The sun peeked over the neighbor’s roof. I watched it with my eyes, which had opened too early. In contrast, Rain’s eyes—aside from blinks—hadn’t shut yet. Her eyes were bloodshot red, and the murk beneath them leaned green.
“Rain, you’re still up?” I asked concerned, but I didn’t let it show.
“I had a deadline,” she replied in a haggard voice.
Rain sounded like she’s been through war and looked the part too. Her hair, attached into a ponytail, wilted down, the tie barely holding it up.
The other day in the car, she mentioned that she was a novel editor. She must’ve spent the entire night analyzing. It’s a wonder she can still speak. My work requires frequent all-nighters too, and by the end, my brain’s usually too fried for basic cognition.
Still, despite how tired she looked, I recognized the glimmer of pride reflected on her face. The more someone enjoyed their work, the more they pushed through human limitations. It wasn’t just for success. There’s always pride and inner gratification waiting at the end. That same stubbornness kept me going until I found my success.
Rain was putting away her tools in a khaki green backpack, her hands gripping tight. It’s like she was afraid they’d fall off if she used any less strength. As soon as she hung the bag, she collapsed on the sofa once more.
“Tired?” I asked.
She looked at me with near dead eyes, “And hungry,” she said. “My body thinks it’s breakfast time.”
I laughed a hearty laugh, this problem being familiar to me.
She grabbed her head, not quite pulling the hair. “But I’ve been snacking all night. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Could I make you something?” I cautiously asked.
Her hands dropped to her sides as alarm rose on her face.
“Oh, you don’t have to. I can put a waffle in the toaster and pour syrup. It’s the easiest thing,” she said.
We went our separate ways when we’d grocery shopped, but at the cash register, I noticed that most of what she chose were frozen meals and snacks. That too, I couldn’t show concern for. All to respect boundaries.
She stood up sluggishly, the straps of her backpack slipping down. Her bag landed on the sofa, and she looked out the screen door, eyes hazy.
“I can do this…” she mumbled.
The wheels spun in my head, and I knew what to do. I couldn’t let her go to bed with a sugar overload and a waffle she couldn’t digest in the minute it’d take to reach her room.
“What I have in mind for you is ready to eat. Last night, when I came downstairs, I made overnight oats in a few jars.”
“But they’re yours,” she managed to retort beyond the haze.
“It’s not caviar, Rain, I can make quite a few of them with mere dollars. So, would you like Peach, Mango, or Cocoa? I recommend Cocoa since Peach and Mango could keep you awake.”
She dragged out her hair tie and set her hair loose down her shoulder.
“I give up. I’ll take you up on cocoa…thank you.”
I smiled, satisfied. “Take a seat now. I’ll bring it to you.”
On my way to the fridge, I prayed to a god I didn’t believe in for the oats to have soaked well. They’re called overnight oats, but I’ve made them late at night. They were short of a few hours.
I took the Peach jar first to taste. I worried needlessly. The mixture was as creamy as it should be and a little chewy too.
“Have you ever had overnight oats?” I asked as I walked back to the living room, opening her jar. That one was supposed to taste rich and semi-sweet.
“Is it very different from regular oatmeal?”
“It’s similar to pudding, but at the same time, very different,” I gave her a sheepish smile.
I watched carefully as she scooped a bite. I worried it was too much of an acquired taste.
“If you don’t like it, don’t force yourself. I can whip up something else in minutes,” I said.
She went in for a second bite. “No, no, that…hits the spot, thank you.” Her stomach rumbled mid bite. She shoved a bigger bite.
She looked so content that it made my heart swell. When I first heard of my dad’s engagement, I could only be ecstatic for him. For years after the divorce, he opted out of the market, in fear that the past would repeat itself.
His biggest fear somehow flew out the window when he met Rain’s mother online. And when he realized she was the one, he wasted no time in changing both his and her life. She might be his first true love. He and Mom married young and hadn’t dated for long. They clashed on way too many things, but held on for my sake. The only thing they agreed on was to wait until I was old enough to comprehend divorce and the changes it’d bring.
When I think back on those days, I wonder if that was the right choice. They argued most days and barely tolerated one another. Even when they held back in my company, I could feel an underlying tension. But I recognize that their intention was good, and perhaps that’s all that counts.
Two years after the divorce, Mom remarried, and her husband already had children. She took them as her own since they were without a mother. But she was blind to their treatment of me.
I was fine with the divorce, since I saw it coming. I was even excited to be part of a bigger family. As an only child, having step-siblings was a dream come true. Sometimes, dreams are too good to be true. Too ideal and what I pictured remained a picture. They accepted my mom, but pretended I didn’t exist. It wasn’t bullying per se, just that they had no space for another sibling.
I came to this house without expectations. Not because of prior experience, but because step-siblings count a little less if it happens in adulthood. It doesn’t help that her living arrangements were also impacted by their union. For someone so solitary, I’m sure she’d have preferred to live alone.
Me, I’m glad to be here. Maybe I can protect her peace. Maybe I can be the cushion that lessens the impact.
“I have something to ask you,” Rain said, and brought me back to the present moment.
“Anything.”
She shuffled in her seat. “You didn’t hear anything weird last night? Like a loud noise?”
“A loud noise? Did you drop something? If so, I haven’t heard a thing.”
Her mirth hid behind pursed lips while her poor, tired eyes could not follow behind.
“Well,” she inched her head closer and whispered the words: “Egon fell down the stairs and blamed it on his clumsiness.”
“Is he alright?” My first instinct was to worry. “How did I not hear that?” then I wondered how deep I must’ve been sleeping. I’m usually a light sleeper.
“You must’ve been dead tired,” she said, answering my inner thought. “He’s alright, though. He’s experienced in falling down the stairs, apparently.”
“If he’s not hurt, then I suppose we can find it a little funny,” I said in turn, laughing a little.
When I met Egon at the door the other night, I saw a guy who came off as cold, probably because of his introverted personality. A lot of guys appear aloof only because they are reserved. So this incident doesn’t make him lose the cold and mysterious image. It wasn’t there in the first place. I’m even a tad worried.
He said he’s used to it, but experience falls is no vaccine and his body isn’t made of steel.
I didn’t get a wink of sleep. Not one. In darkness, I could still envision the abomination that is a basement room. And every little sound kept me awake and alert. One wasn’t so little. It sounded as though the house was collapsing. Given that it didn’t, and no ruckus followed, I didn’t care to investigate it.
Still, I spent the night recalling a similar past. Another rite of passage. Boarding school. At least there I could tell day or night apart. This minuscule window I have here brings little to no light. It works like a filter that does its job assiduously.
Whilst I have further freedom and lesser obligations than boarding school, I’m in no position to delight in that opportunity. My bank account has been thoroughly limited for this “opportunity”—as my parents called it.
As if it weren’t enough to throw me into a middle class household, I have to fit in like a glove. Pretend I’m one of them, solely to understand them. For business. It’s all for business. The sooner I get my results, the sooner my parents will order me back to where I belong.
Exasperated, I sighed. I sighed so often in this house that I fear for my lungs.
My attention rose back to the ceiling because of footsteps. Darn footsteps. Even in the early morning, I could hear someone walking. This house never sleeps.
I abandoned my need for adequate sleep and emerged from my cave. If not a cave, how else would I describe that obscure place?
The culprit of those footsteps was grinning from ear to ear, his hands in a metal bowl. He eyed the dough he was kneading with pure joy. And I felt some sort of envy looking at the dough. A raw dough of all things. Second day in and I’ve already stooped this low.
My stomach agreed with me as it grumbled thunderously. The last time it did was yesterday, though beyond it, I don’t recall a time my stomach wailed this way.
To my unintentional cry for help, the man with a nest on his head twisted in my direction.
“Good morning, Vaughn,” he said, his face still as lit, while his voice was in contrast lukewarm.
I had imagined an obnoxiously chirp of a tone to go with that expression.
“Good morning, Hael,” I responded, because I am a cordial being despite my mood.
“I’m unable to make a single portion of food. It’s more difficult to do, actually. Would you maybe want to eat with me?” he asked.
I can see through the facade. It’s clearer than glass. I’m not one to accept sympathies even if they’re wrapped in kindness. Pride is a quality that I am—without satire—proud of. It’s unfortunate it’s come to this, really.
“It can’t be helped,” I replied, taking a seat at the dining table.
He returned to his dough, his smile naturally fading into a more ordinary expression. That man can even act nonchalant for the sake of my pride...
Compared to him, that Egon was completely gauche. It feels like comparing the bothersome and the less bothersome. In any case, they’re all a bother. I’ve never asked to be here or to meet any of them.