I storm into the house, out of breath, my eyes searching for signs that Mum has come home. Her shoes are not here, nor her sweater, nor she herself. Thank goodness! I sigh. If she were here, she'd ask me where I'd been and I'd have to confess. And I'd have to listen all evening to a lecture about my miserable life of isolation that awaits me. No, under no circumstances can she find out about the library. It's convenient that Dad just lies there thinking about his problems; he doesn't give a shit what I do. I secretly wish he'd scold me again if that's all it would take to get him back to his old self.

I open the fridge and grab out a food container of cabbage casserole to heat up. I deliberately don't get it out on a plate, so I have less dishes to wash. The dishwasher broke weeks ago, and my Mum and Dad seem to be purposefully not calling a repairman just to screw with me.

As the food swirles in the microwave, its delicious smell leaks out. After a few bites, I pull a foreign piece of hair out of my mouth. As I chew, the gristle of minced meat cracks under my teeth, while elsewhere it's soft from all the fat. I no longer crave it. Mandy tells me that I must have been fattened up like this by our cook at home... good joke, we don't even have a maid. Which sucks in a three-story house. But that's just the way it is with "bourgeois"; cheapskates. And the kid needs to learn how tough real life is…

I go into the pantry for a bag of chips and a bar of chocolate. I need a snack for studying, and because I'm hungry and can't cook. I stuff the loot into my bag, sling it over my shoulder and retreat to my room.

However, when I reach the turn of the stairs, a strange urge pushes me to keep going to the second floor. I stop in front of my parents' bedroom. The door is ajar, the blinds are down, Dad is sprawled on the bed, and though I can only see his feet from the hallway, icy fingers of fear caress the back of my neck. I touch my face where he hit me yesterday. Only the memory hurts now.

How did it come to this? It seems like yesterday that Dad, Mum, David and I were spending all day hiking in the mountains or going to the cinema, studying the constellations, playing badminton, board games... we were having fun. Our laughter rings in my ears. Especially Dad's deep, happy voice. I hated these programs. Because they were compulsory, and I wanted to be in my room with David, playing videogames. Yet, now I would smash my computer with my own hands if it meant I could have just one of those moments back. Even if he doesn't understand me. He never did.

But what about me? Do I understand him?

What do I know about losing parents, about the feeling of having no one to turn to. When all the responsibility is yours and there's a whole layer of society watching what you do with it. When you inherit so much money out of nothing that you don't need to work anymore, yet you don't know what to do with all that time you have. With the pressures of loneliness and expectations...

“Dad...” I say, barely audible. “I just... I just want you to know that I'm not mad at you for yesterday. And for the ones before. I know, I’m just a kid who can't understand your problems... But I’d be happy to listen.”

Silence.

“Of course, I understand if you don't want to talk. You don't have to, it was a stupid idea.” I say. “I just wanted to... Do you remember when I was going to the lookout and I was hysterical about being tired and you put me on your shoulders? Or when we were picking mushrooms? I miss the woods, the nature, the fresh air, the walks... I was thinking we could go out this weekend, if you feel like it. I think it would be good for you, too. What do you think?”

The bed's creaking. My knees buckle up, ready to flee, but I swallow hard, pulling myself together. I have to hold on. I can't run away. Not now.

The light filtering in through the crack in the door draws a narrow, yellow stripe across his pajama-clad form. I force my guilt-stricken eyes to look into his stubbled face. His gaze is veiled. Perhaps from tears. I wait for him to say something.

He closes the door. Then he locks it.

Every part of me is rebelling against this rejection. So much so that I reach for the handle and then...

Those pale, lifeless eyes...

My tongue sticks like a dry sponge to the roof of my mouth. There's not a door between us. But an endless, unbridgeable chasm.

But why?!

Because you are not enough.

With bitten lips, I fight back tears, rush down the stairs and into David's old room. The cold abandonment hits me hard in the chest. I drop my bag, stirring up the half-year-old dust on the carpet. Everything is as it was when he left. Blue wallpaper, TV, models of fantasy characters on the shelves, signed posters of streamers on the wall, monitor and keyboard on the desk. He even left his computer behind. Wardrobe door open, clothes scattered about. It's obvious he left the sinking ship in a hurry. It's been like this for ages, but I can't bring myself to tidy it up and clean it. It's as if I'm desecrating my brother's memory.

My grief suddenly turns to anger, I kick a pile of old T-shirts.

Fuck you! Why the fuck did you leave me here?! Mr. Perfect, who always knew the answer to everything, could talk to Mum and Dad, make peace between them... He's nowhere to be found!

I lay down on the grey plaid bedding, put my tear-stained glasses on the bedside table, and bury my overheated face in the cold pillow. I inhale the stale, powdery scent of David's shampoo. It's weakened a lot in recent months. It terrifies me that it will soon disappear completely, just as he has from my life.

But why do I let him disappear?

I put my glasses back on and take out my mobile phone to text him.

“Hi! I miss you. You're often on my mind, especially since I'm not as skilled and wise as you to handle the tension here... Anyway, it's bad to start with complaining. How are you? Did you see Metamorph's stream yesterday? It is said to have been quite shocking. I've only heard parts of it, but it's hard to imagine he's bisexual and polygamous. Somehow I always pictured him as straight xD Maybe we could watch it together sometime. If you want, we could meet, if Sophie…”

I delete the whole text. Sophie wouldn't like that. She'd get jealous, maybe even quarrel, and I'd rather disappear than cause trouble in David’s marriage. So I take off the glasses again, crawl under the covers and imagine him holding me in a comforting embrace. Tightly, just like when we locked ourselves in during one of the fights and Dad smashed the glass door on us, and David shielded me with his body from the shards of glass that were raining down on us. For a moment, I feel so safe. My limbs, which had been ready to jump for weeks, go limp, sink into the soft mattress...