Ten - Part 1

by Sin Ribbon

  Aryan snickers, exchanging a brief smirk with Riya to affirm their mutual rebelliousness.

  “Aryan, go to your room.” Her father gestures upstairs. The confused child eyes his parents for a moment before tentatively leaving the table. He shares a look of concern with his apprehensive sister before exiting the room.

  “Something wrong?” Riya probes.

  “Riya,” her mother begins. “You’re spending a lot of time with this girl. We are just concerned.”

  “What? Why?”

  Her mother reaches into the seat beside her and lifts Riya’s laptop into view. Riya freezes as her mother places it on the table.

  Her father inhales sharply. “We have been very tolerant of your ... adherence to western culture, but this is too much. Think of your future, Riya.”

  The college student closes her eyes in an effort to center herself. “You invaded my privacy.” The words growl from her throat more than she intends.

  “I have paid for this house, for this good life we have now, and everything here belongs to our family. There is no privacy, especially when we discover ...” He hesitates to finish.

  “What?” Riya snaps. “Bi? Polyamorous? Agnostic? Which word was it, dad?”

  “Riya!” her mother scolds. “How dare you speak that way to your father!”

  She slaps her hands on the table as she rises out of her seat. “You two invaded my privacy! So no, I’m not dating Cass—since that’s obviously what this is about—but even if I was, it wouldn’t be any of your business!”

  “Your future is our business! Your name is your family’s name, and you cannot do with it as you please! This ... being with a girl, it is an aberration!” The bellowing yell of the patriarch almost knocks the confidence out of the Riya.

  “Dad ...” She searches for the words but finds none.

  “What happened to the little girl who wanted to be a doctor? She would check her toys into the hospital and kiss their wounds away. You built your hospital out of pillows and said, This is where everyone gets better.” The words choke in her father’s throat. Riya averts her eyes, avoiding the pain.

  He takes a deep breath. “Like many young people, you have fallen to the pressures of your friends, but their expectations do not matter. These changes you are making—these fads—they will die out. Your family, that is forever.” He gestures at her outfit, and she finds herself looking down, all the differences between her and her family adding up in an instant. Her tattoos poke out of a loose translucent t-shirt that shows off a lacy bra underneath. Her jeans are torn. Facial piercings. Stretched earlobes. Though inside this house is India, she is miles away in her own soul.

  She rubs at the tears forming in her eyes. “... I didn’t do any of this to disappoint you. This is who I am. You raised a strong daughter. Isn’t that enough?”

  “That may be.” He shakes his head. “But she is not our daughter. She is a product of this country, not our values and traditions.”

  “Dad, please ...” The words dance around the lump growing in her throat. “Here, I got to choose who to be. I’m happy. I ... I want that to be enough. Please, let that be enough.”

  His face firms. “So you have no intention of coming back to us?”

  She staggers. “Coming back? What’s that supposed to mean? Dad, come on.”

  “Tell me what you plan to do with your future.”

  “I don’t know, I told you! I’m still trying to find a major.” He watches with an unflinching stare, expecting more. Riya balls her hands into fists and punches one into the table. “You want to know if I’m going to marry another woman? I don’t know, okay? But I’m not going to change for you, and I’m not going to pretend.”

  He nods. “Then you have made your decision.”

  Riya scoffs. “Dad, I love you, but this conversation is over.” She lunges for her laptop and cradles it into her arms before stomping back into the foyer for her bag. She throws on her jacket and storms outside in a huff, slamming the door behind her.

  The cool evening air catches in her swollen throat but doesn’t halt her march down the sidewalk. While total darkness has yet to fall, the sun has vanished over the horizon, leaving little light to comfort her.

  Riya takes a few deep breaths in search of calm, but the tears come regardless. Her fingers rummage into her bag for a tissue but bump into her tarot deck along the way. She pushes the cards aside and finds the paper cloth, pulls it out, and turns away from an approaching couple to wipe her eyes. They pass by her, ignorant to her pain. She continues walking.

  The blocks tumble beneath her feet, each one blending into the next through monotonous repetition. The same young trees. The same homes. The same families. Probably, she thinks.

  As night encroaches, the nagging sensation of her tarot deck scraping against her fingers returns. She squeezes the flesh between her fingertips, avoidant of the answer she may find in the cards.

  After another block, curiosity gets the best of her. A tentative hand reaches into her bag and feels for the meager divides between the cards. She pokes at them until one makes its way into her grasp.

  Her feet drag on the pavement. Even in the dim glow of the streetlights, she knows the image well: eight broken cups, all in a row.

  “Shit.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Riya tugs the large wooden door of her home open. Somehow it seems heavier, like the old life doesn’t want her back. She steps into the foyer and flips on the lights. Immediately, she notices it: a suitcase and her school backpack by the stair landing. A wave of anxious heat sweeps over her body.

  “No way.” The words slip out involuntarily.

  The loud clank of her father’s shoes echoes from the kitchen. Riya whips to the sound, eyes wide and watering as he steps into the foyer. “Dad, what is this?”

  “It is as it seems.” No trace of emotion lingers in his voice.

  She squints at the tide of agony rising within her. “Are you serious? How can you be so cold about this?! Just because I’m bi—”

  “We are not discussing this again! You have made your choice. Go.”

  “No!” She wipes tears away with her arm. “This is my home!”

  He marches towards her and opens the door. “This is not up for debate. You are not welcome in a house or a family whom you do not respect.”

  “Dad! That’s not it at all—” Before she can finish, he grabs her arm and pushes her outside. As she stumbles down the steps, she catches a glimpse of her solemn mother at the top of the stairs, clutching Aryan in her embrace. Her brother watches the scene with red, puffy eyes before her mother turns him away.

  Riya catches herself on the railing just as her backpack and suitcase are tossed onto the stoop. “Dad!” Her voice strains for volume, but the door has already closed. The metallic latch of the lock soon follows.

  “You can’t be serious! Dad!” Shock and grief paralyze her, but her stubborn spirit clings to disbelief. Heavy fists bang against the door in a furious panic. She cries and calls for her parents’ return.

  No response.

  The shut door looms over her. All that was bound up in her family, her plans and dreams, have been cut away like a limb.

  After several moments, her pleading dissolves into pitiful whimpers as she slides down the door in agony.

  ~ FOUR ~

  Sebastian

  A young man lies on a disheveled hotel bedspread with his hands interlocked behind his head. He stares at the decorative ceiling, tracing over the intricate leaves carved into the molding with his icy blue eyes. His wavy hair is short, clean cut and stylish, tousled with a mix of light and dark brown hues that complement his fair complexion. He has high cheekbones and soft lips—a face many would find difficult to ignore. His form is lean though not athletic, still coasting on a young adult’s metabolism with sinuous muscle threads interweaving into a wiry strength. Dressed in a pale blue, button-up shirt with rolled-up sleeves and slick, dark blue jeans, his good looks are enhanced by a welcomin
g aura of warmth and positivity—a believer in the goodness of people.

  The room is overtly upscale. Every hanging fan and light fixture is accented by a ceiling medallion. The room is littered with ornate furniture and plush carpeting. Table lamps and door handles curve in vivid designs, gold of course. Soothing, eggshell whites fill the interior, contrasted by the deep browns of walnut furniture. Such a lavish setting suits a man named Sebastian.

  With a frustrated huff, he peels himself off the comforter and walks into the expansive living room. Sitting on one of the sofas is an older man similar enough in appearance that one could discern they are brothers. The other man appears lost in thought, eyes glued to the TV in an indifferent haze.

  “Are you going to watch that box all day? Shouldn’t we go out and do something? There’s a dozen museums to see, let alone parks and restaurants,” Sebastian nags. He looms over his brother, arms crossed with impatient annoyance.

  “We don’t get enough American shows back home,” the other man replies, his tone dry and unexpressive. He bears the same piercing blue eyes as Sebastian, although he’s accrued a bit of scruff on his face compared to his clean-shaven counterpart. His straight, dirty blond hair is buzzed on the sides and left longer on top, swooped back in a timeless style. Unlike Sebastian, he sports a bulky, muscular build with a few extra inches of height over his five-foot-nine brother. Decorating the length of his right arm is a Trash Polka tattoo. The staple red and black colors splatter his skin in twisting, surreal geometry.

  Despite his attractive physique, his aloof demeanor is a mix of jaded and pretentious—a stark contrast to the wholesome energy of his younger brother. His clothes are downplayed as well: a simple, white, V-neck t-shirt and tattered, dark blue jeans.

  “Allister.” Sebastian rounds the couch and plops down in front of his brother, blocking his view of the television. “What was the bloody point of flying all the way here if this is all we’re going to do? C’mon, you said you would show me around the city.”

  “Twenty-two years, and you’re still just as aggravating.”

  Sebastian frowns. “Fine, I’ll be off then.”

  He leaps up, grabs his jacket and wallet, and heads for the door. He stops for a moment before leaving, glancing back to see Allister still fixated on the television screen. He groans and exits.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  The young Brit steps out of the large sliding doors of a towering hotel on Manhattan Island. The immense cityscape of New York is not so daunting to one who grew up in London. A clear sunny day lies before him, but it’s difficult to appreciate it when the streets are shrouded in shadow. Only narrow beams of sunlight are able to poke through the array of skyscrapers. Taxis and cars speed by honking their various frustrations. Passersby, decorated in a wide array of fashion and cultures, pack the sidewalks.

  “Hey! Sebo! Hold up, I’m coming.”

  Sebastian turns to see Allister trotting towards him with an unlit cigarette already hanging from his mouth.

  “Well look who decided to join.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Allister lights his cigarette and takes a long draw.

  Sebastian whips out his phone in search of local hotspots while Allister eyes the crowd. A tendril of smoke wafts by Sebastian, and he waves it away.

  “Thought you were giving that up. Too busy pushing your body to find the limit and all that.”

  Allister narrows his eyes at the mockery but tosses the remaining butt to appease his brother. “Let’s just say I got a lot on my mind.”

  Sebastian lifts a quizzical eyebrow but decides not to pry. The two begin their trek down the street.

  A few blocks pass with Allister lagging behind in a leisurely stroll. A frustrated Sebastian pleads for him to pick up the pace. The older brother brushes him off, taking his time to ponder the immense city and its unique people. He catches a few glances from gorgeous young women decorated in luxury-brand clothing and isn’t shy about returning their flirtatious gazes. Oblivious to such exchanges, Sebastian continues to pester his brother.

  “Hurry it up! The Met’s just up the road.”

  Allister releases an exasperated sigh and quickens to keep pace with his younger brother. As they reach the base of the massive staircase leading up to the museum, Sebastian confronts his older counterpart.

  “What’s up with you? You’re the one who wanted to go on holiday. At this rate, I’ll be dragging your arse all over town.”

  Allister rubs the back of his neck and avoids eye contact. “Sorry, mate. Just not that interested.”

  Sebastian narrows his wary eyes. “I swear, if you’re only here for some exotic fling—”

  “That’s not it! Christ.” Allister throws his head back in a frustrated groan. “Fine. Museum. Let’s go.”

  He strides up the array of steps past his brother. “That’s more like it,” Sebastian chides, following Allister through the grand entrance of the Metropolitan Museum.

  The two spend a couple hours perusing the various sections of the museum. Sebastian is clearly the more enthusiastic of the pair with Allister slinking in tow. The younger Brit lights up at the Impressionist paintings, particularly Van Gogh, and attempts to engage his older brother in the masterful creations.

  “The color work is beautiful. These paintings always struck me as being more akin to films. The way they’re painted—I don’t know—it’s like they’re in motion.”

  Allister forces a weak smile. “They are breathtaking, I’ll give you that.” The brothers stand in silence for a moment, lost in the fluid storytelling of color and shape.

  Peering towards the blond, Sebastian can’t deny his brother’s deflated energy. Allister carries a weathered aura despite having been eager to leave London. Troubled, the younger Brit looks on with concern. He can trace all the troubles his brother hides and knows he got strong just to carry them.

  Shaking away from his thoughts, Sebastian turns his attention back to the artwork. He paces along the pieces and allows his mind to wander the undulating Impressionist landscapes. As he does, a strange, nagging feeling starts to build in the back of his mind. A sensation he’s never experienced—a calling—washes over him, and he whips his head towards the corner of the exhibition room, expecting someone to be there.

  “What’s up?” Allister inquires.

  Sebastian stares. Only a trash bin occupies the corner, but he senses something in the distance far beyond the museum, too far away to name—a force, familiar somehow, crawling out from the under eaves of some dark corner of space. He swallows hard, trembling as he attempts to translate the sensation. A firm poke in the shoulder snaps him back to reality.

  “Oh, uh ... thought I heard something,” Sebastian mutters.

  “Right. Well, shall we get going?”

  The feeling has vanished. Sebastian turns his attention back to Allister. “Aw come on. I’m sure there’s more nudes we haven’t seen.”

  “Much as I’d love to see more naked women, I’m starving. Let’s go.” Allister is already making for the exit by the time he finishes his sentence. Sebastian hurries to catch up.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  The young men lean against the stone wall of a huge building, each enjoying a halal chicken plate from one of the many food cart vendors. As Sebastian finishes, he resides to investigate his brother’s unusual behavior. He tosses his trash away and takes a deep breath, an awkward silence building between the two as he searches for the right words.

  “Are you glad to be here?” he blurts out.

  “Yeah, of course.” Allister deflects the obvious interrogation with his usual irreverence, but Sebastian isn’t giving up.

  “Could’ve fooled me. You were so adamant on leaving—practically begged me, mind you—then we get here, and all you can do is mope about.” He pulls his shoulders back and calls on his courage to ask the next question. “Is this about dad leaving me the company?”

  Allister’s nonchalant façade melts away in an instant. He glares at Sebastian who recoils sh
eepishly.

  “Sorry, I—”

  “Shut it. I don’t give a rat’s arse about the business. You want to know what this is about? It’s about me staying in America and you going back alone.” He tosses his plate in the garbage and storms off down the street.

  “Wait, what? What?!” Bewildered, Sebastian races after him.

  Allister strides ahead at a brisk pace. The younger Brit struggles to maintain eyeline after a large group of tourists swarms the sidewalk. He shoves past them, apologizing as he pushes them aside.

  “Allister! Come on, mate!” He stumbles as he calls but continues chasing after his taller counterpart. The blond isn’t slowing despite his brother’s protests.

  Finally, a busy intersection forces Allister to stop and consider his course, allowing a panting Sebastian to catch up.

  “Ok, I fear I may have tread into some deeper waters here ...” The brown-haired Brit takes a heavy breath.

  “You’re the one who brought it up.” Allister maintains a firm gaze straight ahead. When the crosswalk signal turns white, he continues his trek forward. Sebastian groans and jogs after him.

  “Running away isn’t going to help anything. If it’s bothering you, talk to me!”

  The elder Brit continues to ignore him. Fed up, Sebastian grabs Allister’s arm and yanks him back.

  “Allister, please.”

  Reluctant, the blond exhales and props an arm against the stone wall of the building next to them. For a moment, the silence suffocates them, the tight cord of buried issues wrapping around their throats. Both avoid eye contact, and neither wishes to be the first to speak.

  Sebastian runs his fingers through his hair and decides to take the plunge with little tact in mind. “I know dad never really took to you.” He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth.

  “Don’t inflate my ego too much. We both know you’re the favorite.” Allister still refuses to meet his brother’s gaze. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it up.