Mind and Matter

11 | Emerson

If sleep was something I could put on a to-do list and check off every morning, half of my current problems would be solved.

For some people I imagined it did work that way. Max never knew that while I always poked fun at his habit for sleeping until the late hours of the morning every weekend, inside I was jealous. Not of him, but of how simple it was for him: turn off the lights, put down head on pillow, and sleep.

But after tossing and turning at three in the morning with my mind a mixture of song lyrics, math equations, and Leo, I decided to drag myself out of bed and walk downstairs.

I pulled on a loose pink cardigan over my pajamas and headed to the stairs, passing by my parents' room. They'd forgotten to close their door, letting me hear my dad's light rhythmic snores and notice that most of the sheets were pulled over to my mom's side of the bed. The way they usually slept was with my dad's arm around my mom, yet today they occupied opposite corners of their bed.

I stopped staring into their room when I realized it was rather creepy and descended the stairs. I made sure my footsteps were light and deft against the hardwood floor and continued into the kitchen. I was reaching my hand into the cabinet to grab a glass when I heard a noise from behind me. At first it was the rustle of a nylon jacket and then the sound of a door sliding open. When I heard footsteps only inches away from me, I let out half of a scream before a hand clamped over my mouth. I removed the floating hand from me and turned around to see whose body it belonged to.

"Max," I said, staring my little brother in his two widened brown eyes. My tone was a mixture of disdain, surprise and relief—that it wasn't an unknown intruder. To say I was disappointed in him was an understatement.

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" he hissed, shrugging off his navy jacket. The funny part was he was looking at me as if I was the intruder and he had every right to be coming home at 3:37 in the morning.

"Weren't you supposed to be at home?" I challenged, taking a few steps towards him. His lips parted and he swallowed a gulp, his bravado faltering. The kitchen grew silent and our faster breathing fell in line with the low hum of the refrigerator. He was angry and I was angry, for different reasons.

"I was with friends," was all he said before filling himself a glass of water and downing it in seconds.

This wasn't the brother I knew. He wasn't cold and rude; he wasn't one to break rules and seem proud of it.

"What's gotten into you?" I whispered, shaking my head at the fact his clothes smell distinctly of alcohol. "Max, you're not even fifteen yet. What are you doing?"

"Why are you bothered?" he asked, rolling his eyes and slamming the cup down onto the table assertively. "It's my life, not yours. Besides, do you think anyone really cares?"

He turned around and stalked to the staircase, not caring to hear what I had to say—as always these days. I drank some water and walked to the living room, yawning as I lowered myself to the couch. I stared at the blank TV screen in front of me for fifteen minutes, pulling my cardigan tighter around me as chills ran up and down my body. I had been awake for over twenty-two hours and with each passing minute I felt myself grow weaker. I lay back and curled my knees to my chest, closing my drooping eyelids and not thinking about a single thing.