1.
When I awoke, it was sunny in the room, bright, blissfully so. There was a smell of pancakes wafting in the air, the sweet, lovely flavor of the griddle filling my nose and my taste buds, as though the syrup were already waiting for me out in the kitchen. I let out a sigh of contentment, and gave a slow stretch—from top to bottom, one of those stretches that starts in the shoulders and expands in both directions to the tips of my fingers and all the way down to every toe. I felt lazy, satisfied, and I couldn’t quite place my finger on the reason why I felt so content until I heard him sigh next to me.
“Good morning,” I said, giving him a kiss. Not even a taste of morning breath came from him, even when I parted his lips and went for some tongue. I felt adventurous and the sleepy drowse that still enveloped me couldn’t hide the stir of other cravings besides the ones in my stomach. His hair felt luxurious as I ran my fingers through it.
“Morning,” he replied, his voice reassuring for reasons that escaped my immediate grasp. Zack. My rock. My first love. His dirty-blond hair wasn’t mussed by the bed at all; at least no more than it was on a daily basis. “Sleep well?” His coffee-brown eyes stared back into mine and there was just a moment’s hint of something disturbing, but it passed, something between a memory and a nightmare.
“Yes,” I somehow found the answer, even though I wasn’t sure. The smell of pancakes was still heavy in the air, and my eyes adjusted as I took in the room around me. It was my room, in the house where I’d grown up. There was a memory of something else, but I couldn’t quite land on it. I shuffled my gaze from the old, worn, almost orange-stained dresser covering one wall to the little stand that sat next to the door. My bed was in the corner, pushed up against the wall. “I don’t even remember dreaming.”
“That’s good, right?” He rolled to get out of bed, naked, and I watched. He shot a backward look. “It’s impolite to stare.”
“Though fairly common nowadays,” I teased as he knelt to fish through a pile of clothes. I rolled over and grasped at the curtains, pulling them back to take a look. There was a flash of snow before I blinked the brightness out of my eyes, and saw the green grass outside through the clear window. I thought I remembered there being an armoire in front of this window, not a bed. It was almost a memory I could grasp, but after a moment it seemed far away and insignificant, totally unimportant now. I turned to look back at the naked man who had been rooting around for clothes on my floor to find him fully dressed now, staring back at me with empty eyes. “Hey,” I said. He did not respond. “Hello?” I waved a hand in front of him. “Hey.”
“‘Hey’ yourself,” came a voice from the door, and I looked around Zack to see my mother standing in the doorframe. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“Breakfast?” I frowned. “You cook?”
“Smartass,” she said with a roll of the eyes. “I made pancakes and ramen noodles.”
“Oh, good, I’m hungry,” I said, and meant it. I glanced to Zack as I walked toward the door. “Follow me, dear.”
As I passed through the door, the world opened up around me, and I was in a bright place, with glass all around, stretching up two-story walls to a higher level above us. I looked at the table. It was the only thing in focus; everything else was hazy, but familiar. “Come on,” Mom said, gesturing to a plate at the table. “Meatloaf and coffee.”
“But I don’t like …” The smell of pancakes was gone, but my stomach still rumbled at the new aroma, though there was something vaguely abhorrent about it.
“Come on,” Mother said again, “your friends are all waiting.” She motioned at my chair, and for the first time I realized that there were others around the table with her. I took a tentative step forward and found myself in the seat, my meal staring up at me, all brown and somehow both appealing and unappealing at the same time.
“You don’t like what I’ve made for you,” Mother’s voice rang out, and I looked up to see her face twist with scorn. “You really are an ungrateful child, you know. Eat what you’re given, then ask for more. That’s what you do when you’re being polite.”
“Yes, Mother,” I said, and there was a fork in my hand. I looked to my left and saw Reed, my brother—half-brother, anyway—his dark hair around his shoulders, his suit an odd, glowing white. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” I asked him.