Charlie’s laughing outside. But it’s not just laughter; he’s letting out that laugh I know and hate. Again.
It won’t end for a long time. It’ll be in his eyes for hours, and will sneak out between words formed behind a near-constant smile.
My face sets into a frown of its own accord, but I do nothing to resist. As I wrench the door open, I actively encourage it.
Charlie is there, his key raised before him but nowhere near where the lock should be. That explains the scraping sound as I made my way to the door. The hand holding the key is scraped and bloody.
“Becca!” Charlie exclaims, his voice bright with violent cheer. Apparently he’s oblivious to my scowl. “Thank you. Was I using the wrong key again?”
He steps in, and I wince as mud is tracked on the carpet.
“You were using the wrong fucking brain again.”
I’m not as quick-witted as I’d like to be when I’m angry.
Charlie turns to me as we both head to the kitchen, his face showing an expression of hurt for just a second. In the kitchen he grabs a bowl I just cleaned and fills it with cereal and milk. Neither are his; just about nothing in this kitchen is.
“What’s all that about, Becky?”
My name has only ever been Becky when he’s been in this state.
“You’re fucking drunk again,” I snap, involuntarily slamming my hand into the table. His bowl rocks, spilling some milk. The expression turned my way is one of utter confusion. “You’ve been fucking fighting. Your hands look mashed to shit, and I can see that bruise coming up on the side of your head.”
A finger gently, dumbly probes the injured spot, resulting in a wince.
“Who was it this time? At least tell me you didn’t start it, Charlie.”
He stares down like a child being scolded, silent. A confession without words.
“For fuck’s sake!” My hands fly up in exasperation. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Are you? Because one of these days it might fucking happen, if you keep acting like a twat like this.”
Charlie twitches, as though his bruise is being pressed again.
I sit down and demand he look at me. And again. The third time my voice has an edge that demands obedience; he knows it well, and can’t resist.
“She’s a fucking girl, Charlie.” Melissa Fury. Cheater, and all-round terrible girlfriend. “Is she really worth all this? Is she worth getting the shit kicked out of you, or dying over?” He tries to look away. “Look. At. Me. I’m a girl too. I’m your sister, you stupid bastard. How about you live for me?”
I stand up, shaking. I can’t remember the last time I was this angry with my brother. It must have been years ago, when we were children. Probably over something stupid.
A single drop of blood falls from Charlie’s hand to the floor. It would be impossible to hear it from where I am, but I imagine perceiving sound of it striking the linoleum.
“You’d better clean up that mess you’ve made on my kitchen floor.”
“Your kitchen floor?”
“My kitchen floor, because this is my house that you somehow manage to stagger into sometimes to throw up and pass out on the toilet.”
Charlie stands up too, his fists balled and bloody knuckles shining. The laughter has gone from his eyes and his lips. Isn’t this what I wanted?
He steps up to me, breathing heavily as he looks down. He’s taller than me. A lot of people are. I’m not afraid of him. He’s my brother. He’s Charlie. I’m not afraid of him.
The stand-off goes on for a few minutes. We stay silent, staring, breathing.
And the asshole starts laughing again.
“Get out of my face,” I say in disgust, turning away.
He continues to laugh.
“Get out of my house, now.”
The laughter rises. I turn back to him, truly scared. What’s happening to him?
All of a sudden he moves to leave, practically bolting from the kitchen.
I yell after him as he goes.
“Don’t come back, you stupid prick. Not if you have a single drop of alcohol in you.” There are tears in my eyes. “Don’t fucking come back.”
The door opens and slams shut. The laughter fades into the distance, but seems stuck in my ears.
It’s still there when I go to sleep.
The next night, at around the same time, I get a phone call. I’m Charlie’s emergency contact. His jaw has been broken at a bar. It’ll be wired shut for weeks. He won’t be able to drink for that time. He certainly won’t be able to laugh. Guiltily, I feel grateful. I want my brother back, with the softer laugh and unbroken skin. That man I’ll allow in my home. With him it can be our home.
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