Mara
I open my eyes as the first rays of sunlight hit them, forcing me awake. The curtains are open. My mother always does that to make me wake up quicker; I'm sure I would have slept past noon if they hasn't been open. I yawn and stretch like I usually do as I rise from the bed, walking to the kitchen. For some reason I'm hungry, probably because I has to run to school yesterday. I grab a thin slice of bread and spread butter on the surface. I eat the slice quicker than I made it, which is quite slow.
This day seems no different from other Saturdays. Well, until I walk to the bathroom and see blood in the sink, and it's an amount you'd expect to see only if someone gets their head cut off. The water is actively running from the tap, but the drying blood is still on the edges of the white metal. It's pretty fresh-looking. I don't know why, but my first concern is the water bill. I bolt to switch the tap off and stop the water flow. Only after that I'm starting to realize there's actually blood in my sink.
Although I don't faint or throw up at the sight of someone else's blood in my bathroom, it surely makes me grossed out and causes me to gag. I'm trying to convince myself it's period blood, because Mum could be on a heavy one right now. She has heavy cramps, especially after she had me. I don't know if she was telling the truth or just trying to make me feel bad, but that's what she told me when I had just gotten my first one.
But now that I think of other possibilities, Rowan could be wounded. He rarely cries if he has a cut or anything minor. What if he's bleeding alone in his room right now? I hate that I even get thay kind of thoughts. It makes my heart sink when I think of what could have happened to Rowan for him to bleed out alone. He's just a kid after all. Well, he's turning 10 years old this year, but that's a young age to be seeing that much blood. I hope he's not the one suffering. I wish it was me.
I don't even use the bathroom before leaving it. I immediadly check Rowan's room. He's playing with a toy airplane, perfectly fine. I sigh in relief as I see how happily he's playing, sitting there all lively and joyful. I'm relieved that reckless ball of joy is in one piece. Yes, he usually annoys the hell out of me. Yes, I'd be happy to have some more peace. But I'm not a heartless monster who would let their own brother die just because he'd annoying. That would be psychopathic behaviour.
Then I look in the living room. Mother is sitting in an armchair, looking more tired than usual. I notice how she's wearing a long-sleeve sweater in the summer, and also the used bandage on the floor. I can see a thicker spot on her arm under the sweater, and assume it's one of the bandages. She must be too tired to clean up the mess she left behind. This is not just a normal flu. This is something way worse. But maybe I could help her feel better. Those pills have always worked. They can't fail now, right? Pain should be one thing they can help with.
She shakes her head, declining the jar of Quickhelper pills I'm holding in my hand. She must have a high fever and is in a lot of pain right now. I'm assuming that because she's laying down, clutching her stomach. There's a bandage on her arm. Maybe she lost balance due to being ill and hurt her arm. Used bandages are scattered around. She's too tired to even pick them up. Her eyes close to try to get some rest. She deserves to get some. Since I want to know what the bandage on her forearm is for, so I decide to talk to her.
"No medication? Do you need anything? A blanket, maybe?" I ask. I'm genuinely worried about her wellbeing. She's sitting much more stiffly than usual, holding the bandaged arm in a shaking hand. She doesn't speak, just shakes her head. No. I glance at the bandage again.
"What happened?" I ask, trying to get a confirmation on what happened in the hospital.
"What do you mean?" she asks, which I try to point out the injury that she is probably way too aware of right now. Tha pain it must be causing is making her forget its existence.
"The bandage on your forearm," I say as confirmation. This time she responds with words. Through her smile, I can hear a waver in the voice.
"Oh, this?" she responds with a groggy voice, gesturing towards the bandage on her arm. "It's just a scratch from one of the tools," she continues, her voice softer now.
By the blood I saw in the sink, by the blood bleeding through the bandages. By it all I have a strong feeling it's more than a scratch, but I don't ask about it. Knowing my mother, she doesn't give the juiciest bits of information easily. Also, the bandage would be a band-aid instead if it was just a scratch. If I were to believe her, I would have to wonder where the blood came from.
A small cut doesn't cause the bathroom to look like a crime scene. I've seen cuts of different sizes, yes, but they have never bled that much. It's intense how much I feel like she's hiding a bigger wound from me. The trait of being secretive is not an excuse either. She's acting different today.
There's silence. The awkward, eerie kind of silence. I don't dare to break it. That trembling of her hands tells too much. She doesn't want to tell the truth so I won't make her. My mother doesn't deserve to be interrupted when she's trying to rest. There's a sudden need to leave her be within me, telling me to get out of this room and tell Rowan to be quiet. I act on it without a second thought, walking back into my room.
It's not even noon yet, but I lay down in my bed. I have no intention to sleep. Just lay there. Being the overthinker I am, I start replaying the coversation I had with Mother. The spot she has that bandage on reminds me of the place where the kid at school bit the other guy; the arm. I have always noticed little details and things others don't notice. I don't need them for anything, though. Nobody cares about my mind maps of people's breakfast routine or how many chicken have crossed the road. Connecting things is my favorite thing to do at home.
Now that I think about it, that kid's expression was quite frigtened when he was dragged away. It's like he didn't mean to be aggressive, which is stupid of me to claim, because nobody attacks people accidentally. The panic was so vibrant, the hallway so loud for the little amount of people. I could taste the rage in that bite, the raw, raging energy launched straight at the other student. The teachers yelling from afar before sending one to actually take the student away.
I saw the other's confusion when he got bit. It tells me the fight was actually meant to be a playful fight with rules, but escalated as one bit the other and made him bleed a lot. That cut was deep. The teeth left an uneven mark that is certainly going to leave a scar. Maybe the kid's parents are the same kind of people. Biting fighters? If Mum got herself into a fight at work then it could be possible the kid's parent did the same to her.
My logical thinking is at its peak. I can immediadly see gaps in my theory. She doesn't fight, if she does she fights dirty and wins. Her "scratches" can't be just small wounds. They have to be deep like that bite. I don't know who she works with, but I'm sure her coworkers are related to this. She could be in danger if she keeps on getting herself injured at work.