When The Trees Guided Me Home - Part 6

“Ella?” I called from the doorway as I reached the threshold of my home. No answer. My foot kicked aside a glass bottle. When I lifted it to take a sniff, I recoiled in disgust and threw it to the floor, where it clanged noisily against the countless others that had been laid to rest in the hall. One of Mum’s poisons, Ella would have named the bottle. When I had asked her once why Mum got so angry with Ella, at the world, Ella spoke of a devious poison adults often drank, that made them do terrible things.

“So why do they drink it?” I had asked, brown eyes wide. Ella had shrugged, her face unreadable.“Who knows what goes through their heads?” she said in a hard little voice. “Adults can be so selfish sometimes.”

I knew that was all she would say on the subject, that if I tried to probe she would brightly change the subject. If you didn’t know my sister, she would appear an open book, always ready to talk about her hair, the boys in our neighbourhood from when she had known them, even girls she disliked. But venture too far, go too deep, and she’d shut down completely, rapidly changing the subject or resorting to yes or no answers.She could not let her armour, what kept her from crumbling from the weight of pain and responsibility on her shoulders, be chinked, even for a moment.

“Ella, I’m home!” I called a second time. Again, no answer. But above the eerie ring of silence came a wave of smothered sobs emanating from the kitchen.

They weren’t Ella’s.