lifeinonescene

I crouch on a carpeted step where the stairway ends in the kitchen. I’m near the bottom, with my curly-haired little sister below me. Above me, I can just sense my older sister’s breathing, as if she’s invisible.

My father speaks: “I’m not going to be living here any more.” My legs press against the scratchy, low-pile synthetic carpet, dark brown. Do I smell the vomit of those nights when my sister threw up on the stairs? My mouth is filling with saliva. Do I want to vomit, or to cry? My eyes are burning, dry.

I think my head is pounding with the thud of my heartbeat. I’m afraid I won’t be able to hear what Dad is saying.

I have words in my mouth but I know I’m not supposed to say them. Dad is the one who is supposed to talk. I know this, because Mom is quiet. He is not saying enough, so she is glaring at him. He is not saying enough for me to understand what this means.

“I’m not going to be living here in this house with you any more.” I am smothered by the vague smell of vomit. The stairway feels like a tunnel and the space is getting too tight, closing in. It’s like a dream where I’m pinned in place; I can’t go up or down.