Chapter Text
somewhere, in the writhing sea of bodies dressed in black fabric and pity swarming the hall, somebody has stumbled back into the stereo and bumped the volume dial just enough to drown out the droves of voices talking over each other. it’s currently playing some disjointed playlist of vaguely upsetting piano music, and iver is almost tempted to walk over and plug in his own ipod, so they can listen to the sort of music his father actually liked instead of whatever kind of cheesy funeral-esque medley is echoing through the church hall. he’d mentioned the idea earlier, while this whole thing was being set up, and his mother had hardly looked past the pile of folding chairs in her arms to shut him down, telling him that it wouldn’t be appropriate, and this wasn’t all about him. if he were to bite back, as he very much wanted to in the moment, he would have said that radiohead’s ‘how to disappear completely’ would be the perfect soundtrack for a suicide memorial, but he’d settled for saying it in his head instead.
he’s half-hiding by the door, fidgeting with the carved wooden rosary tucked beneath his sleeve as he watches his mother with tired eyes, systematically floating between groups of people and spilling out the exact same spiel each time. oh, it’s just awful. we couldn’t have known, he was always so secretive about these things. really, i don’t know what to do with myself anymore. he knows that all of it is complete bullshit, but he can’t exactly go around telling people that. right now, cecilie åström has every single one of these people caught in her convoluted web of grief and sorrow, so much so that they don’t seem to notice how her tears don’t reach her voice, almost completely bereft of any emotion whatsoever. every sentence she speaks, every little mannerism and movement she makes, they’re all hand crafted to spin the story in a way that makes her look like the perfect widow. it’s meticulous. it’s disgusting. he can easily imagine her sitting in front of her vanity mirror and rehearsing each word.
when the police had come to their house that morning, heads hanging low and voices practised and clear, some part of him already knew what had happened. it was the way a stranger sat on the foot of his bed, dark eyes containing nothing at all meeting his own. the way they danced around the subject at first, going down rabbit holes about investigations and protocol, until he told them to get on with it, because something inside him already knew, and he just wanted to be left alone. the words hanging in the air like rotten fruit still attached to its branches. asking for how, and being told of deep slits in wrists and the temperature of saltwater matter-of-factly, as if talking about the weather, the traffic. waiting for the stranger to leave the room, and immediately being sick on himself, his outer space themed bed linen, bile seeping into cracked and chewed lips and burning like fire. images his mind couldn’t help but conjure cementing themselves into the front of his brain. the bedding is still sitting bundled up in his laundry hamper at home, turning the air of his bedroom horribly acrid and stale, but it’s been easier to leave the window open and sleep on bare mattress than to take care of it.
he blinks, and someone is standing in front of him, rocking back and forth on their heels. he recognises her as elin, a cousin from his mother’s side, only a year or so older than himself. it takes him a moment to register that she’s speaking to him.
“wasn’t that anna’s jumper at some point?” she points at the muted purple sweater he’s wearing, a line of knitted birds in a deeper shade of indigo wool patterning the chest. a fair amount of his wardrobe consists of hand-me-downs from his various cousins, most of which happen to be girls, and while he doesn’t mind their origin, he knows some people like to poke fun at it. he gives her a distracted hum in response, as he’s not exactly in the mood to talk about clothes right now, but she clearly isn’t getting the hint to leave him alone, as she speaks again while fiddling with her hair.
“i didn’t even know uncle åke was a schizophrenic. not that you could tell, really. usually it’s pretty obvious when someone’s a bit mental, but he was nice.”
the way she speaks so casually about it makes him want to scream at her, to tell her that clearly she has no idea what she’s talking about, and he must not have liked her very much if he’d never told her, but a nearby voice cuts him off.
“elin! leave him alone, seriously. his dad just died. he doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
it’s anna, who must have been sitting somewhere close enough to overhear them, and is now storming over with a fed up expression on her face. she’s older than elin, seventeen or so, and iver has always gotten along with her better than he has with her other siblings. she gives her sister a displeased look, promptly ignoring the forced “sorry!” she gives as she wanders off.
“jeez, i’m sorry. she means well, but…you know.” there’s a strained look on her face, as if she wants to say something else, probably something much ruder, but seemingly decides not to.
“i’m sure she does.” he mumbles, hardly trying to mask the fed up tone in his voice, and anna frowns at him. not in a way that insinuates she took offence, more so a frown of pity. she tucks a piece of hair that’s fallen into his face behind his ear with a gentle hand, and opens her mouth slightly, as if testing his reaction to her speaking again. he doesn’t pull away, so the words fall out of her mouth, quiet and uncoordinated.
“i… i know people are saying a lot of things, but they don’t know what they’re talking about, really. i mean…i can’t say i knew him as well as you did, but…one thing i do know is that he loved you so much. he was always talking about you, even if you weren’t there. you were the absolute light of his life. i don’t know if anyone else has told you that, but…there you go. now you know.”
somehow, it feels different than the countless other remarks and testimonies he’s been hearing for days. he’s thankful that at least someone has acknowledged the fact that nobody else knew his father quite as wholly as he did, because how could they? he was always keeping the most authentic pieces of himself secret, wether it be for fear of rejection, or societal stigma that would surely have caused the few he had left to stray even further. if they could only have been more open minded, less afraid of what they didn’t already know, he might have felt as if he was able to share those parts of his life, instead of shoving them deep down to remain the right amount of bearable. he surprises himself when he speaks, voice small and nervous.
“what…would he say? about me?”
“oh, all sorts of things, really.” a slight smile tugs at the corners of her lips, as if she’s recalling a pleasant, far off memory. “he talked a lot about how you were doing in school, how good your grades were getting, and the sports you were playing at the time. if you’d read a big chapter book, he’d tell us about it, and let us know just how proud he was that you were such a fast reader. that’s probably why my mum and dad buy you so many books for your birthday and christmas. oh, yes, he told us about your drawings, and sometimes he showed us photos of them on his phone. even if you’d just gotten a haircut, we knew about it. every single conversation held little parts of you, because you were his entire life. i’ve never met anyone else who was so proud of their child the way that your dad was of you.”
iver chooses to believe her. realistically, there’s every chance that she’s simply making up stories to try to get him to feel better, but the version of his father that lives inside of her words sounds just like the man he remembers, and it’s the closest he’s felt to knowing that his father is alive in days. it’s something. it’s almost enough. he doesn’t notice the tears welling in his eyes until the first of them fall, leaving their wet trails along pale skin.
“i’ll leave you be for now, but…i’m around. come find me later, if you’d like.” she whispers, a horribly broken look on her face.
she turns to leave, and he wants to reach out and grasp the back of her dress, to beg her to stay and tell more stories, to continue puppeteering the ghost of his father until he starts to feel whole again. instead, he nods, wiping at his face with his sleeve, and watches her drift off into the crowd of people surrounding them.
once again, his gaze falls back to the sight of his mother, who has now made her way over to the folding table that holds the food and drinks, all set out neatly by iver himself after they’d arrived. she’s alone, seemingly, for the first time since people had begun filing in a few hours ago, with nobody’s eyes on her besides iver’s. he’s almost curious to see how she acts without the attention centred on her, nobody telling her just how devastated she must feel right now. he watches her steady a glass with a dainty, neatly painted hand, pouring herself a glass of sparkling wine, and downing its entirety in one smooth motion.
he’s already walking out through the main doors before she reaches the bottom of the glass. outside, the weather is pleasantly mild, with the sun coming to rest high in the sky, nestled between a few sparse clouds, and blanketing everything it touches in an unseasonably warm glow. the breeze has enough of a chill to require additional woollen layers, but today still feels warmer than the average october noon. the trees are already ridding themselves of their leaves, assorted hues of yellow-orange painting the church car park in housefire and spitting ember. in his mind, as he pictures the vague idea of a funeral, he thinks of rain soaked asphalt and the shaking of umbrellas as muddy feet are wiped off by the doorway. a day like today doesn’t seem even mildly fitting for the kind of tragedy he’s experiencing. the pale blue of the early afternoon sky feels like a taunt, a way of showing him that the world keeps spinning even without the important people, and won’t pause for something as insignificant as himself.
time, as a whole, stops for nothing. he knows that much. it’s a concept he’s been aware of for a very long time. it doesn’t stop him from wanting to gasp and choke and dig and claw at its flesh until he feels it gather underneath his nails, marred and soft. but time, unlike him, doesn’t have something as weak as flesh. it’s far too important to. if time was something able to be killed, he thinks that the first person to grieve would have already done so.
he supposes that it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet because until now, his father was still a part of his schedule. wether it be sitting in on burial plans, talking about who gets what of his belongings, the looming countdown of his memorial date, there has always been some kind of thing to do next. something that kept him relevant for a little while longer. something to delay the inevitable truth that his father is gone, and he isn’t going to come back no matter how hard he prays into the surface of his box spring. this is the end of it all, though. after everybody leaves this same car park in a few hours, he’ll help wrap the leftover sandwiches in plastic, he’ll linger by where his father’s photo once sat, and he’ll go home, and there will be nothing left of åke åström besides the empty space where he should be.
his fingernails are pressing little crescent moons into his palm. he really ought to trim them soon, but that’s yet another thing that seems too difficult to keep track of. the slight sting is distracting enough for him to ignore the similar, half-numb burn of his eyes desperately trying to provide tears they no longer have. he paces back and forth along the curb, focusing only on placing one foot in front of the other, turning once he reaches the designated marks in the concrete. he considers making a point of stamping on each crack in the path, in the slight hope that it might actually break his mothers back, but it feels too childish and tantrum-like for him to justify it.
he realises he’s no longer alone as he runs directly into a jacketed chest. startled, he stumbles backwards and braces for whatever reaction he’s about to receive, but the eyes that meet his are kind. they belong to elias.
“oh,” iver mumbles, “hi. sorry.”
“ah, it’s alright. why don’t we sit for a moment?” elias replies, already guiding him to sit down on the curb. he allows it, not finding any reason not to, and instinctively curls up against the warm body beside him, bringing his knees to his chest. they sit in silence for god knows how long, likely only a few minutes or so, before iver feels compelled to speak.
“this is probably the worst party i’ve ever been to.”
elias stifles a laugh into his hair. “well, are you really supposed to enjoy these things?”
“no, i guess not.”
one of the laces on his church shoes has come undone at some point, and elias wordlessly reaches over to tie it for him, reciting some sort of rhyme about rabbits in english under his breath. iver gives him a wordless thank you, a small nod in his direction, and elias’ quiet hum is enough of a response for him. they sit in comfortable silence a while longer, iver occasionally half-listening in on the blurry conversations happening inside, and again, he’s the first to break it with a sudden confession of sorts.
“she took his medication, you know. it wasn’t his idea. he wouldn’t do that.”
elias brings an arm around him, almost as if trying to shield him from the circumstances that lead them here. “yeah, i know.”
iver lowers his voice. “…do you think that counts as murder? i mean, he did it to himself, but only because of her.”
elias blinks. “…i don’t think you should be thinking about that.”
“i already am.” iver retorts. “you can’t tell me it’s not her fault.”
“i’m not trying to.”
they watch as a worn down volvo speeds down the road, kicking up leaf litter and what was once a biscuit packet, now torn and coming to a skidding stop by a nearby drainage hole.
“manslaughter.” elias mumbles eventually. “murder is the act of killing somebody with intention. if they don’t directly cause the death, but have some kind of involvement, then it’s manslaughter.”
both of them know that there’s nothing they can do about it. there’s no proof besides their own word, and cecilie åström is far too good at twisting things in her favour for them to even want to try. it stays as a silent acknowledgment between the two of them. a confirmation of he would never that sits in the air, unflinching. the current reality to grapple with, no matter who was at fault, is that their åke never left the frigid waters of the beach tide. they dragged his stiffening body from the shore, saltwater lapping at his cheeks like gentle kisses, pyjama sleeves soaked in self inflicted carmine, but the father, the lover, became seafoam before the sun had risen. packed school lunches with sticky notes and sandwiches cut into stars were now the past, a still unmarked plot of freshly upturned soil, and iver wants to slap his prior self silly for not saving them all. not that there was any way for him to know, but he should have. he should have tried to stop him. he should have stopped pretending to be asleep when his father stood in his doorway that night, silently watching him breathe for what felt like hours, before wordlessly closing the door. he should have known something was wrong when he heard the latch on the front door open, the car hum to a start in the driveway, the gravel crunching underneath the moving tyres.
it’s no surprise as he registers the unrestrained sobs wracking his body, his chest colliding with another as he dry heaves into a shaking clothed shoulder, a hand coming to rest on the back of his head. he knows that elias has always considered himself relatively unskilled with emotions and children that express them, so the words that next come out of him are a surprise.
“i know that nothing can change the fact that he’s not here with us, but he isn’t gone, you know. i won’t bullshit you with something about him living on in our hearts, but looking at you, i see him. i see him in your curly hair, your nose, the way you chew on your nails. you have one of his eyes, his stupid laugh, your shared penchant for sweaters and cardigans. not that you aren’t your own person, but you’re a collage of people you know. you keep those pieces of him safe with you, alright? it’s all you can do now.”
his words are wet, sniffly, forced out of some previously undiscovered part of him. it feels wrong to hear elias cry, but he understands. of course he does. elias had already known his father for years before he was born, having been very close friends throughout their high school years. he was one of the few people his father had ever confided in about his transition, his mental illness, the various intricacies that seemed strange to most, but to those who knew him were just åke. they were each others dearest friends, perhaps even more, if the few times he noticed them sneaking kisses and lingering touches were anything to go by, although he definitely wasn’t supposed to see that, so he’d kept it to himself ever since.
there’s a shared acknowledgment that they should probably head back inside at some point, but neither of them make an effort to move. iver isn’t entirely sure if he could, at the moment, and he assumes that elias feels much the same. they stay there, huddled together on the curb like prey animals, waiting for the right moment which may never come.
~
despite the sheer amount of dread leading up to it, the memorial service came to an eventual end, droves of people exiting the church hall single-file until all that was left was cleaning up and going home.
a few people had stayed behind to help ease the burden, thankfully taking some of the assorted leftover food with them, but there was still too much left to fit in the fridge at home. iver has hardly felt like eating anything for the last several days, even less so anything that had been sitting on a table for several hours, but he had always been raised to believe that wasting food was to be avoided, so he picks out a half-stale cheese sandwich for dinner.
tonight, perhaps out of some sort of guilt-fuelled obligation, they still sit at the dining table as they usually would, despite the fact that nobody had cooked a meal in days, the two of them living on the assorted pity casseroles stacking up inside the freezer and whatever snacks were still in the pantry. most nights had become “fend for yourself” nights, where it was up to iver to figure out what he was going to eat. at the very least, it gave him an excuse to have sleep for dinner most nights without being reprimanded, as his mother hardly took notice of wether he actually ate or not. he knows that he’s more than old enough to organise something as simple as dinner, but he can’t bring himself to want to most days.
the table is cloaked in tense silence, save for the subtle clinking of his mother’s fork against her plate and the occasional sip of wine from her glass. they hadn’t spoken much recently unless it was deemed necessary, mostly his mother informing him of plans revolving around the funeral, or today’s service. now that those things had all come to an abrupt end, there didn’t seem to be much to talk about anymore, which iver didn’t exactly mind. the two of them had never been close, despite his best efforts in his younger years. they were only really kept together through proximity and the shared accompaniment of his father, so he hadn’t felt the urge to converse with her for years, let alone confide in her about anything going on in his life. he knows that she wouldn’t care about his feelings surrounding recent events, so he had been doing his best to shove them deep down, keeping up a strong front that she hopefully wouldn’t see as a challenge.
“you know”, she starts, in a tone that leads him to believe that he really doesn’t want to, “as much as he spoiled you, he didn’t even want you in the first place.”
he knows he should probably just nod and keep his head down, but he can’t help but tilt his head slightly in confusion, silently urging her to elaborate.
“well, we’d only been married a few years, and already he was talking about being unhappy, for whatever reason. i knew i wouldn’t be able to change his mind, but i knew you could.”
already, he can feel his eyes boring deep into her skin. “what?”
“oh, but it all worked out for the better, didn’t it? well, for a while, at least.”
he wants to scream at her. “what, so i only exist so you could force him to stay?”
“oh, for gods sake. it’s not like that. i did what i could to keep our family together.” she stares him down with cold eyes, taking another long sip from her glass. “you’ll just have to find another way to make yourself useful.”
he stands, wordlessly making his way out of the kitchen and throwing out what’s left of his sandwich in the process. a silent surrender from the conversation, and wherever it could possibly go next. he doesn’t wish her goodnight, nor does she, but as he reaches the top of the stairs, he hears her voice reverberate through the house.
“set your alarm. you’re going back to school tomorrow.”
he supposes that her letting him stay home at all was fairly lucky. he hadn’t been back to school since he’d found out, and for that he was quite grateful, as he could hardly take care of himself properly, let alone focus on schoolwork. the days had melted into a blurry mass of grief and confusion, to the point where he can’t even remember what they were working on in class last time he was there. the homework he was given that day has yet to be filled out, still shoved haphazardly into a plastic folder in the back pocket of his school bag, and he can only hope that his teachers will offer him some grace on the matter, as he really can’t bring himself to look at it tonight. he knows he won’t be able to focus on any of his lessons tomorrow, and the idea of falling behind would usually send him spiraling, but his ability to care about most things has been concerningly absent as of late.
he throws himself onto his still unmade bed with an unceremonious thud, sighing deeply into his pillow. now seems like the right time to start crying again, but despite his efforts, his eyes have nothing left to give, so he gives up and rolls over to face the ceiling after a few minutes. his phone buzzes inside of his trouser pocket, and it reminds him that he was supposed to call his grandparents, his father’s parents, some time this afternoon. amidst the haze of organising and attending the service, he had completely forgotten about it until now, having been hours since he’d even checked his phone.
there’s no sea of notifications waiting for him on his lockscreen as he’d secretly hoped, only a few tags in facebook photos from earlier today and a spam notification from some mobile game he hadn’t touched in weeks. he decides he’ll check facebook some other time, not particularly wishing to relive any of todays events, and finds the whatsapp contact for his grandparents. his thumb hovers over the call button for a moment as he contemplates googling their timezone, and he jumps slightly as he accidentally taps the button and the display lights up with the call screen.
it only rings for a few seconds before somebody picks up, and he instantly feels a sense of relief once he hears the sound of his grandfather fumbling with the speaker button.
“hello, son. can you hear me?” his grandfather’s voice sounds over the speakers, low and raspy as always.
“yeah, i can, hi. sorry, i know i was supposed to call you earlier, but there was a lot going on.”
“ah, never mind that. we have you now. one moment, farmor’s coming downstairs.”
a few seconds later, and he hears a muffled conversation between the two of them, before the phone is handed over, and he hears his grandmother speak.
“there we go. hello, young man. how are you doing?”
both ends of the line stay silent.
“…not well, i suppose. silly me.”
iver swallows back the urge to spit out some sarcastic joke, because god knows she doesn’t deserve it, especially after today. “uh, yeah. not really.”
the silence stays. he knows that neither of them know what to say, because they don’t ever teach you these things until it’s far too late, but a part of him wishes that someone would just start talking. about the weather, what they ate for breakfast this morning, anything besides another conversation about death and absence and mourning. the connection whines in his ear, a loud ambient noise that makes him grimace.
“what time is it in oregon?” he mumbles. he knows that their usual phone call time, not long after he gets home from school, is early in the morning for them, right as their restaurant opens for the day. they don’t get busy until later in the morning, as the local students pick up breakfast on their way to school, so they have enough time to talk about the happenings of the last few days before things pick up and tables start to fill.
“oh, it’s just about noon, now. almost lunch time. don’t you worry, we aren’t busy at the moment. plenty of time to talk to you.” his grandmother says, as if she can read his mind somehow.
“okay.” he can hear a plane flying overhead, emitting a low and steady rumble, and he tilts his head towards the window in an attempt to catch a glimpse. “how’s business been?”
“oh, you know. same as usual. we’re thinking of adding something new to the pastry fridge to draw in some more people. perhaps you could help us decide?”
he shrugs, which he understands doesn’t quite translate across the phone, so he makes a vague noise of contemplation. “i don’t really know what americans like. uh…what about something for the…halloween? that’s happening soon. they might like that.”
“…well, we could. i’ve never liked that holiday, though.”
“but it might give you more customers. it’s worth it.”
she hums into the phone, one of quiet contemplation. “it’s an idea. i’ll think on it.”
they talk in forced segments separated by knowing silence. they touch on small things, how rainy it’s been lately in their little slice of the US, strange interactions with customers, comments about how grown up iver is starting to look. they chat idly until the first dregs of the lunch rush turn into a sizeable crowd, and they say their rushed goodbyes over the scrape of chairs on linoleum and loud, english speaking voices layering over the top of each other. the “call ended” sound beeps in his ear, and he discards his phone on the floor by the bed, before thinking twice and connecting it to the charger instead. he supposes that with nobody to drive him to school in the morning, he’ll have to navigate the bus schedule app, sitting unused in a folder named “boring stuff”, and find a way there himself. he’s taken the bus a few times, usually coming home with school friends on days his father was held up at work, but never by himself, which seems quite daunting. it shouldn’t be, though. he’s thirteen, old enough to be self sufficient in ways that most of his friends have been for years. maybe it comes easier to them, he thinks. none of them are autistic, most of them don’t even know what that means. they don’t have to.
he heaves himself off of the bed and gets into his pyjamas, only because the cut off tag on his button up shirt has been driving him insane since he first put it on, and he knows he won’t get any sleep until the feeling is long gone. his clothes are tossed unceremoniously into the corner of his room, along with his church shoes, the heel of one hitting the wall a little too hard and leaving a small dent. the surge of adrenaline that always comes after he fucks something up while his mother is around pumps itself through his body, even though he knows it’s tiny. she would likely never notice it, because what reason could she have for studying the walls for blemishes? it doesn’t stop the panic, though, and as he brushes his thumb against the dent, his breath hitches in his throat as some of the white paint flakes off with it.
it’s stupid. it’s so very stupid. he knows he’s being unreasonable, dramatic, childish. it’s just paint, and she won’t notice. he knows it’s there, though, and it’s his fault, because he was careless. it’s his fault like everything always is. because he’s not good for anything besides ruining everything he touches. he’s been destroying things since the day he was born, even earlier than that. if he hadn’t been, his father would still be here. he would have gotten away from his mother, he would have been able to start anew with elias the way iver knew he wanted to so desperately. if he had cared enough to talk to his father that night, he might not have left him for saltwater. if he had found some way to get his fathers medication back, he wouldn’t have planned it at all. he would never have had to. he should never have existed in the first place, and the fact that he does now is nothing but a burden on everybody else.
he doesn’t recall curling into a ball on the floor, but finds himself there, rocking back and forth, handfuls of hair tangled in his fingers as he tugs and tugs and tugs. there’s a dull ache radiating across his scalp, a burning right by his temples, and when he pulls his hands away for a brief moment, his fists are wrapped around strands of long, brown-blonde hair. he’s tired. he’s overwhelmed. he just needs to gets some sleep. he’ll feel much better in the morning, surely.
he’s in bed and changed into his pyjamas before he realises it. he doesn’t remember getting there or getting dressed at all, but he does that on occasion. he gets far too into his head, and when he finally shakes it, he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, tear tracks on his cheeks smudged away and sticky.
by this point, the pain from pulling at his hair has morphed into a dull, spread out headache, but he rests his head on his pillow anyway, focusing on applying pressure to the areas that sting the most. it’s a continuance of his blind, self administered punishment, and it’s the least he can do, really. he’ll have to brush his hair out tomorrow, and he can already picture himself raking the bristles across the bruises that will likely form overnight, just to remind himself of his place in all of this. the room is cloaked in night, save for the old and flickering nightlight in the corner that he hasn’t the heart to remove, but sleep doesn’t come. he stares at his bedroom ceiling, fingers tracing up and down his arms looking for any kind of texture to pick at, desperately itching for something to do besides sit idle at his sides.
after what feels like half of the night, but turns out to only be an hour or so, he fumbles around for his phone, shining bright light onto his face as he squints to read the screen. like muscle memory, he finds and clicks on the itunes icon, fishing for his janky headphones in his top drawer. they’re in a permanent state of half-tangled, wires insulated by fraying pieces of cellotape, second or third hand, but they work. they fit in his ears better than the newer models do. he scrolls through his library until he finds the playlist titled “LOUD”, and turns up the volume as high as it can possibly go as he presses shuffle. he lets the introductory notes of la dispute’s ‘king park’ fade into the background as his eyes unfocus towards the ceiling, partially giving up on the idea of sleep, at least for the time being.
~
the first week back at school drags on a little, but isn’t too bad. his teachers don’t seem to mind much when he zones out in class, turning in untouched worksheets and homework assignments and consistently not participating in any kind of discussion or group exercise. they don’t call on him anymore either, simply allowing him to rest his head in his arms and listen to the birdsong outside. it’s nice, but he knows it won’t last forever, and he’ll be expected to return to normal before he knows it. the other students have also left him alone for the most part, but that includes his friends as well. he’s not sure if he can call them friends, really, moreso some people who allow him to hang out with their pre-established group. he can’t blame them too much. he isn’t one for flinging pencils at the ceiling or riding skateboards down in the school car park like he usually would be, and it’s a good thing that they aren’t stopping for him, he thinks.
he hasn’t packed his own lunch since going back, both because he never has the time and energy to, and because he knows it won’t feel the same. instead, he’s been picking at whatever the school is offering for lunch. he had always preferred home lunch over school lunch, because the texture of everything is always slightly soggy and wrong, and he further agrees with the sentiment as he swishes his fork around his plate. he still doesn’t feel the need to eat, but the staff threaten him with counselling if he doesn’t at least look like he’s stomaching the bland, waxy potatoes, so he takes occasional bites until the bell sounds and he can dump the rest.
part way through a forkful of nondescript vegetable, a body fills the empty seat beside him, eyes landing on his hunched shoulders.
“…so i heard your dad died.”
he doesn’t have to look up to know who the voice belongs to. another boy in his year who’s name he’s never been bothered to commit to memory, who’s ideal day is spent toying with whoever he can get his hands on, then whining to the nearest teacher the second they retaliate. it’s pathetic, but it always seems to work in his favour, so he focuses on his plate in the hopes that he’ll get bored and leave him alone.
“you know, they’re saying he did it to himself. i’m pretty sure that’s a sin. that’s gotta be embarrassing for you.”
ignoring him doesn’t work. of course it doesn’t, because that would be far too easy. his lips form a thin line as he stands, abandoning his lunch tray in favour of getting the fuck out of there as soon as possible. it shouldn’t surprise him when the other chair scrapes across the floor and footsteps begin to follow him, but he flinches slightly anyway, which he immediately regrets.
“just leave me alone, will you?” he spits, surprising even himself, eyes still focused on the floor in front of him. there’s no turning back now that he’s given the other boy the attention he wants, but who cares? it was never going to end well in the first place, anyway. it never does.
“oh, it speaks? guess that’s a good thing, then. you can pray for your daddy’s soul. pretty hot down there.” there’s a grin in his voice, sharp at the edges and coated in amusement.
searing pain shoots up iver’s hand as his fist connects with the boy’s jaw, enough force behind the punch to send them both stumbling backwards, the other boy slumping against a nearby table. he follows, tugging the boy towards his face by the collar of his shirt, which sends another bout of pain through his fingers. he briefly registers the rest of the lunch room falling into stunned silence, the sound of someone running to find a teacher, the ragged breathing of the boy beneath him.
“you don’t know shit! you know nothing! i told you to fuck off!”
he knows he’s screaming. it comes out burning his throat like hellfire. there’s tears running down his face, because of course he’s crying in front of half of the school. the other boy is glaring at him, a slight daze in his eyes, face already mottling with unsavoury colours with an imprint of iver’s knuckles cradling his jaw. iver wants to keep on going, to smash his face in until anyone stupid enough to love him can’t recognise him anymore, but he’s tired. he’s freezing up now that the adrenaline is wearing off, and he doesn’t fight it when somebody drags him off of the boy by the back of his shirt, rough hands grasping at his body like boa constrictors. they drag him toward the office, speaking at him in harsh voices that don’t register in his head as real words. the only thing he can make out is the pain, his heartbeat echoing in his ears, and the roar of the crowd in the lunch room.
as he’s shoved through the doorway and into the hall, one voice makes it over the clamour, the strained yell of the boy, now being helped to his feet by another teacher.
“i always knew you were a fucking freak.”
~
surprisingly, they let him off quite easily, all things considered. he gets slapped with a week of in school suspension, a few mandatory school counsellor visits, and several pages of writing lines about self control and obedience. they say it’s because of his previous clean record and otherwise pleasant behaviour, which wouldn’t be wrong, but he has a feeling that pity was somewhat involved as well. it’s not just him who realises this, as the boy’s parents didn’t hold back on expressing their own feelings, screaming about favouritism and coddling into the principal’s face until spit frothed in the corners of their lips. at least they didn’t press any charges, preferring to threaten him in the school car park instead, as his mother would never let him live down something like that. not that she didn’t unleash on him the second she got home from work anyway, grounding him indefinitely and confiscating everything he’s ever loved for the sake of it. despite it all, what remained of october soon turned into november, which dragged on horribly as a blur of catching up on school work and doing what he could to make up for his existence.
he didn’t know that was what he was doing at first. the first time it happened, he’d spoken up about it a few days later over dinner, after he’d finally comprehended what had been done. it turned out that she’d already known, she’d planned it. it turned out to be some friend from work he’d never met before. he’d asked in the unsteady voice that he hates if he’d have to do it again, because his arm was still sore from where they’d grabbed it, and showers didn’t make him feel clean anymore, even with the water hot enough to turn his skin pink. she’d shrugged, and he’d found out later that week.
besides that, school carried on at a snail’s pace until late december, when christmas break was soon declared, and everybody was free to do whatever they’d liked until early january. the schools in his area had even let students out a few days earlier than originally scheduled, as they’d experienced higher than average levels of snowfall in the weeks prior, and commuting there and back each day way had become too inconvenient for most people, and a fair amount had stopped coming in at all. it was around this time that iver began to notice a change in his mother’s behaviour towards him. the already few words they spoke to each other became half-sentences a couple times a day, and she had stopped looking at him entirely, barely acknowledging his existence most days. there was no way for him to be sure if it was something he’d done, or if this was just another thing he’d have to learn to deal with. perhaps she was feeling some kind of guilt over any of the things she’d done, and couldn’t look at him without feeling terrible. that idea seemed unlikely, but it was anybody’s guess what she was feeling at any given time anyway. her detachment was almost a blessing at times, allowing him to slightly bend the rules of him being grounded while going unnoticed.
he’d wandered around town a few times, taking the paths with shallower snow where others had already waded through, and window-shopped in the small accumulation of shops nearby. christmas was steadily approaching, and with it came a fresh wave of grief and nostalgia. he doubted christmas would be happening in his household this year. if he was lucky, a few people might stop by with gifts for them both, but he had neither the money nor the transportation required to reciprocate. in a way, he was almost glad that he wouldn’t have to participate. it wouldn’t be the same anymore, not without his father there to fill the room with his laughter and follow him around with an old shopping bag full of torn wrapping paper. it didn’t feel festive this year, with the lack of excitement leading up to it, the wardrobe full of presents hidden behind shoe boxes, the countdown to the day written on the kitchen calendar in bold, scrawled out letters. he could still somewhat appreciate the impressive displays in a few of the shop windows, clearly made with more care and effort involved than he could imagine, but nothing ignited the same spark inside him that once burned so bright.
they hadn’t attended church since the memorial, either. even while he was a younger child, his mother had never accompanied him and his father each sunday, preferring to stay at home and have the house to herself for a few hours. she hadn’t offered to take him, nobody had, and he hadn’t asked. not having something to do on the weekends felt strange, almost wrong, like somebody was about to punish him for not taking it seriously, and it was lonely. besides school, it was the only place where he would regularly have people to converse with, or even just other’s recountings of their weeks for him to listen in on. without either, and with his mother silently haunting their home in her recent apparition-like manner, every day was filled with uncomfortable silence that gnawed at his bones.
the easiest way to deal with it, besides his growing collection of playlists, was simply being unconscious. he could afford to sleep as much of the day away as he’d like without any repercussion, as he wasn’t expected anywhere any time soon, and there was nobody around to miss him. he’d sleep until noon most days, then take a nap some time in the dim afternoon, then either sleep through until tomorrow if he was lucky, or wake up some time in the late evening and go back to sleep after finding something to eat. it’s not healthy, but it’s easy.
it’s during one of those nights that he wakes up with a start.
there’s weight on top of him.
god knows what time it is, and he doesn’t open his eyes to check. he was asleep enough to dream, so it must have been at least a few hours since he’d passed out..
and there’s weight on top of him.
which isn’t exactly an unfamiliar feeling as of late, but they usually turn the big light on first, which gives him a moment to collect himself.
he keeps up the fake sleep act, because sometimes they like that.
he hears a whispered prayer, and it’s still for several seconds.
something hits the edge of his cheekbone, and the pain is fiery and hot and wet.
his eyes fly open the second he feels it, and his brain feels like hot molasses, struggling to make anything of what’s happening, still hazy with half-sleep. but somebody is on top of him, and they’re hurting him, and he needs to get away or he’s going to die.
something, the same thing, hits him again, and his breath catches in his throat, and something is soaking through his pillow, his shirt, his hair. everything is so painful and so fuzzy and so...
his vision finally focuses, and there’s blue eyes staring down at him. blue eyes he knows, and they’re welling up with tears, and oh, it’s his mamma. she must be here to save him from whatever this is, because she wouldn’t let anyone hurt him like this, surely. she wouldn’t let anyone see him in this state.
he almost gets out an “it’s okay, don’t cry.” before he catches the glint of the knife over his head.
it comes down, and he can’t see.
there’s indescribable pain flooding his right eye, and it’s so horribly sticky. his brain is clouded with the feeling of it, and the only thing that gets through it is that he needs to get away. he’s still a little short for his age, but he isn’t weak, and he manages to free himself from her grasp with enough thrashing and kicking, tumbling onto the floor in a heap of limb and bedsheet and adrenaline. he still can’t see anything from his right eye, and can hardly get through the dark with the one that remains, but he finds himself running faster than he’s ever run before, stumbling into walls and doorframes and stair bannisters at every turn. he half falls down the stairs, barely catching himself at the bottom with a hand on the wall, leaving a slippery print behind him as he launches himself towards the front door.
he doesn’t even look to see if his mother is following him. he fumbles with the latch on the door with trembling fingers, and he can feel it click open as he’s slammed into the wood. he’s hit again, his shoulder, his lip, and the only thing he can think to do is shove. he steadies himself against the door before pushing back at her with every ounce of strength he has, and he just barely hears the knife clatter to the floor somewhere behind her. she doesn’t fall. but she stumbles back a few steps, and it’s just enough for him to open the door and bolt.
it finally hits him that he’s been screaming the entire time, both of them have, as he’s greeted by his next door neighbours in their pyjamas as he collapses in the snow. it’s freezing. everything is on fire. there’s so much noise, and there’s people yelling at each other nearby, yelling at him, begging him to stay awake for them.
the last thing he remembers is the distant howl of sirens, and his head spinning and spinning and spinning, almost like it’s floating away from him.
~
when he wakes, he’s in a dimly lit room, laying on his back. he tries to open his eyes, and only one cracks open, just enough to take in his surroundings.
everything is white, sterile, besides what looks to be pieces of christmas tinsel hanging from the ceiling. there’s an irritating beeping beside his head, but he can’t turn to face it to see what it is. he tries to call out to whoever is around, just to ask them to turn the stupid beeping off, but he can’t speak. something is stopping him, and he can’t figure out what.
he hears a pair of footsteps shuffle into the room, and they gasp lightly before turning the lights up slightly.
“iver, can you hear me speaking to you?”
he can’t nod, so he blinks, and hopes they get the message.
“okay, that’s good. you’re in hospital, iver. you’ve been hurt, but you’re going to get better with our help. there’s a tube in your throat so you can breathe. it’s the reason you can’t talk right now. i can’t take it out yet, but it won’t be there for too much longer. do you understand?”
he blinks again, wondering if they’ve read his mind. they reach over to turn off the beeping, at least. he scrunches his hands at his sides, and the feeling of pins and needles creeps in.
the voice speaks again. “i can send you back to sleep, if you’d like. blink once if you-“
the rapid blinking seems to get his point across, and they reach to adjust something beside him. the world goes foggy, like a cold autumn morning, and everything stops.