other

Quiet nights

oakley bell. chip bell. no warnings apply.

The house is quiet. That much isn’t a shock. It’s the opposite that would be jarring; voices, bootsteps, knuckles to drywall- but not shocking. Given enough intents and purposes, you begin to drone out the noise into nothing more than static. Vague and mingling in ways you can’t understand on your own.

But the house is quiet. It’s a small mercy, given the time of night. Much too dark to see out from her window but she tries anyway. Scaling her toychest, kicking up her legs and propping up on her toes to peer out. It’s so dark, and it’s so quiet.

With her blanket tucked into a tight fist, she hops down and stumbles back to the ground. Finding carpet between her fingers before she can pull herself back up. She hasn’t quite gotten the hang of this gravity thing. Balancing the weight of her body and the will to keep it upright. It’s overwhelming, all the moving parts. Arching her feet up and forward, her hands clenched, her eyes darting from darkened corners. All while maintaining balance. How did they do it?

Visions of him flood to the forefront of her mind. She sees him running, standing, crouching. Placing one foot in front of the other like it was the easiest thing in the world- it probably was for him. Marching around like the world should meet him in his steps and make way.

She thinks of him. She raises her jaw, clutching the doorway and squaring her shoulders. She thinks of him, and she steps forward. Her blanket in tow, she waddles all the way down the hall. Above her, portraits are hung across the stretch of the hallway. None of family, only honorable faces. Clad in dress blues and navy-worthy frowns. She doesn’t stop for them, lest she crane her head up and stand on her toes. Too small to know them, too young to think much of them just yet.

She thinks of him when she presses a palm to his door, easing it open with clumsy, grabbing force. Nearly toppling over with it when the door gives way for her. Little feet padding across the carpet as she approaches his bed, peering over the side to see him lying there. Sheets tossed and tussled to his knees, arms sprawled out across the mattress. His head sunken into the pillow as a slight snore follows his every exhale.

She grapples onto his sheets. Clutching fistfuls of mattress as she raises her feet onto the side rail. Huffing, struggling, before finally dropping her weight and tumbling head first into his bed.

Momentarily does she panic. Eyes wide and breath sharp as she searches his face for awareness. When he doesn’t, she crawls to the bottom of his bed where his blankets had been subconsciously kicked off. She grabs clumsy handfuls of the fabric and pulls it up. Bundling her brother in his sheets before curling up on her own.

Oakley tucks her knees to her chest, slipping her head into the space below Chase’s arms. Pressing her forehead into the mattress and willing his hand to drop. Squeezing her eyes tight and hoping that by the flick of a muscle or a joint, his arm will slope down and graze her spine.

She imagines him waking up, but he wouldn’t anger. He would see her there, curled up to his side, and he would smile. Maybe pull a hand to her side and keep her close. It’s wishful thinking at best, because her brother never does. But she’s made her peace with that, and the house isn’t so quiet anymore.

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