The Eyes Of Wonderland

#Chapter13-02

#Chapter13-02

"Where's my brother then?"

I didn't want to be alone, I realized. I wanted . . . goddamn it! I had no clue what I wanted. Every thought I had seemed to contradict itself. It was like my brain got its kicks from going to war against itself.

"What time is it?"

Yanking the phone away from my ear, squinting at the little digits at the top of the screen, I answered, "Just after four. Why?"

"He should be home by now. Swing by if you want to see him, Eyes. He hates being alone and I'm not done for another hour. If something's wrong though, I can come pick you up."

Instead of answering him, I ended the call. His concern, like most things he did these days— including breathing — pissed me off. It had been two weeks since I had arrived at his door in the dead of night, somewhere less than sober. Two weeks since Deacon had dropped me off. No further contact had been made, and I'd spent the time making the damn girl scream in pleasure to make sure that her kind of parts were still the parts that still got me off.

Smart enough to catch on, Blake hadn't brought it up since, but the unspoken questions lingered in the 'How are you? and his 'Are you doing okay?' that he seemed to douse me in instead.

I was done listening to them. He wanted me to consider the possibility that Deacon had been more than just a drunken screw. I refused. He'd sent me a link that explained what bisexual was. I'd deleted it, and almost did the same to his number.

Oz, at eighteen— one year and a few months younger than me— was in his last year of school. He hated it and wanted to drop out. He got told no on a weekly basis by both my mother and me, as well as Blake, but that didn't stop him from bringing it up every chance he got.

As I dialled his number, I changed direction, swurving to the nearest right and hitting a jog across the road when a path formed in the flow of traffic. Oz and Blake's apartment was a trek away, but I took it as a challenge. I hadn't been to the gym all week and the exercise felt like it was much needed.

Oz didn't answer. It rang out until it went to voicemail. He did, however, phone back seconds later, somewhat breathless as he gave a squeaky, "Hey."

"Hey, Ozzypop," I greeted warmly. It was a much nicer tone than Blake had received. A much nicer tone than anybody else received. It dampened my fury. It lessened the anger that tried to destroy me from inside out. Had the tightening in my chest releasing.

My mother had once told me that Oz's attachment to me had been unhealthy; before Blake had come into the picture, Oz had used to cling to me. From an outside perspective, it seemed as though he was the one that was dependent on me.

I had been glad that nobody saw past that. The truth was, I had needed him more than he had needed me.

I needed his attention and his hero-worship. I needed to be needed. Swooping in and being the awesome older brother . . . with that gone, there were times that I felt completely and utterly lost.

"Hi, hi, hi," Oz chirped through the phone. "Eyes, did you know that a donkey will sink in quicksand, but a mule won't?"

I didn't know that. I didn't want to know that, either, but I cared about Oz's feelings more than I did my own. "No. How did you find that out?"

"I was playing on the internet instead of doing my work in IT. When can I see you? I want to show you my talking robot."

"Pour me a glass of Pepsi. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Oz cheered but then paused. "I'm not supposed to pour stuff anymore because I poured it all over the kitchen floor before."

"Fine." I gave a tiny chuckle, nostalgia rearing its ugly head. I missed his odd ways and his ability to turn simple things into a catastrophe. "Run me a glass of water from the tap and put it in the fridge."

I ended the call because I knew it was a struggle for him to do more than one thing at once; talking on the phone and making a drink would probably screw him up.

My brother wasn't dumb. He was far from it. Academically, he was a little behind, but that wasn't a reflection on his intellect: mom had told him a few years back that she'd buy him the underwater aquarium set he'd wanted if he got straight A's for the rest of the term. The little s**t had become a star pupil overnight. No. He wasn't dumb. He just seemed to live with his head permanently wedged in the clouds. He lived in his own little world of innocence, and although he breezed through ours when he had to, he wasn't always a part of it.

By the time I made it to Oz, most of my anger had deteriorated. Having spent the walk analysing what I had done to set off Delilah and still hitting a brick wall, I brushed it off as her being a crazy b***h. It must have been that time of the month or something.

"Hi, I was waiting for . . . what happened to your face?" Oz whimpered when he opened the door. He still had his uniform on, following the stupid dress code they'd introduced two years back, but the front of his white button up was stained with what looked like chocolate. It matched the smear that lingered in the corner of his mouth.

My hand jumped up. Brushed against it. Winced. It was still bleeding in places, which let me know just how deep she'd struck, but the cold air seemed to have clotted most of it together. My fingers brushed against bumpy, scabby lines.

"I got into a fight with a kitten. I think the kitty-cat won," I said with a wink, forcing a bright smile as I shoved past him, making my way to the bathroom to inspect the damage. I had tried to check it out in a car window but it had earned me some strange looks so I had kept on walking.

"What a bitc —" As I rounded on the mirror, copping sight of the three angry streaks that ran from my left cheek to the start of my neck, I blew out a harsh breath. It didn't look as bad as it felt. Two of them hadn't broken the skin, just swollen and standing out in stark contrast against my flesh. But the middle one was the bleeder. The top half was still leaking, and the bottom had clotted. Grabbing a handful of tissue paper and drowning the s**t out of it, I dabbed it against it, cursing quietly.

"Was it really a kitty that did that, Eyes?" Oz asked from the doorway after I had cleaned up the worst of the blood. Brow crinkled, glasses having slid right on down to the tip of his nose, he seemed doubtful.

"Yup. A really mean one."

"Oh." Oz frowned. "I'm glad Blake bought me a puppy and not a kitten then."