Runs in the Family 6
John sat staring at a framed painting on the opposite wall. Hung in the same spot since before he could remember, not quite center on the wall across from the sofa, a large stain stretching from the left of it, bubbling up the wallpaper. It depicted a man sitting solemnly beside a body of blue green water. It wasn’t a particularly good painting, John couldn’t even say he liked it. It was disproportioned, in a way that said the artist was trying too hard. It reeked of failure. John let out a puff of air. “Maybe you should move.”
Harry groaned and rolled over on the sofa. She stared blearily at her brother, sitting in nearly the same pose as the painting, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees.
“I mean why stay here? There’s nothing here worth anything.” John was talking at the painting but he could feel Harry’s eyes on him. He turned to find her scowling, clearly not interested in this line of conversation. He shrugged. “Just seems like its holding you back is all.”
“Fuck, John.” Harry pulled her pillow over her head her arms dropping back to her sides dramatically. “I don’t even want to think about that right now.”
He hated this house. They both did. It was too heavy on them. Oppressive. He pushed. “The plan was to move as soon as you found another place. So move. Sell it and be done with it. Burn it if you must, it might actually improve the block.”
“John my head hurts.” Harry growled. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You haven’t even rearranged anything. At least burn that fucking armchair.” John pointed to the ugly blob of furniture that Harry had her legs draped over, their father’s imprint permanently pressed into the cushion.
Harry pulled her feet back as if the chair had suddenly burst into flames at John’s command and scorched her feet. Catching herself she sat up with an angry grunt, flinging the pillow from her face. It landed next to John dragging his focus to its stained yellow sides, and ripped corner, sad and exposed having long since been stripped of its case. “I didn’t plan on staying here.” Harry conceded. “I want to feel different before I leave.” She dropped her face in her hands with a growl before looking back up at John. “I don’t want to drag all this shit around with me.”
John noted the sweat matting her hair to her face. Her flushed cheeks on otherwise pale skin. She had gotten thinner since the last time he saw her. That awkward reunion coming back from Afghanistan sitting in a hospital bed in a drug fog. She had bounded in with glossy eyes, a stale smell of wine on her breath and Clara missing from her side. She smiled while he yelled at her through pain clenched teeth. And she pulled a small flask out of her bag just to spite him. Watching him as she took a long swig.
“Alright.” He nodded, shifting slightly to relieve his numb legs. They sat in silence with Harry watching him her hands kneading the blanket as if she were preparing to say something. “What?” John said finally jarring Harry into speech.
“You think I’m just like him.” Harry snatched the pillow back up with a quick aggravated swipe.
“Who?” John cringed as the word left his mouth. He knew who. Sherlock would tut at him for being so obtuse.
“I’m not.” Harry shuffled down the couch again. Pulling a blanket up over her shoulders and then kicking it off with a frustrated sigh.
“No. You’re not.”
Harry’s voice was soft when she finally responded making her sound younger. “You don’t remember him before the alcohol.” John winced. They had had this conversation before. “He wasn’t so bad before mom died.” They had all these conversations before. Recycled words that came easily but tasted the same; old and microwaved.
“You’re not like him.” John reiterated through clenched teeth.
He forced back the building tension, unclenching his fist and leaning back to rest on the corner of the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. His eyes fell on a particularly hideous sofa pillow thrown in the corner of the room. It was something straight from the sixties, a dirty yellow with an ugly brown floral pattern. John smiled despite himself. Choosing his words carefully. “Remember that time I had nothing to wear to school?” He started slowly, eyes on this pillow as the memory formed itself. He could hear the couch creek as Harry turned to face him. “I think I was six or something but I had nothing to wear and we searched through mom’s old stuff, because she had been so tiny, and I went off to school in that horrible brown turtleneck? The one with the yellow stripe through the middle? Like a slop of butter on a slice of burnt toast! It was terrible!” John chuckled to himself. “But I rather liked it-“ He dropped his head back to see her reaction and felt a jolt through him at her to find Harry staring at seeing her watery eyes.
“John, it’s not funny.” John’s eyebrows creased in confusion. “Jesus Christ John.” Harry’s mouth gaped before she clamped it shut with a click of her jaw. “You aren’t telling me you forgot why we had to search through mom’s clothes at 4 in the morning before dad got up so we could find you a turtleneck?!” Harry’s voice was strained as if caught at a fork between crying and screaming. John felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck and tore his eyes away from his sister.
“I forgot.”
“You forgot! Fuck.” Harry’s hands trembled where they clung to the sofa cushion.
“You always made it alright.” John blurted. The words spilling from his mouth before he could analyze them and Harry looked at him as if he’d slapped her. “Shit no. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean you made me feel . . . normal.” The tension he had just managed to release returned with a vengeance nestling in his spine. “All I remember is being upset about going to school and you taking my hand and going through mom’s clothes. It was like an adventure. It was about wearing mom’s jumper and you rescuing me.”
“Yeah?” Harry looked angry now, her fingers digging into the cushions making her knuckles white. “Not about dad finding you in it after school?” John felt his face flush as the memories leaked from a door he had boarded up years ago. “Not running out of the house in nothing but your undershirt and trousers, in the middle of winter, until he left for work half an hour later? That doesn’t filter in does it? You just remember the fucking jumper!”
“Jesus, Harry Stop it!” John got to his feet, noting with a quiver of anger how shaky his legs were. Standing he had no idea where he was going so he stood with his hands in fists. “You see?! This is why I hate coming here! I come back here and I have to be seven years old again! I can’t do it!” John dropped his face in his hand trying to regain control of himself. “God and you’re such a fucking contradiction! You defend him one minute and the next you’re yelling at me for not recounting all the gory details! I don’t even know why we are even fighting about this!”
“Because you forget, John! You forget and leave me to remember everything!” Her hand came up to press against her temple. “I keep every bloody detail and you’ve managed to box it all up and move on! It’s not fair.” Tears had leaked from Harry’s eyes and her body shook with angry sobs.
John’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don’t know what you want from me.” He sat back in his spot on the floor dropping his chin on his knees. The pose made him look seven again and Harry shuddered. “If I remembered everything I’d go crazy.”
Harry snorted humorlessly. “Or drink.”
John’s hands dug into the fabric of his jeans but he forced deep breaths. Ignoring the comment he pulled out his phone.
“Texting your boyfriend?” Harry spat, more vicious then she intended. “He must be a nice distraction.” John wasn’t giving her a reaction. “Tell him I said ‘hi’.” Silence stretched between them as John sent his text and Harry laid back down resting her head on her arms and staring at the man in the painting. “I never rescued you.”
“Of course you did.” John said finally, eying Harry carefully. She didn’t respond, rolling over to face the back of the couch. John sat in thought, listening until her breath evened into sleep.
Harry groaned and rolled over on the sofa. She stared blearily at her brother, sitting in nearly the same pose as the painting, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees.
“I mean why stay here? There’s nothing here worth anything.” John was talking at the painting but he could feel Harry’s eyes on him. He turned to find her scowling, clearly not interested in this line of conversation. He shrugged. “Just seems like its holding you back is all.”
“Fuck, John.” Harry pulled her pillow over her head her arms dropping back to her sides dramatically. “I don’t even want to think about that right now.”
He hated this house. They both did. It was too heavy on them. Oppressive. He pushed. “The plan was to move as soon as you found another place. So move. Sell it and be done with it. Burn it if you must, it might actually improve the block.”
“John my head hurts.” Harry growled. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You haven’t even rearranged anything. At least burn that fucking armchair.” John pointed to the ugly blob of furniture that Harry had her legs draped over, their father’s imprint permanently pressed into the cushion.
Harry pulled her feet back as if the chair had suddenly burst into flames at John’s command and scorched her feet. Catching herself she sat up with an angry grunt, flinging the pillow from her face. It landed next to John dragging his focus to its stained yellow sides, and ripped corner, sad and exposed having long since been stripped of its case. “I didn’t plan on staying here.” Harry conceded. “I want to feel different before I leave.” She dropped her face in her hands with a growl before looking back up at John. “I don’t want to drag all this shit around with me.”
John noted the sweat matting her hair to her face. Her flushed cheeks on otherwise pale skin. She had gotten thinner since the last time he saw her. That awkward reunion coming back from Afghanistan sitting in a hospital bed in a drug fog. She had bounded in with glossy eyes, a stale smell of wine on her breath and Clara missing from her side. She smiled while he yelled at her through pain clenched teeth. And she pulled a small flask out of her bag just to spite him. Watching him as she took a long swig.
“Alright.” He nodded, shifting slightly to relieve his numb legs. They sat in silence with Harry watching him her hands kneading the blanket as if she were preparing to say something. “What?” John said finally jarring Harry into speech.
“You think I’m just like him.” Harry snatched the pillow back up with a quick aggravated swipe.
“Who?” John cringed as the word left his mouth. He knew who. Sherlock would tut at him for being so obtuse.
“I’m not.” Harry shuffled down the couch again. Pulling a blanket up over her shoulders and then kicking it off with a frustrated sigh.
“No. You’re not.”
Harry’s voice was soft when she finally responded making her sound younger. “You don’t remember him before the alcohol.” John winced. They had had this conversation before. “He wasn’t so bad before mom died.” They had all these conversations before. Recycled words that came easily but tasted the same; old and microwaved.
“You’re not like him.” John reiterated through clenched teeth.
He forced back the building tension, unclenching his fist and leaning back to rest on the corner of the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. His eyes fell on a particularly hideous sofa pillow thrown in the corner of the room. It was something straight from the sixties, a dirty yellow with an ugly brown floral pattern. John smiled despite himself. Choosing his words carefully. “Remember that time I had nothing to wear to school?” He started slowly, eyes on this pillow as the memory formed itself. He could hear the couch creek as Harry turned to face him. “I think I was six or something but I had nothing to wear and we searched through mom’s old stuff, because she had been so tiny, and I went off to school in that horrible brown turtleneck? The one with the yellow stripe through the middle? Like a slop of butter on a slice of burnt toast! It was terrible!” John chuckled to himself. “But I rather liked it-“ He dropped his head back to see her reaction and felt a jolt through him at her to find Harry staring at seeing her watery eyes.
“John, it’s not funny.” John’s eyebrows creased in confusion. “Jesus Christ John.” Harry’s mouth gaped before she clamped it shut with a click of her jaw. “You aren’t telling me you forgot why we had to search through mom’s clothes at 4 in the morning before dad got up so we could find you a turtleneck?!” Harry’s voice was strained as if caught at a fork between crying and screaming. John felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck and tore his eyes away from his sister.
“I forgot.”
“You forgot! Fuck.” Harry’s hands trembled where they clung to the sofa cushion.
“You always made it alright.” John blurted. The words spilling from his mouth before he could analyze them and Harry looked at him as if he’d slapped her. “Shit no. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean you made me feel . . . normal.” The tension he had just managed to release returned with a vengeance nestling in his spine. “All I remember is being upset about going to school and you taking my hand and going through mom’s clothes. It was like an adventure. It was about wearing mom’s jumper and you rescuing me.”
“Yeah?” Harry looked angry now, her fingers digging into the cushions making her knuckles white. “Not about dad finding you in it after school?” John felt his face flush as the memories leaked from a door he had boarded up years ago. “Not running out of the house in nothing but your undershirt and trousers, in the middle of winter, until he left for work half an hour later? That doesn’t filter in does it? You just remember the fucking jumper!”
“Jesus, Harry Stop it!” John got to his feet, noting with a quiver of anger how shaky his legs were. Standing he had no idea where he was going so he stood with his hands in fists. “You see?! This is why I hate coming here! I come back here and I have to be seven years old again! I can’t do it!” John dropped his face in his hand trying to regain control of himself. “God and you’re such a fucking contradiction! You defend him one minute and the next you’re yelling at me for not recounting all the gory details! I don’t even know why we are even fighting about this!”
“Because you forget, John! You forget and leave me to remember everything!” Her hand came up to press against her temple. “I keep every bloody detail and you’ve managed to box it all up and move on! It’s not fair.” Tears had leaked from Harry’s eyes and her body shook with angry sobs.
John’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don’t know what you want from me.” He sat back in his spot on the floor dropping his chin on his knees. The pose made him look seven again and Harry shuddered. “If I remembered everything I’d go crazy.”
Harry snorted humorlessly. “Or drink.”
John’s hands dug into the fabric of his jeans but he forced deep breaths. Ignoring the comment he pulled out his phone.
“Texting your boyfriend?” Harry spat, more vicious then she intended. “He must be a nice distraction.” John wasn’t giving her a reaction. “Tell him I said ‘hi’.” Silence stretched between them as John sent his text and Harry laid back down resting her head on her arms and staring at the man in the painting. “I never rescued you.”
“Of course you did.” John said finally, eying Harry carefully. She didn’t respond, rolling over to face the back of the couch. John sat in thought, listening until her breath evened into sleep.