4 2.1: Back At My Mansion (2/2)

Aiden, my parents' shoulder in the toughest of times, sits down and clasps his hands between his spread-out legs.

”How did she do it?” He asks them calmly, looking in his palms.

”Slit wrists,” Dad answers, not holding back as Aiden winces, closes his eyes, and turns his head to his right, where I stand.

There is a beat of silence where I sniff (Perhaps a reflex in this dimension or something, because one won't even feel his own boogers?).

”Do you know why?” Aiden asks solemnly. ”Why would she do that, that is?”

Dad and Mom glance at each other as if they've already discussed the matter, and came up with conclusive reasons. I stand, waiting for how they'll explain my 'killer' to my brother.

”I-” Dad says, glancing at Mom who shakes her head. ”We- don't really know. Maybe she was bullied?”

Aiden makes a face. ”Maybe?”

”Probably-” Dad corrects himself, and I glare at him, sniffing more (I didn't even need to look down to find my teardrops). ”She didn't even leave a letter to explain herself, son-”

”She didn't think we're worthy of a letter?” Aiden asks rhetorically, frowning. ”Why?”

”Tomorrow's her funeral-” Dad says monotone, ignoring Aiden's question. ”I don't think Jake's strong enough to tell her friends-” He shrugs. ”He's the one who-” He averts his gaze to the coffee table in front of him. ”Who knew her well-”

”I know her well-” Aiden's instant defensiveness surprises me. ”I know exactly who her friends ar-were-” He frowns. ”I've always-” He cocks his head to the side, taking a deep breath. ”I've always kept an eye on her from afar.”

I almost gasp at what he says. What does he mean?

”You wouldn't know why she did that?” Mom speaks for the second time.

Aiden bites down on his lower lip, clears his throat once. ”No.”

Dad sighs, placing a hand on Mom's back. ”I guess it's high time we tried getting some sleep-” He tells Aiden. ”Your Mom's been up all night-” Aiden looks at Mom and nods absently as I narrow my eyes at the affection Dad is showing to Mom.

It's almost revolting to watch after all they've put me through.

”Come on Chell-” Dad urges Mom to get up as Aiden sits back in the chair, hands clasped, and eyes shut. ”Let's go to bed-”

Mom snaps out of whatever she's been caught into and gets to her feet. After a few more inaudible whispers and uncomfortable shuffling, Dad and Mom go upstairs and leave me alone with Aiden.

I sit on the couch opposite to his, the one Jacob sat on, and stare at him. At his crumpled, stained pyjama shirt, and noticeably short pyjama pants. At his worn-out eyes, and the crease between his eyebrows that he always has whenever he's lost in thought. He rubs his callous hands together, inhales deeply, closes his eyes, and hauls himself out of the chair.

He stands tall, hair unkempt, and face red as he looks at me. Literally. My eyes flutter, even though I'm certain he can't see me. And then without any warning, he kicks the coffee table furiously, wiping a half-full ashtray off the table, and onto the ground with a soft thud.

He licks his lip quickly, frowning deeply, and looking around as I beg myself not to quiver at the sight of an angry and desperate Aiden. It is almost unholy, something wicked. I've never seen Aiden so angry or so petrified in my life.

And so watching him, front seat, dead, being furious, is a whole other level of 'yes-I-fucked-up'. And for a second, I thought I'd be blinded by grief.

Aiden clutches his hair in his hands, looks up at the ceiling, and groans like an animal. Guttural and low.

I never thought I mattered that much.

Crying hopelessly and brokenly, he grabs his black coat, throws it over his shoulders, and leaves the house, slamming the door shut behind him. Just like Jacob did.

I can't catch my breath as I continue staring at the door in shock. I can't do anything but bring my hands to where my throat is supposedly present. It's like I'm having a spiritual panic attack. Something that solely suffocates you. Something indescribable.

I know I'm probably crying uncontrollably because I start hiccoughing and sniffing like there's no tomorrow as I stare at the door longingly.

”Holy chickens-” Someone says, and I yelp before turning and facing the chair where Aiden sat on. And where Tobias is now sitting.

I wipe my face with my hands and give a final sniff before glaring at his amused facial expression.

”Hope I've given you the entertainment this fucking joke of a place is lacking,” I say bitterly, my voice rough and raspy.

His eyes widen as he crosses his right leg over his bony, left knee. ”That definitely was everything but entertaining. I'm not evil.”

I roll my eyes and rub my temples. ”Whatever. You shouldn't have seen this-” I absently lift my arm toward the couch my parents sat on. ”Royal, bullshit drama-”

”You're about to witness more of it-” He says casually, and I lift my brows.

”Aren't we supposed to disappear or whatever voodoo?” I ask, grimacing and gulping. ”I mean, what is this place?” I finally look up at his face. He is staring at me with a small, knowing smile.

When he realizes that the question wasn't rhetorical, his smile and brows fall. ”I don't know-” He rolls his shoulders. ”Some people say that it's their personal hell. Some people say that it's...pointless.” He catches my eyes. ”It's subjective, you know? Based on personalities-”

”Some people?” I ask in a stupor. ”There are more people who killed themselves on the fifteenth of May?”

”Of course. Over the ages-” He sighs. ”Unfortunately.”

”Unfortunately?” I frown, biting down on my lip as hard as I like because I really feel nothing. ”You regret killing yourself?” I ask, and it isn't because I regret it myself. At least not yet.

Tobias looks down and fumbles with his fingers. He doesn't answer, and I sigh.

”You-” I start with wide eyes, and he looks up at me with a creased forehead. ”How long have you been in this place?”

Tobias links his fingers together and uncrosses his legs. ”You won't believe me.”

I roll my eyes. ”I can't say anything will surprise me after all I've been through.”

Tobias nods once and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his face in his palms before locking my eyes.

”Thirty years.”