The spread on the small table was meager at best. Two chipped plates, each one holding a biscuit, somewhat stale, and sliced in half. A tiny pat of butter had been spread in the center of the four pieces. An old vase, cracked near the top and long faded from whatever its original color had been, held a solitary yellow daffodil that she'd found growing near the cottage's foundation.
The room was tiny enough that her walking-stick was not needed. She knew exactly how many limping steps it took to cross it from one side to the other; five. She knew there was one plank in the floor that stuck up a little and needed to be stepped over, lest she trip and fall. She knew of the various places to lean if she felt unsteady; the table, the two chairs, the edge of the small, dust-covered cupboard on the far wall.
A finger brushed a lock of ink-black hair behind her ear, and her head turned slightly, listening. Soft sounds came from the adjoining bedroom. Sounds of movement, of someone waking and getting out of bed.
While she waited for the bedroom door to open, she challenged herself by straightening her spine and not leaning onto the table for support. A little at a time, she tested her right leg by pressing a bit more weight onto the foot. The pain was minimal, so she shifted a bit more. Sunlight streamed through the grimy window above the table and lit upon her hip. She could feel its gentle warmth through the fabric of her dress, and she smiled wistfully. It always seemed to hurt less in the summertime. The mellow warmth of the season softened the aches and stiffness, and she could get about more easily than in the colder months. Her thoughts turned to sitting beside the river in June, the feel of the soft, green grass in the dappled shade, and whether a certain figure might be sitting beside her…
The sharp click of a latch yanked her from these pleasant thoughts. She turned to regard the tall, stocky figure of her brother emerging from the darkness of the bedroom.
“Mornin’,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through the unkempt mop of his hair, which was several shades lighter than his sister’s.
“Morning, Emory,” she echoed, slightly adjusting the plates on the table.
He plunked himself down into the nearest chair. He was still wearing his underclothes. She could see where the cotton was becoming threadbare, just under his arm. She made a mental note to visit the rag-and-bottle shop later that day for some patching material.
“Looks good,” he said, glancing up from the humble breakfast with a crooked, careless smile.
She offered a faint smile in return. “I hope it tastes all right. I’m trying to make the butter last.” Once he was settled, she took the chair opposite him.
Emory tore a hunk out of the biscuit and chewed it hungrily. She could hear the enthused working of his jaw, but just as quickly as it began, it suddenly stopped. She lifted her eyes, curious to see what had distracted him.
He was staring at her with large, horrified eyes. But he wasn’t looking at her face. The skin on her neck prickled uncomfortably. She knew the bruise was still slightly visible, and now the sun was striking directly upon it.
She watched her older brother struggle to swallow the mouthful of food. His brown eyes moved to meet her gaze. With quiet trepidation, he pointed a finger at the lavender blemish on her pale neck. “...did I do that?” he murmured.
The horror in his eyes pierced her gut. She bit her lips together, feeling her chest ache, and a familiar sting at the back of her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to nod.
“Oh, gods, Taite!” he rasped, shoving up out of his chair with a rush of movement. In one step, he closed the space between them and grabbed his sister into his arms, crushing her head roughly against his chest. She nearly lost her balance, the chair rocked sideways, but somehow managed to stay upright. “I’m so sorry!” he moaned.
Her arms grabbed onto his waist, and she whispered in a voice that was muffled against his undershirt, “It’s all right.” Immediately, something screamed inside her mind that this was the wrong thing to say. It wasn’t all right. None of it was all right.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice breaking as he released her abruptly and knelt down in front of her. His eyes were wet as he laid a quaking hand against the bruise. “Are you all right?”
She couldn’t find the courage to meet his gaze, knowing the terrible grief and self-loathing she would see there. Her attention darted all around the room instead as she managed a stiff little nod. The ache in the back of her throat increased and crept to her moss-green eyes, making them hot. She felt the seething moisture of tears threatening to spill.
A heavy, awkward silence descended into the small space of air that separated them. Emory slowly shifted back to his chair, landing with a weighty thump. Taite looked at his hand as it rested on the table. He was thicker and more strongly built than she. His knuckles were calloused and scarred from the scattered labor jobs he had worked to try and provide for the pair of them. The sunlight illuminated the light brown hairs on the back of his hand, making them glow.
“I could...maybe...go work somewhere,” she heard herself murmuring.
The hand on the table curled into a loose fist. “You want to leave?” Emory’s voice sounded surprised, but it was like a film on the surface of a pond, a thin veneer. “You want to leave me, your own brother?”
“I don’t want to leave,” she corrected quickly and quietly. Her own breakfast sat there still, ignored, growing staler by the minute. She set her eyes on the slender, pale hands folded in her lap. “You know I don’t. But...well, maybe it would be better. Just for a while?” Her voice rose into a meek, tentative question and she felt disgusted at the sound of it.
“Really?” His voice grew sharp now, a cutting edge to it. “So first Pa and Ma and now my sister. Now my own sister!” His hand flew upwards in an abrupt, agitated wave. “After all I’ve done to keep us together.”
“Emory, I’m just trying to - “
“It’s not enough that they died, is it?” He went on, talking right over her, his voice rising in volume. She could hear it coming. The way his voice struggled to be enraged, but was steadily being choked by sorrow. “Not enough that I work day and night to keep a roof over our heads! Lowering myself to dig in ditches and shovel out pig pens, all so you can put food in your belly!”
“Emory, I’m sorry!” she blurted, and all at once the dam broke, and the tears ran hotly down her cheeks.
She could hear his own voice cracking, but still she was afraid to look at him. To see his face, her beloved brother, childhood companion, sole living bit of family, broken and hurting. “Aye, you should be sorry,” he muttered, pushing up from the chair and pacing the small room in tight circles. “Who takes care of you since Pa and Ma are gone? Who goes out there and breaks his back to feed you?”
“...you,” she whispered, her head bowed nearly to her chest.
“Is it my fault that you can’t help? Is it?”
His words were like a white-hot poker in her heart. She could see the tip of her walking-stick in the corner of her vision, as it stood propped against the wall. She knew the rightful and true answer to his question. She also knew the answer that would spare her a tongue-lashing. “Nay.”
A moment of quiet descended again, punctuated by her soft sniffles, and her brother’s heavy breathing.
He suddenly reappeared in front of her, kneeling down again, looking up into her face with an expression of torment. “I said I were sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I know,” she whispered back, looking at him with grim, streaming eyes.
“Pa and Ma would never want us to abandon each other.”
“I know.”
“So...no more talk of this,” he murmured shakily, trying to smile, trying to pat her stiff, unmoving hand. “You don’t need to work anymore than you already do, aye?” He pulled the cuff of his undershirt down over his hand and reached up to tenderly wipe the tears from her cheeks. “You don’t need to go anywhere. I promise.”
Her eyes hardened at these words. Unable to stop herself, she glanced past him, towards the cupboard against the wall. To the brown, grubby bottle that sat on top of it. Realizing her own gesture, she looked back at him as quickly as she could, but he had noticed the flick of her gaze. His jaw tightened.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“...I know.”
