The Destiny of Violet and Luke(2)

I stand in the front yard for a while, figuring out where to go. I could climb through my sister’s bedroom window and hide out there until she gets home, then maybe she can help me. But she’s been acting strange lately and gets annoyed whenever I talk to her. She’s lucky because mom never seems to notice her as much as she notices me. I don’t know why. I do my best to blend in. I don’t make messes, keeping the house clean and organized like she likes it. I keep quiet. I stay in my room a lot and organize my toys in categories, just the way she likes them, yet she’s always calling for me. But Amy seems invisible to her.

She’s so lucky. I wish I were invisible.

I decide to go for a walk down to the gas station at the corner where I can get a candy bar or something because my stomach hurts from hunger. But as my feet touch the sidewalk, I hear the front door swing open.

“Luke, get in here right now,” she says in a frenzy, snapping her fingers and pointing to the ground below her feet. “I need you.”

I freeze, wishing I were brave enough to take off running down the sidewalk. Just leave. Never come back. Sleep in a box because a box seems so much nicer than my sterilized house. But I’m not brave and I turn around and face her just like she wants me to. She’s holding the door open, her hair pulled up messily on top of her head and she’s wearing this purple tank top and plaid shorts that she always wears. It’s pretty much like a uniform for her, expect she doesn’t have a job. Not a good one anyway where she has to wear a uniform. Instead, she sells her medicine to creepy men who are always staring at her or Amy when she walks out of her bedroom.

She crooks her finger at me. “Get in here.”

An unsteady breath leaves my mouth as I trudge to the front door, a nauseating feeling of puke rising in my stomach. It happens every time she needs me. I get sick to my stomach at the thoughts of what she’s going to make me do creep inside my head.

When I reach the stairs, she moves back, not looking happy, but not looking sad either. She holds the door open for me, watching me with her brown eyes that remind me of the bag of marbles she made me throw away because they didn’t look right. Once I’m inside, she closes the door and shoves the deadbolt over that’s at the top. She fastens the small chain and then clicks the lock on the doorknob before turning around.

The curtains are shut and there’s a lit cigarette on a teal glass ashtray that’s on the coffee table, filling the room with smoke. There’s a sofa just behind the table and it’s covered in plastic to keep “the dirty air from ruining the fabric,” my mother told me once. She always thinks the dirt in the air is going to do something to either the house or her, which is why she rarely goes outside anymore.

“Why’d you run off?” she asks me as she walks over the sofas and flops down in it. She picks up her cigarette and ashes it, before putting it into her mouth. She takes a deep inhale and seconds later a cloud of smoke circles around her face that’s covered in sores. “Were you playing a game or something?”

I nod, because telling her I was playing a game is much better than telling her I was hiding from her. “Yes.”

She takes another breath off her cigarette and then stares at the row of cat figurines on one of the shelves lining the living room walls. Each row on the shelf is organized with figurines, according to breed. She did it once when she was having one of her episodes from too much medication, the one that makes her stay awake for a long, long time, not the stuff that makes her pass out. The glass clinking together and her incoherent murmuring had woken me up when she was rearranging the figurines and when I’d walked out she was moving like crazy, frantically trying to get the animals into order or “something bad was going to happen.” She knew it was—she could feel it in her bones. I think something bad already did happen, though. A lot of bad things actually.

“Luke, pay attention,” my mom says. I tear my gaze away from the figurines, wishing I was one of them, so I could be up on the shelf, watching what’s about to happen instead of taking part in it. She switches her cigarette to her other hand and then leans to the side, grabbing her small wooden “medication box.” She sets in on her lap, puts the cigarette into her mouth one last time, and then sets it down so she can turn on the lamp. “Now quit messing around and come here, would ya?”

My body gets really tight and I glance over my shoulder at the front door, crossing my fingers that Amy will come home and interrupt us long enough that I can find another place to hide. But she doesn’t and I’m stuck out here. With her.