turned back to him, his eyes were red, and his cheeks had gone all puffy. It was almost as if he had had some sort of an allergic reaction to the sauce, or to the pasta, or both .
“You’re going to have a little brother, or sister.”
In that moment, Mitts felt his mind unstitching itself.
All at once, he felt as though he was high— too high —up from the ground.
For some reason, within his mind’s eye, he pictured that he was surrounded by pointed, dark-purple hills.
Buffeting winds.
Winds which he couldn’t possibly resist.
Not even if he’d been the strongest kid on Earth.
So he fell.
As she stepped away from the French doors, he felt a cool breeze blow against his face. He took another sip of champagne. Savoured the bitter taste. Felt the bubbles tickle his throat. Hang in his chest. He breathed in the hidden roses once again. The string quartet fluttered away on the air. Never quite in range of hearing. Never designed to be heard out here, up on the balcony.
Her face was fresh, peachy, her cheeks slightly red as if she had pinched them to make them that way. She looked so much younger than she had seemed only moments ago. When they had stood inside the large hall, among all the others: the endless penguins, in their tuxedos; the endless birds-of-paradise, in their brightly coloured frocks and sparkly trimmings.
They had been just like any of the others.
Components of a larger universe.
Just a pair of twinkling stars.
Just as unique, and just as rare.
And equally commonplace.
He had expected her to follow. But, still, seeing her here now, it seemed strange.
Otherworldly.
She took another few steps forward.
Until she—like him—was lost to the dark.
A VISION OF HELL
M itts could hear the sirens wailing out.
They dragged him awake.
Snagged his eyelids.
Peeled them open.
Rain pounding on the rooftops.
Its scent on the air.
He heard scurrying, about the house, someone screaming.
His mother?
A deeper voice, harder footsteps.
Mitts turned to his bedroom door.
It flew open.
His father stood there.
Barking instructions.
Instructions that simply couldn’t be heard.
Not over the wailing sirens.
Mitts blinked himself around.
Felt his father’s harsh grip on him.
Dragging him up and out of bed.
Telling him to pack .
Mitts could smell sulphur, too, amongst the rain.
He tasted ash in his mouth.
The house . . . was it burning down?
His father was gone.
Before he had the chance to ask.
Mitts hurried himself, matching his father’s panic.
His whole body trembled, his mind still half seeped in sleep.
His heart hummed, up in his throat, unable to believe.
Mitts didn’t pause to think. He only dragged the drawers open. He pawed about. For what he needed. For his clothes. A few books. He tossed everything he had into the sports bag he used for PE—throwing out his PE kit as he went.
He threw the bag strap over his shoulder.
He slipped out through his bedroom door.
Between the two of them, his parents lugged a hard-shelled suitcase.
One of those enormous, two-hundred-litre capacity ones they’d taken on a family trip to Australia, a few years before.
Dizzily, Mitts eyed the Australian Air tag which continued to cling to the handle of the suitcase.
Neither of his parents had thought to remove the tag either before or right now.
There was no time.
Mitts had no clue what was happening.
But there was no time.
Mitts followed his parents down the staircase, toward the front door. He felt some of the books he’d crammed into his sports bag jab him in the spine.
But he tried not to allow it to bother him.
He couldn’t allow it to bother him.
Whatever was going on was a matter of life or death.
As Mitts descended the staircase, on his parents’ heels, the smell of smoke grew stronger. He felt the ash layering itself into his lungs. He could feel his blood fizzle about his veins. And he wanted—more than
“You’re going to have a little brother, or sister.”
In that moment, Mitts felt his mind unstitching itself.
All at once, he felt as though he was high— too high —up from the ground.
For some reason, within his mind’s eye, he pictured that he was surrounded by pointed, dark-purple hills.
Buffeting winds.
Winds which he couldn’t possibly resist.
Not even if he’d been the strongest kid on Earth.
So he fell.
As she stepped away from the French doors, he felt a cool breeze blow against his face. He took another sip of champagne. Savoured the bitter taste. Felt the bubbles tickle his throat. Hang in his chest. He breathed in the hidden roses once again. The string quartet fluttered away on the air. Never quite in range of hearing. Never designed to be heard out here, up on the balcony.
Her face was fresh, peachy, her cheeks slightly red as if she had pinched them to make them that way. She looked so much younger than she had seemed only moments ago. When they had stood inside the large hall, among all the others: the endless penguins, in their tuxedos; the endless birds-of-paradise, in their brightly coloured frocks and sparkly trimmings.
They had been just like any of the others.
Components of a larger universe.
Just a pair of twinkling stars.
Just as unique, and just as rare.
And equally commonplace.
He had expected her to follow. But, still, seeing her here now, it seemed strange.
Otherworldly.
She took another few steps forward.
Until she—like him—was lost to the dark.
A VISION OF HELL
M itts could hear the sirens wailing out.
They dragged him awake.
Snagged his eyelids.
Peeled them open.
Rain pounding on the rooftops.
Its scent on the air.
He heard scurrying, about the house, someone screaming.
His mother?
A deeper voice, harder footsteps.
Mitts turned to his bedroom door.
It flew open.
His father stood there.
Barking instructions.
Instructions that simply couldn’t be heard.
Not over the wailing sirens.
Mitts blinked himself around.
Felt his father’s harsh grip on him.
Dragging him up and out of bed.
Telling him to pack .
Mitts could smell sulphur, too, amongst the rain.
He tasted ash in his mouth.
The house . . . was it burning down?
His father was gone.
Before he had the chance to ask.
Mitts hurried himself, matching his father’s panic.
His whole body trembled, his mind still half seeped in sleep.
His heart hummed, up in his throat, unable to believe.
Mitts didn’t pause to think. He only dragged the drawers open. He pawed about. For what he needed. For his clothes. A few books. He tossed everything he had into the sports bag he used for PE—throwing out his PE kit as he went.
He threw the bag strap over his shoulder.
He slipped out through his bedroom door.
Between the two of them, his parents lugged a hard-shelled suitcase.
One of those enormous, two-hundred-litre capacity ones they’d taken on a family trip to Australia, a few years before.
Dizzily, Mitts eyed the Australian Air tag which continued to cling to the handle of the suitcase.
Neither of his parents had thought to remove the tag either before or right now.
There was no time.
Mitts had no clue what was happening.
But there was no time.
Mitts followed his parents down the staircase, toward the front door. He felt some of the books he’d crammed into his sports bag jab him in the spine.
But he tried not to allow it to bother him.
He couldn’t allow it to bother him.
Whatever was going on was a matter of life or death.
As Mitts descended the staircase, on his parents’ heels, the smell of smoke grew stronger. He felt the ash layering itself into his lungs. He could feel his blood fizzle about his veins. And he wanted—more than
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