Chapter Sixteen.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

↠ Etienne

"When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world it's on fire. But it's not."

― Richard Kadrey, Aloha from Hell

MY parents were, in essence, very petulant people. My father Thomas was the British son of an American man and a French woman. A man of skinny build and conservative ideas. His most distinct feature was the thick moustache that furnished his upper lip, which, along with his outdated fashion choices and political views, indicated his desire to exist in a different time.

He could almost always be found with his nose buried in the newspapers, almost as if hoping his surroundings would evaporate into a fog so that he could better focus on the articles that were commonly to blame for his foul moods.

"They might as well let Al-Qaeda in with these atrocious immigration policies. Invite them over for some biscuits and tea. Let them contaminate what little is left of British society with their savagery."

He was the carrier of racist rhetorics that could have very well been printed into a Neo-Nazi pamphlet. Such was his bigotry that he had chosen to cease communication with the rest of his family because my uncle Michael had married Genevieve, a very lovely English lady of Nigerian ancestry. She had been welcomed into the family as one of their own.

Outraged by their disregard for matters that concern blood purity, he renounced them as his family and had only seen them thrice in the last seventeen years.

The Sinclairs had a great wealth that my grandfather had acquired from the publishing of his highly successful psychological thrillers and horror books. A wealth we were missing out on because my father chose to burn bridges out of spite.

My mother, Irina, would need a very thorough biography to fully encapsulate her terrible upbringing. She had grown up seeing the very worst of Ireland, socially and financially. Her background consisted mostly of drunks and severely mentally ill people who needed putting away. Somehow, she had exceeded everyone in the latter. She was a mistake to be kept hidden as per the belief of people who already had the worst reputations possible. That is how she ended up a young woman in the heart of Britain, sufficiently pure of blood for my father to marry despite the obvious indications that she was not all right in the head.

When I was twelve, my father forbade my mother and me from decorating for Christmas, stating that my mother would go on to destroy everything and it would be best if we saved ourselves the trouble. For the five years that followed, I always stepped out of my bedroom to find the same scene plastered before me, as if I was walking into a picture, a postcard, a painting that was far past the point of being able to be modified.

My father would be in his armchair, his nose buried in the newspaper as he scornfully muttered about immigrants and liberals and people in the public eye who did not share his political views. My mother would be quietly knitting on the left corner of the sofa, occasionally paying attention to the movie being aired on TV. They were a single moment frozen in time.

I wanted them to move. I wanted to look at them and see the reminder that life is so much more than what happens in the spaces we're being confined to. That didn't happen, of course. And I knew it would be wisest to make a home out of my resignation.

"I'm heading out," I said to no one in particular as I crossed the living room. It was like they didn't even register the sound of my voice. I wanted to be hurt. I wanted this to sting. But after all this time, there was an underlying resentment that I didn't want to deprive myself of. It wasn't a nice feeling but it was mine, it was a feeling that my body had crafted from experience.

The Olsens lived in a beautiful home in one of those lively neighbourhoods in which everything was always alright. The neighbours were all happy people with conventional families and stable incomes, who loved to walk their dogs and ride their bikes and greet every person who walked by their front yard while they were out trimming the bushes.

Their houses were stately two-story structures that were not overbearing with their design, and together they painted a pretty picture of the content upper-middle class.

Because of Ivy's arrival, and all of the coming and going this had caused in her home, dear old Maeve Olsen suggested that Ivy and James' friends be invited to the Olsens' home for Christmas. Everyone was already there by the time I arrived. My friends were outside, most of them drinking as they watched James attempt to put on the lights that Maggie had been asking him to hang for six days in a row and he had left for the very last minute. Maeve, Maggie, and Hope Harrington were doing some last-minute baking while Charles Olsen and Oliver Harrington tended to the fireplace and the music selection. Everything was perfect and perfectly bittersweet.

When you're raised in a house that is very clearly on fire, you sort of expect the rest of the world to be so as well. And there is an unspoken bitterness that plagues your judgement when you realise your experiences were never universal. The universe just doesn't like you that much and that's a truth you're going to have to carry for the rest of your life.

I went to stand next to Cassie, who still had trouble finding herself in places where she had never existed before. She looked tired and divine. A mixture that only she could wear. Happy and troubled as well. Grateful for the invitation but not sure if I should've come. It was written all over her face.

But she was not given an option to pass up on this evening. She was not the only one who drowned under the heaviness of these family-oriented celebrations. Although Ivy was technically spending the holidays with her family, there were gaps in the family tree that she preferred not to speak of. Both girls had spent the entirety of the day over at Maeve's place because Ivy had been adamant that she could put together a traditional English trifle better than the lady sharing recipes on TV. But she would require an extra pair of hands as she had never really been one to experiment in the kitchen, and so Cassie's presence had been requested.

I heavily suspected they were doing this simply to take their minds off of more bleak matters.

They were all huddled underneath various layers of clothes and scarves and gloves. Their cheeks were rosy and their eyes glistened with undisguised amusement as they watched James manoeuvre himself on the ceiling.

"They're gonna fall," Ivy warned him.

"They're not going to fall."

"They're gonna fall."

"They're not gonna—son of a—Riv, mind handing them back to me?"

River handed me his drink before going over to help. He was the only one taking the trouble to do so.

"Mate, they probably won't even work anymore. They're all broken now," I said, looking up at my beloved and idiotic friend as he struggled to untangle the mess of lights. I remember leaning into Cassie. I remember feeling a sort of thrill from having her shoulder press against my arm as if the most insignificant form of contact could send my heart into a turmoil that felt both natural and unhealthy. I remember thinking no one would notice. They probably did. They probably noticed a lot more than they led on. But they let Cassie and I live in a little world of our own, and for that unspoken agreement, I was forever grateful.

"Some will flicker, alright. But if mum asks just play it off like they're perfectly fine and she's the one with poor sight."

We made it inside about ten minutes later after James had done a good enough job. This is what a home looks like, I wanted to tell Cassie. Warmed not only by the fire but the cordiality of the people who lived inside these four walls. But I didn't say a thing because I suspected my words could land on someone else's ears and the misery Cassie and I shared was something that was strictly ours. Millfield Road was full of stories that were meant to be kept a secret.

Instead, I leaned toward her as we walked into the kitchen, tilting to the side because of the height difference, and whispered, "Did you end up hearing from Sophie?"

She was scratching her left arm, an inconsequential action if you weren't me and didn't already know that she did this whenever she was experiencing an inhumane amount of discomfort. "No, unsurprisingly."

Old Maeve complained about all of the racket coming from the house next door even though there was none. Maggie scolded James for whatever reason. Hope spoke to River and Ivy about some tapestry she'd seen in the market and had fallen in love with. Cassie wanted to die because she was not used to being around nice people.

"Stop fretting. You look like you're about to faint," I whispered, unable to hide the teasing grin that had arrived to torment my lips.

Dinner was warmed by the friendliness of our company and sealed with the delicious food that had been served. Conversations would run their course smoothly, not once presenting a topic that anyone found uncomfortable or that was the cause for stuttering. I could sense the discomfort that had taken hold of Cassie during our first minutes at the table. Almost every subject that could be commonly discussed under the guise of small talk could be considered sensitive to her, but given the notoriety of Cassie's situation, everyone at the table managed to skillfully avoid the mention of her parents and of any route that could lead to her addiction. All was well.

After dinner, we were guided to the living room by Charles' request so that we could continue the festivities in the more spacious room. In there, we found a warm and welcoming space, brought to light by the smooth flames that swayed inside the fireplace along with the soft lighting from the chandelier, which only further contributed to the atmosphere's gentle arrangement. A record player was spinning in the left corner of the room, serenading us with tunes of slow jazz.

Whilst the adults took to sitting near the record player as they engaged in conversations that followed subjects I found uninteresting, we sat on the floor directly in front of the fireplace, enjoying the sweetness of the red wine Charles had selected for us. It was then that one of Cassie's father's favourite songs started to play. Sinatra's It Had To Be You. It was glorious to see how she remembered him then, how he had sneaked his way inside of her mind, a pleasant surprise, a welcomed intruder. Her features softened and I was unsure whether I wanted everyone in the world to stop and admire the beauty of the scene before me, or whether I wanted to keep it to myself.

David Loaiza had been the most wonderful man I ever had the pleasure of meeting. He was the friendly face that had sat on the ground floor's staircase with me during a cold November night, wordlessly giving me his coat, which looked comically big on my small frame. He knew of my mother's condition and would go to great measures to ensure my safety. He would knock on our door whenever he heard too much commotion, would place band-aids on any of my wounds that needed it, and would confront my father for not doing more to protect me.

"You can cry, Etienne," he had told me when he found me waiting for him on our staircase with a long red scratch extending from a part of my forehead down to my cheek. I was seven years old. I did not hesitate to bury my face in his chest and sob uncontrollably. His words had been a beautiful alteration to my father's Boys don't cry.

"I'm right here. If you ever need anything, I'm right here."

An inevitable conversation caught up to us that evening. The boys and I had seen it coming for a minute, and still, the air acquired this excruciating weight to it when Ivy took a sip from her wine and proceeded to ask the one question that would unravel an unimaginably tragic story. "Why don't you ever drink, Riv?" she asked. It was an innocent question. In an ideal world, it receives an innocent answer.

Cassie immediately sensed this bizarrely heavy tension that suddenly took over our little corner of the room. Her eyes searched mine for confirmation that everything was alright, but I could only offer her a strained smile. Something in my gut stirred so very unpleasantly, and it wasn't even my story that was about to be told. River looked at James and then at me, seeking approval. He'd already been planning on telling the girls this little-known fact about himself, but it wasn't easy to find an entryway into such a conflated conversation. In a way, Ivy had done him a favour. I smiled warmly at him and James nodded softly, subtle signs of encouragement that he used to build up his courage.

He took one deep breath, and then he started. "When I was fourteen my parents were letting me stay with my cousin George over in Brighton for the summer. George was about six years older than me and was a uni student at the time. So, um, I'd say halfway through my stay he was invited to a party at some guy called Patrick's house. Patrick was also a university student, so everyone there was older than me. George was actually not supposed to be taking me to these places for obvious reasons, but who gives a shit, right? What could possibly go wrong? None of his friends cared that I'd been tagging along to every party they were inviting him to. They all just ignored me, really, even George. But after going to several of these parties I began feeling a little brave, so instead of just awkwardly standing around, I decided to try my luck with strong liquor. There was a group of drunken people in the kitchen and I thought they were not going to let me drink because I was clearly underage, but instead, they were cheering me on, and I guess I got a bit too excited with the encouragement because I got absolutely wasted."

It had always been easy for me to vividly imagine all of these accounts that River narrated. I knew him at the time. I was already in his life. He was already one of my closest friends. It only made all of this all that more unbelievable and horrifying.

I watched as my friend's face contorted with agony, but River was a brave young man, and he continued on despite how ardently the words struggled on their way out. "So I'm constantly blacking out, stumbling around, puking everywhere, and, uh, at some point I guess I had sex with someone. I was blacked out through most of it. Only one image comes to mind when I try to remember what happened. We were in this dark and cramped room. We were standing up. I could see that she had a tattoo on the right side of her back, near her shoulder. That's it. No face. No name. An awful way to lose your virginity, if you ask me. No one saw us, or at least no one told George about it. When he found me I was passed out in some couch. He never mentioned anything about being seen fucking some stranger in a closet. For a while I thought I'd imagined the whole thing, that it'd never even happened. Until a couple of months later, when I began feeling ill and I..."

His voice trailed off and he seemed physically unable to utter that last word. Like it pained him to do so.

"You don't have to say it," James added softly. "They understand."

"I was diagnosed with HIV," River said, his voice stronger and more decisive than before. He nodded to himself as a form of self-assurance. He'd never been so brave in his proclaiming of those words. "Stage 2."

Then came a silence. A heavy one that made me realise how I often took oxygen for granted. My eyes were fixed on the flames, watching them waver, hoping that I would find the clarity to form a coherent thought in them.

"It's kind of funny, isn't it?" he continued, his voice a strong whisper. "I've always been the smart kid, the responsible one, the one who is always cleaning after everyone else's mess. And the one time, the one time I slip up and make a mistake, I have to pay for it for the rest of my life."

River was expected to live a long and happy life because he was a very responsible young man who took great care of his health and never participated in any activities that could compromise his well-being. And still, if his admission had caused any surprise when he'd first admitted it to me two years prior it had not come from the mention of the disease, but from my inability to understand how wicked the world could be.

We knew not to make an elaborate speech because we understood that those always came with the amity of pity. The best thing we could offer River was our company, which came free of judgment and without the threat of limitation. I can sincerely say that I did not think any differently of River. None of us did.

"We could always find her and kill her," said Ivy after a minute of silence.