiming for. Because I like you!" He taps at the drawings on my forearms, "Any girl with ink like that is up-front awesome in my book." He grins at me, and I just blink at him, unable to string together phonemes into comprehensible words. "So are you? His girlfriend?"

"Nico!" Henry shouts. We both spin around to look at him as he marches over from the hallway and all but rips Nicholas' hand from my arm. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

"I-I was just," Nicholas stutters. "I was just talking to her."

"He was," I find myself saying, trying to make head and tail of the situation which has somehow gotten severely out of hand in the span of a few seconds. "We were just talking."

"Stay out of this," Henry tells me, his green eyes like smouldering steel.

"I was just playing around," Nicholas says again, attempting to smile at his brother.

Henry grabs Nicholas' arm and shakes his hand out. "Playing around? And what the hell is this then?"

It's only now that I notice the slight bruising on the younger boy's knuckles. Nicholas wrenches his hand out of Henry's grip and steps back, his smile dissolving into a scowl. "Let me go," he says.

"How many times do I have to tell you for you to get it into your head? You're not allowed to fight!"

Nicholas starts to back away from Henry, and so do I.

"It wasn't my fault," Nicholas says slowly. When Henry opens his mouth to reply, Nicholas shouts. "I said it wasn't my fault!"

"It's never your fucking fault! Is it?" Henry says so loudly that his voice cracks at the edge. He slams his hand down onto the countertop with such force that the sound echoes in the room.

The glass of water slips from my hand and crashes on the floor.

For a few moments the room is silent, as if everyone is holding their breaths, looking at the broken glass on the floor.

Then Nicholas looks up, eyes brimming, and face red. "You're just like dad," he says in a quiet whisper before turning on his heel and running out of the room. A second later, the sound of a door banging close reverberates in the silence of the room.

I look up at the sound of Henry's gasp. He holds out his arms in front of him, his hands shaking, and falls against the counter, the ceramic edge digging into his back.

"Henry?"

He doesn't look at me. His eyes remain fixed on his trembling hands.

"Henry?" I say again, louder. I step over the broken glass and walk toward him. Reach out a tentative hand. "Henry," I say in a soft voice because just now it seems like anything too loud might cause him to break. "Ry, look at me."

His breaths come out in short, ragged gasps. He clenches and unclenches his hands, his fingers shaking, his whole body shaking.

"Hey," I touch his right hand with my left and grasp onto his fingers. His skin is bristling hot to the touch, and for a split second I wonder if this is what my skin feels like to somebody else after I've had one of my nightmares. "Hey, Henry," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I tug at his hand. "Look at me."

And he does. And I wish he hadn't.

His eyes aren't green. They don't even look like eyes anymore. They're a forest, caught on fire, burning relentlessly. Drowning in smoke so thick that it chokes the life out of you.

I want to take a step back. Take three steps back, then four and ten. All the way back to the road outside of the house and then continue on running until I'm back inside my own room.

But then Henry opens his mouth and talks in the quietest of voices. "I can't be like him," he says. "I can't be like my dad."

And a tear falls from his eye.

Letting go of his hand, I close the distance between us to wrap my arms around his shoulders. I feel him freeze, feel him holding his breath.

"You're not like your dad," I tell him. I don't understand what this is about, but right now, I don't need to. I just need him to understand.

I tighten my grip around him, hold him closer. "You are Henry Ray." I keep my voice low, but even. Strong. Stronger than I feel myself. "And you're not like anybody else, you're you. No one but you has the power to decide who you are."

A tremor rolls through Henry. When it passes, he lets out a ragged breath that I can feel on the skin of my neck.

Then he rests his forehead on my shoulder, and slowly wraps his arms around my back.

Wiping away the silent tears flowing down my cheeks, I hold him as strongly as I can. And when he cries, I let him.