January

The acrid, cleaner-than-thou smell of sterile blankets wafted all around me, driving home that drowning feeling. I stared back at my disheveled face in the mirror, into the empty abyss I called my eyes. A wave of sadness washed over me, almost as if I was being baptized in sorrow. But I wouldn’t cry, I couldn’t. I had cried all the tears I could possibly cry in those past few days, my tear ducts were like the Sahara desert. Scratch that, more like Antarctica, that place is cold, which is how my soul felt. Dead, empty, and colder than any frozen wasteland. Out of frustration and anger, I hurled the plastic bin of sterilized blankets into the wall. The name Sofia Moretti glared back at me, taunting me. I felt a twinge of sick humor, remembering something my mom told me once when she read a book about the constellations and stars to me, although now it was an innocent line that death had twisted into some morbid, ironic joke.

“My star sign is Cancer, Ash.” We were pointing out all of the family’s star signs that day.

“Cancer.” I muttered as I walked out of that room and closed the door.

I wish I could close the door on what came with that.

February

My eyelids were slowly fluttering open and closed in my desperate attempt to keep myself awake. The digital clock on the shelf across from me displayed 12:01.

“Asher? When is Daddy coming back?” The old couch shifted beneath my weight as I turned to face a meek voice around the corner. I locked eyes with the deep caramel orbs that belonged to my 6 year old brother and sighed.

“I don’t know, Prisco.” Get off work at six, be home by six-thirty. That way always our father’s routine. Every fiber of my being was having an anxiety attack, what if he had a bad accident? Weight shifted once more as my counterpart joined me on the couch. “Go to bed, it’s a school night.” I said after a stretch of silence. Soft breathing and closed eyelids were the answers I recieved, so I carried him to his bed. Cocooning him in blankets, I flicked on his nightlight and decided to let sleep guide me away from my concerns as well.

That may have been the first night our father abandoned us with no warning, but it sure as hell wasn’t the last.

March

It’s not fair. That line is thrown around so much that it almost loses all meaning.

“I got a D on my math test! My teacher just hates me, it’s not fair!” The girl sitting two tables away was whining to her friend at lunch. It’s not fair? Honey, you don’t know the meaning of not fair.

“Not fair” is having your mom being ripped away from you while all you can do is sit and watch. “Not fair” is your father leaving you alone for multiple nights, not bothering to tell you where he is or why. “Not fair” is having to be the dad for your brother, making sure he’s fed, bathed, and taken care of.

“Not fair” is knowing the true definition of those words at the age of only 12.

April

Slap! The sound of the wooden ruler hitting my desk was followed up with a chorus of laughter.

“Asher, if you find my class so boring that you can’t be bothered to do the homework or even stay awake in my class, I suggest that this class is not for you.” Mr. Jones’ dissaproving glare made my face feel like it was on fire. I could have defended myself, told him why I didn’t do the homework, why I always fell asleep in his class.

But I didn’t. Instead, I took the lunch detention slip and shoved it deep into my pocket to where I couldn’t see it staring back at me. I fought with my eyelids to keep them open, tried my best to pay attention. The many sleepless nights of putting my brother first were catching up with me.

From then on I was known as “The Boy Who Sleeps in My Math Class” by Mr. Jones, but I’ve also heard him with other teachers referring to me as “Soon to be High School Dropout”.

May

I ran my hand along the smooth stone, tracing each of the engraved letters and numbers with my finger. The flowers I was holding dropped to my side, as well as the card I knew was going to get destroyed by rain that was soon to come.

That was the first time I had been to that place since late January or early February. My father was asleep somewhere in our house at the time. Since he wouldn’t drive me, I had to walk 14.5 miles to get there, but I really didn’t mind. The late-mid spring air was nice, and that place was always quiet. It was a nice quiet, unlike the suffocating silence in our house that was laced with grief and blame. I pushed myself up, dusting the clouds of dirt off my knees.

“Happy Mother’s Day.” I uttered as my feet carried me back on the 14.5 mile walk home. The breeze seemed to whisper soft replies in my ear as it tried to assure me that I wasn’t alone.

June

The bathroom door was locked behind me as I clutched the scissors in my trembling hands. The hushed tears of my brother were drifting in from down the hall while the racking sobs of our father echoed through the walls. The thing that had brought on the tears was a note that my mom had written to us in the hospital. A simple thing.

I wanted to move on, but this house was not letting me. There were memories hiding in every corner, like a snake coiled and ready to strike. My father swamped the atmosphere with depression, the whole environment of that house made you feel like you were drowning. I needed a change, an escape. The scissors were shaking as I used them, and hair the color of dark chocolate dropped into the sink. My shaggy hair that rested in thick strands down my neck were gone, and what was left was some form of pixie cut that left much of it hanging in my eyes.

I smiled for the first time in ages in front of my reflection, waves of thick brown hair falling in my face.

Later that night I had dyed most of it white and red. No one ever reminded me that I look so much like my mom ever again.

July

The bang that echoed through our house confused me. At first I thought it was a firework, but as I got off of my brother’s bed, I realized it was our front door. My father stumbled around the kitchen, knocking things off the counter with limbs he couldn’t control.

“Dad…?” As I got closer, a wave of the strongest alchohol smell hit me. He tried to slur something out to me, and I thought he was telling me to go to sleep. Red hot anger burned in my chest as I picked at the skin around my fingernails. “So you get to go off and drink yourself to sleep while I have to take of myself and your son?” I raised my voice a little too loud.

“Shut up.” He slurred out in a murmur. I pushed it, but hatred gnawed at my stomach like a hungry wolf.

“What would mom think if she knew!” It wasn’t a question. We both knew the answer.

“I said, shut up!” That was loud and clear. He rocketed a plate at me. I turned tail and charged into my room, not even trying to stop the tears.

I knew we had lost our father back in February, but what I didn’t know is that Drunken Father was coming out to play.

August

The black eye. That was one of the many little pieces of evidence I had put in a case to myself about why I should run away. I never did, but that doesn’t mean that case didn’t exist. I got it by walking into a door. The door had a name. Its name was Dad.

I was minding my own business, trying to enjoy my last night of summer. I’m still trying to figure out what I did wrong. My father stumbled in, drunk as always, while I was laying on our couch. The fine mist of alcohol hung like a halo around his face. He ambled with no balance towards me. I hopped up off the couch and stood at attention like a soldier. His knuckles came against my cheekbone like a frieght train. I sat stupidly on the floor with my hand cradling my cheek, feeling the bruises blossoming like spring flowers.

There was a reason that I always shut the case whenever it came up. That one piece of damning evidence that made me put it away.

My brother, Prisco. If I left, what would happen to him?

September

Charlie Matthews. The girl with the golden hair that spilled over her shoulders in many shades, like a waterfall reflecting summer sunlight. She was holding my hands, wrapping my stinging knuckles in bandages. The tip of her tongue peeked out from behind her lips in focus.

“Moretti, what am I going to do with you?” I had wads of toilet paper jammed up my nose. They were sodden with blood.

“Sorry.” I mumbled as she released my hands.

“I would be apologizing to the kid whose face you bashed in, not to me. What he said wasn’t pleasant, but that doesn’t mean you should punch his lights out.” She sighed. “Be the bigger person.”

Charlie Matthews. My best friend. Feelings of guilt about the fight I got into ate away at my insides. Charlie punched my shoulder lightly, and flashed me a bright smile.

“You’ll be okay.” That day I thought she was talking about my bleeding nose and scraped knuckles.

Looking back, I realized she wasn’t talking about that at all. And I’m happy to say she was right.

October

I didn’t want a birthday party. I didn’t want anyone to come to our house. It eminated sadness and hurt, my father still paraded around as drunk as a sailor. I didn’t want anyone to see the way my father dealt with the grief. Instead, I was doing what I wanted, making my own decisions.

The park was an interesting place past dark, and we had the playground to ourselves. We felt alive, like the only ones in the whole world. Swinging our feet from the platform, we ate slices of birthday cake from Walmart.

“I wonder if anybody’s ever died here.”

“Charlie!” She grinned at me. Everything went still, and you could faintly hear the buzzing of insects in the grass.

“Happy birthday, Asher!” Charlie smashed the remains of her cake into my face, and I could taste the almost-too-sweet icing as I wiped it off with my hands.

“Don’t even try me.” The moments that followed boiled down to fistfulls of cake smeared everywhere, and laughter ringing out into the darkness and the trees. Charlie has always been good for me.

She taught me that I can still be happy, even if there’s darkness all around.

November

“I can get anything I want?” Prisco’s caramel eyes drifted through Target’s toy aisle, irises brimming with wonder. I was taking him out to buy his birthday gift, which was something our mom would usually have done. Our family didn’t do surprise presents. He disappeared into the maze of linoleuim-floored ailses, and came back to me holding something like a retriever playing fetch. In his seven year old arms he held a toy doctor’s kit, something that you could play pretend with.

“Is that...really what you want? You can have anything here.” Uncertainty crept through my veins, usually he always wanted a comic book or an action figure. It was a sudden change for sure.

“Yeah! When I grow up, I wanna be a doctor, so I can help people like mommy.” He flashed a smile brighter than any summer sun.

That was the day I realized that my brother has always been teaching me more about life than any adult in my life ever had, and he was seven years old.

December

December 24th. The first time anyone had set foot in our house that wasn’t immediate family in the past year or so. The first time breath was shared with people outside this dollhouse, the first time laughter bounced off the walls in what felt like forever.

My father sat on the couch, a smile gracing his rugged lips, a rare sight in those days. Prisco and I were sitting crosslegged on the floor, surrounded by friends. Charlie was pretending to lie dead on the floor as we tried to link the idea of the spirit of Christmas with murder and the siren song of mysteries.

In simpler terms, we were having a murder mystery party on Christmas Eve.

Euphoria was hanging around the atmosphere in a pleasant haze as giggles rung out clear as crystal. Cheer had always seemed to be a ghost that flickered in the horizon for me, something that I could never quite reach. But on that night, I caught it, and held on tight.

Some might describe their happy ending, dream night, fantasy, whatever you want to call it, as having enough money to buy whatever you want and having the hottest person in school fall for you. But for me...that was it.

My happy ending was a room full of cups filled with gingerale, game pieces strewn all over the carpet, and absolutely mad souls raving about who killed the girl on the carpet.

Everything gets better. That’s what I was promised. Turns out, some promises aren’t made to be broken.