Carla Mason:

The rain pelts down in sheets around us. The sky rumbles. I hear thunder.

Eric walks closely beside me, umbrella in hand so that it shields both of us from the pouring rain, and I know without having to ask him that he is thinking about peticur or whatever the smell of first rain is called.

I am wondering where he left his bike but don't feel like engaging in conversation. I am exhausted and drained and not in the way you can recover from easily with sleep.

"Can I ask you something, Carla?" Eric says, breaking the silence.

I let out a puff of breath. "Go right ahead."

He turns to face me so that his aquamarine eyes are boring deeply into mine. "What was it that was bothering you this morning?"

His tone is gentle and velvety, cautious and guarded; he is testing the waters the way you feel around for the warmth of a pizza slice before stuffing it in your mouth. Eric gazes at me with concern and pity, looking over the fringe falling into his eyes.

I suddenly find myself facing a surging urge to push him away. I want to grab him by his shoulders to shake that sorry expression of his face—the same expression Stephanie and Jules view me with. I want him to stop raking me with that sad, pitiful gaze. I want to tell him that maybe my life is not perfect like his but I will make it better. I want to let him know that Jenny will start talking to me again and my parents will stop fighting one day, and he really needs to stop looking at me with so much worry because I have a lot of people back at home to worry and care for me. I want to make it very clear to him that my life is not miserable and he needs to treat me like a normal person rather than someone to be felt sorry for. I want to shout all of this at his face, but the pressure in my throat prevents me from doing so.

I swallow. "Nothing."

Eric holds my gaze for another moment or so, before training his eyes to the ground, evidently disappointed with my response. Or rather its lack thereof.

He opens and closes his mouth several times, debating on a saying a bunch of things. At last he says, "You know, my mom used to say that all of us can become really easily bothered by things we can't control. That largely what affects is not something we can change, but something that lies outside our domain, outside our limitations." He lifts his head to look at me once again, his platform shoes creating ripples in the puddles of water around us. "I used to fret about a lot of things that I am majorly unbothered by now, and that has come to be only from realizing where my boundaries lie."

I am eager to know what used to bother him, but too afraid to ask. He will probably ask me to explain my problem first. I consider his advice for a moment, listening in to the sound of the rain as it batters against the umbrella. "So that was it for you? You realized your boundaries and suddenly nothing was an issue?"

"That's not true. Not true at all. In fact, it took me quite a lot of time to get used to it. And I expected myself to take time too. You can't hope to reconstruct what took thirteen years to build in the time span of a day."

"I am fourteen."

"Age doesn't really matter in this context. Adaptability and your receptiveness to change do."

I mull this over, "You're smart."

He lets out a short laugh. "So I have been told."

The downpour has come to a halt now, a droplet of water or so only falling down occasionally from the sky. Eric puts his umbrella down, twisting the pleats in a clockwise direction before securing them with a tie band. Once it is closed, he carefully slips it inside his bag. "Are you fairly certain you weren't thinking about petrichor earlier today?"

"Absolutely," I simper. "I am sorry for being so rude back then. Just wasn't feeling it, I guess."

He waves his hand dismissively. "It's alright."

"But you can totally say petrichor over and over now. I'll happily listen."

"I am glad you did not call it peticur this time. It was taking all my patience not to correct you."

"Hey, it is a peculiar word. Nobody tosses it around casually in everyday conversation. Unless they are you, that is."

He smiles. I want to ask him why there is a dimple only on one side of his cheek because I am sure he knows the science of it. I am about to speak up when I see we've reached our neighborhood.

Eric is nice enough to drop me off at my door, and I thank him for his umbrella and his company.

"I guess I'll see you around, then?" he says as I insert the house keys in the keyhole.

The keys jingle. The door opens with a click. "I guess you will."

****

My house looks like it has been inhabited by ghosts. It is eerily silent—the only sounds are of my footfalls and the whizzing of the fan above. Nobody is sitting on the plush white sofas; the seats of the polished wooden table are pulled apart but remain empty. The doors to all the rooms are sealed shut. There is no stew brewing in the kitchen pots; the only smell is of the decaying roses in the vase on the window sill.

I open the doors to all the rooms to see if anybody is home at all.

My room is empty, so is Dad's. I hesitate at Jenny's door, but there is nobody inside.

I go to Mama's room.

She is still fast asleep, her honey colored hair splayed all over her face. They drape down her body and are softly curled at the edges. When Mama used to be normal like everybody else's mom's, she had friends who would gush over her hair. They are soft and thick, with just the right amount of wave. As a kid, I really enjoyed running my fingers through her hair. Now, I gently push them at the back of her ear so her face is visible. I haven't seen her face in days.

I don't usually talk to Mama. Or Dad. I used to. I used to bake with Mama, and help fix Dad's car. Sometimes Mama would let me to do her makeup and Dad would let me shave his beard. When the fights started happening, I still continued hanging out with them. Then one day, Jenny barged into my room, telling me to stay away from Dad; that he wasn't safe, that he didn't care about us at all. I told her she way lying because her relationship with Dad was screwed and she wanted to screw mine too. She plainly told me to stop hanging out with him for a few days and see if he came back to me.

He did not.

I cried all day that night and Jenny hugged me and said love always results in heartbreak and if you want to protect your heart, it is best that you don't attach yourself to anyone at all. I told her she was stupid, but deep inside I knew she was right. So I stopped hanging out with Mama the day Jenny suddenly stopped talking to her too. Mama came to check me up on me, but after a few days she stopped as well.

I cried that night too, but Jenny did not hug me. She didn't even enter my room. From the threshold of the door, she told me not attach myself to anyone and left.

Mama stirs in her sleep and I bend down to quickly plant a kiss on her forehead. But even though I am quick, I still catch the whiff of that funny smell. My eyes land on the transparent liquid in the glass bottle on her bedside table and I wish that it is water, even though I know exactly what it is. I unscrew the cap and inhale.

It isn't water.

It carries the same weird smell that I, for the first time, caught on dad. And have repeatedly caught on Mama since.

Alcohol.

I screw the cap back on, padding my way out of the room. I close the door behind me and suddenly find myself very breathless.

Droplets of alcohol are on my fingers and I wipe them on my clothes so I don't have that funny smell on me. But even after rubbing them off on my jeans, I can still feel that sour, stingy smell as if it is right under my nose.

Running to the kitchen sink, I put my fingers under the tap water and rinse, rinse, rinse. Drawing my fingers away from the stream of water, I realize that I remember exactly when Jenny's behavior started changing towards me.

It was the day we spotted an alcohol bottle near Mama's bedside table, instead of our family portrait; the very day we first caught a whiff of the bottle's contents on her.

*****

Author's note: I hope you guys are catching on to the subtle hints I left in this chapter. I perfectly understand how hard it can be to remember each and every detail when you get to read chapters with a week's gap, but fear not. I will be here to guide you through with my author's notes.

In other news, TBIOS (strangely reads too much like TFIOS) hit 304 in the short story category. Can you believe we got ranked? AHH, all my writing dreams are beginning to come true. 
Also, Aurora (@mysterystudentgirl) is back, which most definitely calls for a celebration.

Thank you for sticking with me, guys. I adore you all beyond belief.

-RZ.