Reincarnation Chapter Four & Five

Sorry guys, but these two chapters are really short, so I figured I might as well cheat and throw them together.>_> Critique them separately if you wish. Or get mad at me and stop critiquing forever >D ...no, don't do that please.

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Chapter Four: Dead Days

I woke up to the sound of a soft drum beating. My eyes fluttered open, and I stared at the stained ceiling, which used to be white, now yellow and old and cracked. I closed my eyes again, inhaling deeply. The damp, moist smell told me that the beating was just rain on the windowsill. Sure enough, when I opened my eyes again and turned, there was the window, wide open. The large, dark splotch underneath it told me it had been pouring out not too long ago. That meant the snow would be gone. White Christmases were few and far between, and when we did get one, it didn’t stay for long.

I sat up, bringing out my yawn so it was louder and longer than my body intended it to be. The noise filled the room for a split second, before fading away into silence again, save for the beating of the rain.

I slid out of bed and closed the window, having to lean forward to avoid stepping on the wet carpet. Then I started down the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the banner. The house was quieter than my room. I had an urge to hold my breath, not to disturb the silence, but that urge only made me sigh loudly. The noise seemed to die as soon as it came from my mouth.

It was a dead day. And I hated dead days. But I was not stupid. I knew everything, and I wasn’t concerned. Puppit hurt his arm. Mother was at the hospital with him. Father was most likely reading in front of the fire, oblivious to the dead day, as my parents always were.

I padded into the living room, ready to climb into my father’s lap. But his armchair was empty. My breathing instinctively became faster, but I forced myself to remain calm. I slowly walked around the living room, as if searching for clues as to where he might be. Not even the fire was going. The fire was always crackling in the hearth, spreading a healthy sheen onto the normally dreary carpet. The large window allowed little light inside. The sky was folded beneath thick, grey clouds, and it didn’t look like that would change for a while. It was silent, cold, and lonely.

Before I could start to panic, there was a clatter in the kitchen; the familiar noise of something getting dropped into the sink.

I hurried out of the living room and into the kitchen to find my father putting a roughly folded newspaper onto the table. He glanced over at me, smiling tautly.

“You’re awake, princess,” he said, trying to animate his voice. It didn’t work. He was as dead as the day was.

I clambered onto a chair, sighing loudly. And, again, it died soon after it rolled off my tongue. I frowned unhappily. “I’m hungry.” I complained. Which was not true. I was not in the least bit hungry, but I wanted something to fill the silence, and I was bored. Boredom often led to annoying Puppit. But since Puppit wasn’t here, eating would fill my time.

My father obediently set to work making macaroni. “Your mother called a little while ago,” he began, filling a pot with water and placing it on the stove. I unhappily leaned against the table, propping my head up on my hands and sighing. I didn’t want to hear about what Mother said. “Tod is fine. He just broke his arm. They’re still at the hospital, getting things situated.”

I sighed yet again, and this time my father seemed to take the hint and stayed silent. I listened to the strange rippling noise of noodles being poured into water behind me, and then the sound of my father shuffling around. When he took a seat next to me, the emptiness fell back into place, and I had only the ticking of the clock to listen to, which was, in some ways, worse than the insistent knocking of the rain.

I slumped over onto the table, dropping my forehead onto my arms. The minutes dragged by, and then my father pushed back his chair and got up to pour out the macaroni.

I ate slowly, closing my mouth around the spoon and slowly pulling it out. I kept the warm, cheesy noodles in my mouth for a second, then swallowed and started the process over again. My bowl looked strange against the mahogany table; I was so used to several bowls.

When I finished, I put the dish in the sink, not bothering to try and make noise any more. My father was still at the table, staring at a fresh newspaper. I padded quietly out into the hall, and then up the stairs to sleep the rest of the day off.

I woke up when something cold pressed against me. Moaning softly, I turned over to face Puppit, who was cowering against me under the covers.

“When did you get back?” I yawned, and he pressed his knees against my stomach, his whole body scrunched together to preserve what little body warmth he had. His right arm was under his head, and something dark was wrapped around it.

“A long time ago,” he breathed. “You were sleeping, and I went to bed as soon as I came home. But I got cold.” He followed my gaze to his cast and smiled drowsily. “Cool, ain’t it?”

“Mm,” was all I mumbled, closing my eyes. I draped my arm over him, and he yawned as he lightly wrapped his fingers around the hem of my shirt. That was the last thing I felt before I fell back asleep.

Chapter Five: Change

We grew older. And as we grew, so did our parents. I didn’t notice the small arguments they began to have, not even when they got more frequent. But Puppit did. He always seemed to be closely watching Mother and Father, and at the time I was confused as to why. I didn’t like the extra persuading it took to get him outside with me, and I definitely didn’t enjoy the fact that he often left in the middle of our play to go back inside. I was supposed to be the only one who had a say in that.

Maybe I was his second mother, but our mother was the first, and he simply chose me over her because I knew the best games to play. But he was more in-tune to desperation and emotional pain than I was. And so he seemed to realize the hard times that were coming a long while before I did.

But there were no real excitements. I made new friends, but Puppit didn’t. He rarely talked, and if someone tried to have a conversation with him, they didn’t try a second time. It was because of this that we didn’t grow apart like our parents were. While I made off with friends, he stayed home, enduring our parents’ bickers, perfecting his homework. And when I got home, I’d sit down with him by the fire and boast about what a fun time I had.

At first my bragging was simply a story for Puppit to emulate. But after the first few months, I believe it became more of a desperation to get him out of the house, to find his own friends. Every night after my stories, I would sit on the couch drinking hot chocolate and hurrying through my homework. But whenever I looked up, I would find my brother staring into the fire, and his gaze always sent a shiver down my spine. One could clearly see the loneliness, his desire to know what was coming, his wish to be able to stop it. And I knew if I could only get him out of the house, he wouldn’t be so bothered by it.

But I never actually voiced this, and he never made any friends.

Time went on, as it is apt to do. Mother and Father’s fights got worse, and worse still, until there came a day when they no longer talked.

It was hard for Puppit, then. Knowing that whenever he talked to Father, he was being scrutinized by the other parent, and so forth. But I did not care. I talked to one or the other as I pleased, and I did not mind if they were agitated with it.

I had not realized I was slowly pushing my friends away until it was too late. I had forgotten them, busying myself with other small things, forgetting the craving I had once had for a large social life. The number of my friends dwindled, until the last one became fed up with my ignorance and accompanied the others in ignoring me as I had shunned them. But I did not try to get them back, not once. Suddenly they became inessential in my mind.

I found myself, instead, joining Puppit by the fireside, staring into the fire with the same gaze I had despised only a few months ago. We were not Kathira and Puppit any more. The two of us became “we,” or, to our parents, “you.” Though they always used our single names whenever addressing us in front of the other parent, trying to prove they were the better ones.

And just like that, two became one, and one became two.