Ruin

by N. M. Martinez

  My hair falls over my nose and mouth and I don't move it. I focus my attention on the strands as my inhaled breaths pull them against my lips only to push them away again when I exhale. It works well for a short while, but soon I find myself laying still, staring at the wall, curling even tighter into a ball.

  Who are these people and why am I here? The thought circles through like a whirlwind and in the eye of the storm are quiet thoughts of my mother that I try to ignore. But they sit in the center, a weight on my heart that squeezes my chest anytime I look too closely at them. There is nothing I can do for her and it hurts to realize it.

  I lie on my side on the bed with a hand on my chest. Once the pain begins I lean forward, pressing my fist against the bone protecting my heart and crushing the skin against my knuckle. The physical pain is a focus I can handle. Tears spring to my eyes because of the sharp pain from my knuckles and nothing else. Those tears are easier to ignore. Easier to focus on the pain on my skin than the deeper pain with in.

  I'm that way for a while. My body trying to release the tears and my fighting it with every breath. It works for a while. Helps me forget where I am and the fact that a stranger sits in another room waiting for me to fall asleep. Helps me forget my mother and the fact that I once thought I was safe, that there is nowhere safe in this entire world.

  I jump up, the bed squeaking under me when I wake. The darkness of the room presses down on me like the Special Ops soldiers did when they were herding me and my mother out to their dark vans parked on the front lawn. My first instinct is to find light, but I pause, stuck in the darkness and scared to find the light.

  Frozen there on the bed, I can see a bit of light seeping into the room from under the door. It becomes brighter as the light source moves closer with a soft sound of shoes on a carpeted floor.

  There's a knock, and Brandon's voice, strong and so unfamiliar, jerks me out of my stupor. "Are you okay? Can I come in?"

  That he asks throws me. It isn't like I have a choice. This is his apartment and his room.

  "Yes." My voice shakes.

  Brandon opens the door slowly letting the light lead him into the room. I sit up and grab my glasses from the side table, wanting to be prepared even though I don't know what I need to be prepared for. There's no smile on his face as he steps over to me and puts the lamp down on the table. "You're scared of the dark."

  He doesn't ask. I glance up at him and nod without bothering to offer an explanation. There really isn't any.

  Brandon isn't a tall man but I have to glance up at him from my spot on the bed. He's also not a small skinny man. His body is thick, but not fat. "Mind if I sit down?"

  I lift my feet up to make room for him as my heart thuds hard against my skin. He takes a seat and the mattress dips towards him. I have to put a tiny bit of weight on my toes to stop myself from sliding closer to him.

  “Mr. Smith stopped by earlier, but we thought it would be best if we didn't wake you.” He pauses when he notes the blank look on my face. "That was the older one on the car ride with you. He never even introduced himself, did he?" I shake my head as he sighs and scratches at the back of his neck with a hand. "Figures. Well, there's some things you should probably know, and I'm the best one to tell you."

  There is no twinkle in his blue eyes this time. He has this air of maturity that he didn't have earlier. Brandon seems to watch me carefully, his eyes both gentle and sharp. "Mr. Smith is your dad." He pauses to take a breath and then quickly exhale it. "He's also the leader here."

  My breath catches, and I bite my lip. Brandon becomes fuzzy for a moment until I take off my glasses and wipe at my eyes. Mom always had a different story for my father. Sometimes he was a soldier. Sometimes he was a politician. After a while, she would just work it into silly bed time stories, and I'd pretend they were all true. I had a vision of my father being an honest and decent man who just couldn't be with my mother.

  My hands shake. I trap them between my body and my knees.

  "And he's my father too." Brandon says it quietly, his eyes on me and still lacking that sparkle.

  My toes curl against the mattress. I have a brother. For a moment, my mouth falls open and then I look away, down at my bare feet on the blanket. Secretly I always wanted an older brother though I don't know why. All of my friends who had older brothers said they were nothing but pests.

  I didn't get a good look at Mr. Smith, but I don't see much similarity between Brandon and him. But Brandon and I do both have dark hair. Like my mother. I bite my lip hard.

  "Just him," Brandon adds. "We share blood through Henri. I mean, Mr. Smith."

  "So we're only half related?”

  Brandon shakes his head, and he frowns. "I don't know what you mean."

  "We only share one parent."

  "Ah. We don't make distinctions like that here. We share blood. That's all that matters.” Brandon leans back on the bed, one hand behind him as he looks at me. "You don't like us, do you?"

  I almost choke, but the words fall out of my mouth quickly. "No, it's not that. It's just--" But my words completely fail me. My hand falls on my mouth as our eyes meet. There is something of a twinkle to his eyes now, but it doesn't look the same. His lips curl up in a smirk like he expected that I wouldn't be able to explain myself.

  "Right. Well, you stay here. I'll leave you the lamp tonight just until you get your bearings. We can't do this every night, okay? Oil's not always easy to get." Brandon stands and reaches out to the lamp to twist a knob. It shortens the wick and dims the light. "I'm going to take the couch."

  Four

  The bed is cold. I wake up but find I can easily go back to sleep to avoid the reality that I'm in someone else's bed. Sounds from the kitchen tell me he's probably making breakfast for us even though I'm really nothing more than a complete stranger to him. But he's got to eat, and so he's probably going to make me breakfast too. I stretch out, sliding my bare feet into the cold unused corners of the bed and pushing the blanket away from me to let the early morning air into my warm sanctuary.

  I reach over to the table for my glasses. The lamp still sits there with its shortened wick bravely burning away. Not much is left but a small halo of flame. I sit up and blow it out, not quite sure what else you're supposed to do with it. A tail of smoke curls up from the wick and pokes at my nose.

  My clothes are crumpled. It's a little too dark for me to go digging around in my duffle bag. Plus I don't want to be rude. I don't know what Brandon's schedule is like yet. What if he needs to get in here and I'm in the way? So I just pat my clothes to smooth them out the best I can, and then step over to the door.

  I open the door carefully and peek out. It's still somewhat dark in the main room. There are three windows, but only one is facing towards the sun. The two other windows at the front of the apartment will be covered in the building's shadow until noon most likely.

  Brandon peeks out from the kitchen with a small smile. "Did you sleep okay?"

  I nod, still not knowing exactly what to say to him.

  "Well, breakfast is almost done. You should probably get cleaned up or whatever you need to do." He motions towards the small bathroom beside the kitchen before he steps back to the stove.

  The door is already partially open. It gives a short squeak as I push it open further and pause. The apartment is barely lit so the bathroom, lacking in any windows at all, is black. My throat pinches shut at the sight. I glance back to Brandon who has his back turned to me.

  "Uhm," I clear my throat softly, prepping for the stupidity of my next statement. "It's dark."

  Brandon puts batter down on the hot pan before he turns a bit to look at me out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, you're just going to have to make do. It's fine. There aren't any monsters in there, I promise."

  My cheeks flush. I touch a cheek with the cool fingers of one hand and step back to the bathroom. The sink is right in front of the door, so I stand at it with a foot holding the bathroom door against the wall to let in
what little bit of light there is. I wipe down my face with my wet fingers while trying to ignore the darkness sitting in the corner of my eye. Not having a towel to dry my face, I let it air dry and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Without light there isn't much to see, but still I'm surprised at the dark circles under my eyes. My face just doesn't look right. Paler in some places and darker in others, I almost don't recognize myself.

  I turn away from the mirror and step back out with the spaces between my fingers still moist.

  In the main room, Brandon's already put a small stack of pancakes down at the breakfast table. There are some freshly chopped fruits and some cheese on the two plates sitting at the table. It's not exactly like breakfast at home with Mom but it still makes my stomach twist at the simple familiarity of it. I pause, frozen in spot by a pain from not one specific memory but every memory all at once.

  Brandon steps out from behind the kitchen counter with a concerned look. "Are you okay?"

  He can probably read it all over my face. Still I try and cover it up with a nod as I give myself some time to shove things down. "Yeah."

  For a moment, it looks as if he'll call me out on it, but he doesn't. Instead he goes back to the counter and pours us two small glasses of water from the water jug which he then brings over to the table.

  We both sit down at the small table. He takes a couple of pancakes and some pieces of fruit. "I don't really know what you'd eat."

  "It's fine. We used to eat pancakes all the time." When my answer seems to satisfy him, allowing him to dive into his own pancakes, I get a burst of bravery. "So, uh, what do you put on them?"

  When he turns to me with his brows raised, his mouth full of pancake, my whole head turns red in embarrassment. "What?"

  "At home, we have syrup with pancakes. And sometimes butter."

  I'm not sure what he thinks. Brandon gives a laugh before slicing into his pancake again with a shake of his head. "Syrup? I dunno. Butter we can get, but I don't use it that often. Don't want it to go bad."

  My head is still hot as I cut into my pancake with the side of my fork.

  We don't say much else, and in a way I'm thankful for it. I don't really think I'm capable of holding a real conversation right now. Brandon eats his meal in quick bites just like any regular guy. When he's finished, he stands up and picks up his plate and the empty pancake plate. "I have to head out for training. I'm already almost late. Do you think you can get the dishes for me?"

  His back is to me as he puts the plates in the sink. Across his broad back the fabric of his shirt is stretched thin, and I can see the darkness of the tattoo. It's not small like some of the others I saw yesterday, and though I can't see its detail, I guess that it's about the same size as the tattoo Grey Eyes had.

  Brandon turns around and glances at me, waiting for an answer. I nod, "Sure."

  He steps forward to the door and pauses with a hand on it. "Thanks. I'll be back for lunch, okay?" Then he's out the door, cold morning air swirling into the warm kitchen.

  I take my time cleaning up. There's a rag on the sink next to the faucet. I don't see any soap, but the dishes are only covered in crumbs from the pancakes. Once I'm done with that, the apartment is lighter though still not ideal. I take another look at the bathroom with the intent of taking a shower, but it's still much too dark for me and so I take a seat on the couch. I'm only sitting there for a couple of minutes before I flop over on my side, my knees in my chest, my fingers pressed lightly to my lips as if to keep my mouth from my thumb.

  This is wrong. This is all wrong. I feel like I should be crying, mourning the loss of my mother. I don't know where she is or what's happening to her. Is she somewhere out here too? I guess I could have asked Brandon, but I'm scared of the answer. Wherever she is, that's wrong too, and she's in trouble probably more than I am.

  This isn't real yet. Everything still has the haze of a nightmare washed over it. I pull my knees closer. My right arm is starting to ache and I let it hoping that it will help me come to terms with reality. My eyes burn. I stare at the bathroom door, partially closed, the room still dark.

  Today is a school day. I wonder what my friends must be thinking. From time to time it happened that someone would move away suddenly. We'd discuss it at breaks between classes, asking if anyone had heard anything. There was never a warning. But we just shrugged our shoulders. It had been happening for so long that we never thought about it.

  Is that what my friends are saying now? Do they believe that I'd leave without telling them? Will they completely forget me?

  The tasks I take on for the afternoon don't last long enough. Before I know it, I'm lying on top of the bed curled in a ball, my shoes kicked off nearby. The bedroom is chilly just from the bareness.

  I shiver, but I don't pull the blanket up. The cold keeps me awake. I try to sit still without thinking, but the cold also brings back memories. At first I fight it in an attempt to keep my mind clear. The memories still come though, washing over me and making the hair on my arms stand up.

  It was the old vinyl seats in a truck. I sat with my coat on, wrapped tight around me as I scooted closer to Rob. The vinyl of the seat was like ice through the fabric of my pants. I jumped and he laughed, reaching for me to pull me to his side. His stupid truck broke down in the morning when we were on our way to see one of the parks. It was supposed to be a surprise, but we didn't make it. Stranded at the side of the road, both of us absolutely freezing, Rob, my shy friend who never made a move on anyone the whole year I'd known him, finally made a move on me.

  "I know how we can get some attention so we're not out here too long," he'd said with an arm draped over the back seat of the truck, a hand on my shoulder. "I don't think you're going to like it."

  "Does it involve us using our jackets somehow?"

  "No, that's not exactly what I was thinking." Rob looked to the roof of the cab with a smile on his lips.

  I was completely baffled. "Are you thinking we should get out and walk? Because that I'll definitely object to."

  He laughed and looked down at me. I expected him to make another joke or give another hint. Instead, he leaned down and kissed me. My heart beat so hard in my chest that I shook. The temperature in the cab suddenly rose and both of our faces turned red. His shoulders rose as if he were trying to hide his head between his shoulders, and as soon as I saw his mouth even starting to shape the beginning of his apology, I threw my arms around him and pulled him back down.

  In the real world, I gasp. It starts out as one, then a second one as I fight for air to breathe. I shut my eyes, still gasping, shaking with tears, crying over a boy when I don't even know where my mother is. I still hold hope for her. I want to believe that she's out there somewhere and we can find her. But in Rob's case I know that's over. I'll never see him again. He'll sit in class and stare at the empty seat until the teacher calls someone from the back to take my spot. Then I'll just become like any other person in our life that's disappeared. I'll just be a memory in the back of his mind-- a what if and a wonder.

  The shared moment of that memory is as clear and pure as if it had just happened the day before. But even that memory is tainted ever so slightly.

  There was the knock on the window that broke us apart. We were both embarrassed, out of breath and red faced, burning up from the sudden rush of blood against our skin trapped by our coats. A man dressed in the formal uniform of the Security Force stood waiting, his jaw square and taut, and his shoulders round and broad. Rob rolled down the window and explained to him about the truck stopping, how we were from out of town and didn't know which way to walk.

  The Security Force guy had on shades similar to the one worn by the special ops that would later steal me away from my mother. They hid his eyes and reflected our own faces back at us. He frowned at the two of us in a way that made me wonder if he'd ever been young and just discovering how much he really liked someone. He stepped away to call us a tow truck with a stern warning that he'd be back.


  Rob watched him walk away before putting his arm around me again and whispering in my ear, "See? I told you it would get us noticed."

  The weight from a large hand on my foot makes me jump. The room is dark again and I can't see who's touching me right away. I almost kick him until he speaks.

  "Hey, it's me. Don't kick." Brandon's hand is still on my leg, holding it down now instead of just lightly touching it. "I made some dinner."

  I nod before realizing that it's probably too dark for him to see me unless seeing in the dark is his power. "Crap. I fell asleep again."

  Brandon chuckles. I sit up and he reaches out for me, the hand that had been on my foot taking hold of my arm lightly. "Sorry, I forget you don't like the dark."

  The oil lamp is on in the main room, but it only casts a weak light. Brandon picks it up and puts it down on the table as we both have a seat.

  Dinner seems to be canned meat, canned veggies, and some sort of grain. I'd laugh if it wasn't another painful memory to shove away and hide from.

  Brandon digs in hungrily. His hair is wet from a recent shower, and his clothes have changed from earlier. Now he wears a tank top, his arms showing from the shoulders down. There aren't many scars on his arm like there were on Grey Eyes though there are a few. His arms are thick and muscular. It makes me nervous. I'm not quite sure what they plan to do with me, and so far I've slept away the day. That doesn't exactly make me stand out in a good way.

  He glances up at me then down at my plate. "You're not used to canned food?" The acknowledgment brings back the memory I'd tried to shove away. Brandon's mouth turns down ever so slightly as if he can read my pain on my face, and he probably can. I've never been very good at hiding things like that.

  "Another memory."

  Brandon's mouth falls open partially as if he wants to say something, but then he closes it right away. Maybe he wants to tell me to get over it and deal, but then he realized that it's only my second day. Or maybe he just doesn't know what to say.