Hopeless

Chapter 2: Kendrall

It’s been three years since those first couple of attacks, and every night I still see the faces of my family on that dreaded week. Mason as he tried to stay awake and Hope as she walked me to the basement and cried on my shoulder at Mi Rancho. Father as he stood, his g*n aimed at the front door and the silent car ride home from the grocery store. I had never seen him so serious. Then, there were Mother and Carol.

Mother had played chess with Mason; we tease that he got his smarts from her. She was always so gentle, so caring. If you had a problem Mother was there in a heartbeat to fix it. She was a little controlling, but I loved her. She was there for all my best moments.

Carol was there for all of us, through both the good and bad. I could sit mesmerized by her music for hours. She taught me about all that woman stuff that Mother wouldn’t. At the time I thought that was nasty. Who wanted to hear about periods and cramps and yuck. Now though, I would have that conversation one hundred times over with my cherished sister, if only I could hear her voice one more time.

Sighing, I remind myself that we’re not the same family anymore. It’s not 2099 anymore. I twirl a piece of hair and yank the way Carol used to. It doesn’t help me like it helped her. Grabbing my diary, I begin to write as I have every morning since the attacks began.

Dear Diary,

It’s October, to be exact, October 23, 2102. We have thirteen days until the anniversary of the first attack. It’s been almost three years and few people in our small town have gotten over it. A little town like Gold River, California shouldn’t have been targeted, but now we have to figure things out.

This town used to be a place where you could watch people laugh, play, and help a neighbor lift a cereal box off one of the high shelves at the stores or markets. Now, there’s a heavy curtain no one has been able to lift to find hope and joy once more. There used to be about 12,000 of us, now a fourth of us have left or passed on. It seems as if we’re all waiting for one person to step up and bring us out of this depression, but no one has been brave enough. Not yet. 

I’m still learning to cope, to move on. I will not submit to them out of fear and sorrow. New Generation doesn’t get to have that kind of power over me. Their failures and successes have been all over the news. The deaths were horrifying and gruesome, but at least there were always more failures than successful attacks. There hasn’t been another attack in over two years; the only thing close was a raid a month ago. Maybe they're dying down, at least for now. That’s what’s given me hope. Our city has Hope… or at least it used to. Hope Evermore, my sister. She was one of the 3,000 who were murdered, missing, or left. Many believed she was kidn*pped or murdered during the attack and the aftermath of it, but I know they’re wrong. She was there with me weeping over Mother and Carol in the basement. She tucked me in that night and for another year she continued to tuck me in and wake me up until one morning when she didn’t.

Hope is gone, and we’re not ever getting her back. She was what the town believed in, what I believed in. Now, I'm not so sure. Whatever the case may be, we have to be here now more than ever for each other. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, I just know it. We can make it through these trials if we work together.

-The Girl Who Saw It All

I look up, satisfied. I’d always wanted to become an author, or a journalist, or any type of writer. I could put these little notes I write into the paper, publish them. It’s not like anyone reads the papers anymore though, they’re too outdated, almost completely gone. Maybe once this war destroys our technology the papers will become popular again. It’s only a matter of time before all our advancements crumble to the ground due to these attacks. They’re not just here anymore, they’re all across the country. New Gen is destroying this generation and any hope left which is kind of ironic because their name is New Generation. I let out a sigh, knowing that I’d never have the guts to publish anything from this diary, even on some unknown website. It’s too personal, especially considering what’s occurred these past few years. The flashbacks, nightmares, and dear old dad. No, this isn’t something I want anyone else to read.

“Kendrall!” Get down here this instant! Your brother’s throwing a fit!” Father calls from downstairs. I open my bedroom door.

And back to reality. Usually, Hope or Carol would be here to take care of Mason, but they’re gone. They abandoned me, their little sister. Carol I can understand, not that I want to, but Hope straight up left and no one cares, or notices. I just lost my best friend in the whole freaking world and people seem to have lost their sense of empathy. Maybe it’s because I’m not the only one who has hardened her heart to the outside world. I feel like I might just be the only sixteen year old girl though. No one understands; I’m not sure anyone ever will.

I make sure to close the door and lock it with one of the keys dangling from my necklace. The other’s jingle, waiting for their chance of use. They will get their turns. I check the lock only to groan in annoyance. I forgot Father broke it last time I hid my savings. I thought if he didn’t have the money he wouldn’t buy more alcohol. I was wrong. Sometimes I think I’m the only sane one in this house anymore. Father became an alcoholic sometime after those first attacks. It got worse after Hope left, leaving Mason and me to fend for ourselves. I never believed I would be the oldest girl in the house, much less the family. Now I am. Mother and Carol passed, it’s easier to say than are dead or murdered; and the next oldest, Hope… might as well be dead. I thought I might have her at least until she was eighteen, but I was wrong. I was wrong in thinking we were safe in our little, unknown town. I was wrong about a lot of things. Well, now I’m not, and I won’t ever be again. It’s easy to get things right when you quit guessing. From now on I’ll be using facts. Hope taught me that.

My hands are gripping the black stair railing tightly as I fight back tears. Nothing is ever as simple as you think it will be in the beginning. Nothing is ever that easy.

“Kendrall Ellen Evermore, get yourself down here!” Father yells, reminding me that I should be taking care of Mason. I hate being on Father’s bad side, so I rush down the stairs.  My hand immediately goes to my necklace as I try to calm my racing heart. I rub my thumb and index finger along the mystery key’s gold, yet fading, smooth surface. It makes a soft jingling sound as the keys bump against each other. When I get down the flight of stairs from my room, or I guess most would call it the attic, I nearly gag. The air is stale and smells of whiskey and urine, both old and new. Part of me wishes I could get used to the smell, no matter how wretched. I mean, shouldn’t it be normal once it’s been a part of your life for almost three years?

“Oh good, you’re here,” Father says as I walk into the kitchen. He’s drinking another bottle of whiskey by the counter, some of it missing his mouth and dribbling down his unshaven beard. Father doesn’t stop drinking to look at me; he hardly acknowledges me. I’m just a servant now, not a daughter. If I had any sense of humor left I’d say he looked a lot like a giant ‘Grumpy the Dwarf.’ The old him would’ve laughed at that. Neither of us are laughing now. 

“Mason’s out on the front porch. I don’t need to hear a little boy sniffling and crying,” Father says, his words monotonous, uncaring.

Just once I wish I could be oblivious to what’s going on around me. I want to go back to that innocent girl I used to be, just for a moment, so I frown and put on my little girl face. Deep within me, I know this is wrong. I want to be on Father’s good side. I can’t help it though. I want a hug, for my father to hold me just for a moment like he used to. Sometimes, it’s easier to be ignorant. There are so many things I wish I could forget.

“Why’s he crying?” I ask. Instantly I thought: big mistake.

Father throws his whiskey bottle to the ground, and I watch as the glass shatters, covering the floor in sharp shards. It twinkles in the fluorescent kitchen light, leaving the floor a mess of yellowish drink and jagged pieces of the bottle.

“Why do you think, little miss heart-of-stone?” he spits on the floor. The color is a dirty yellow like the whiskey and I cringe. I know the reason for all of this too, and I wish it was anything else. I wish I could go back to that little girl.

“I’ll be back,” I mutter begrudgingly and head to the front porch, where I see Mason sitting, our mother’s antique watch in his hands. He’s rubbing his thumbs over the face when I open the door.

“You know it’s okay to miss her, right?” I ask, coming up behind him. He jumps up, startled, but quickly settles down when he realizes it’s just me.

“That’s not what Father tells me,” he says, sniffling. His eyes are puffy and red, making me feel like a heartless jerk, just as Father said only moments ago. I feel awful. We were never close, me and Mason. I had Hope and he had Mother. We were both pretty close to Carol. They were our best friends in the whole world, so I completely understand.

“I don’t care what Father said,” I tell Mason gently, saying this for him and maybe even a bit for me. “He can be mad all he wants,” I continue, “he has his alcohol.” The word is bitter on my tongue and Mason looks away when I say it, knowing I’m right. We sit in silence for a while and it feels good. It feels good to be outside with my little brother, both of us in our own worlds. For once, I feel as though I’m not suffocating in our Father’s angry spouts, or the broken silence at school I suck in a couple lungfuls of fresh air, giving off one of my rare smiles. For once, I am free.

And then Father realizes we’re still outside.

He opens the door and bangs his fist into the exterior of the house, leaving a small indent in the wood. A woodchip splinters off, making a slight cracking noise. Father raises his eyebrows as if to ask, are you as weak as your brother? I close my eyes, frustrated. No, I’m not, but what I really want to throw in Father’s face is that he’s just as weak, always moping. Alcohol is his freedom. Give me a chance to have mine.

When Hope first left, the people of the city came to us for consolation. She was one of the bright, peppy cheerleaders at the high school. Everyone felt as if they had lost her like we had. They wanted someone to cry with, someone who would understand their pain. I can’t even begin to think they can feel the same amount of pain that I do. She wasn’t their sister, yet they still came.

What they weren’t expecting was a family where Hope was the only ray of sun left. Mason tried. Some of his elementary school friends came over the first couple weeks after Hope’s disappearance. Some of my friends from school came by too, but I never went down to see them. I sat in my room completely numb inside, working up the courage to harden my heart to the outside world. I can’t let anyone in anymore. I can’t even work up the courage to make eye contact with anyone in this town, not that anyone would dare try after my dad threw beer bottles at them out the front door. I spent the rest of those days cleaning up the broken glass and alcohol stains that ran down our driveway. Maybe Hope wasn’t this city’s last source of hope or maybe having her here was just a fantasy, intended to keep the murderers and psychopaths away. A sister would never leave another sister, so this is what I choose to believe. It’s always been me, Father, and Mason. Mother and Carol passed from natural causes years ago, and Hope never existed. My fantasy doesn’t live a very long life. Welcome to reality.

Father leaves us outside on the porch, but I don’t wait for long to go back in. He’ll expect me back inside to clean up soon enough. 

I like to pretend that I’m Cinderella at age sixteen, sweeping away both my worries and my past. Hope and I would come up with games in the days after the attacks where we would pretend that we were servants in a billionaire’s home. Our backyard garden, now dead, was tended to every morning by the ‘Evermore Sisters.’ The rooms and stairs were swept and buckets of dirty water were thrown outside. We would both come back in the house soaked, stifling our laughter. Father never noticed, but we tiptoed anyways. Now, it’s just me.

“More like the Evermore Sister now,” I mutter under my breath. I pull my lazy butt off the porch stairs. Mason doesn’t even notice. He’s still staring at Mother’s watch. The silver outline twinkles in the sunlight. I can still remember her rubbing it when she was nervous, her bitten nails leaving small scratches here and there. Mason’s do the same.

I remember Mother coming up the stairs to say goodnight and I would whine, asking, “Do I really have to go to bed now?” Mother would only nod and laugh, kissing me on the forehead. Then, Father would come in, before he ever started drinking. He would come and sit on the bed I shared with Hope, taking a strand of my hair between his fingers and tugging. I’d pretend to be hurt, saying I needed a kiss to make it all better.

Memories, both old and recent, flood my brain. Father, asking me, do you want to dance, Kendrall? and I would giggle in my little girl voice and take his hands. He taught me to waltz, saying that history such as this was important for young girls, and I believed him.

Mother and Mason would be sitting by the fire playing checkers, Mother letting Mason win every time. And every time, Mason would scowl and say he could win on his own. Everyone knew this wasn’t true, including Mason, but we played along each time. Mason thought he was the world’s youngest genius at the age of six.

Carol, the most talented musician in the family, except for maybe Father, played complicated ballads on the piano and beautiful songs on the violin. Friends and neighbors would come by to hear her play and I would always clap and say, “That’s my sister!” The memories vanish in an instant, and I blink, forgetting that I’m not that little girl anymore. Mason and Mother will never play checkers again, and Carol won’t be playing her instruments for the neighbors ever again either. All of that is gone now.

I sigh and open the front door, knowing that I’m only stalling for time. You can’t change the past, but you can change your future. The glass is still littered all over the floor, and Father’s spit wads lie on or in between the shards. I tried so hard to bury all those past memories, knowing they’ll never come true again. We all have our own roles to play. They may change, will change, but this is my role now. I pull out the broom and begin to hum. It’s an oldie, a song that no one from this generation likely knows, but there’s not much new music anyways. “I believe” by Jackie Evancho plays in my head on repeat. I don’t think Jackie ever thought she would experience a war this brutal. It’s not mere protests anymore. After a bomb blew up the capital, this became a war. I look down to the shards on the floor, sitting there. They wink at me mockingly, but I stop sweeping, leaving them be. Father will only drop another bottle. 

I push the shards into the corner with the broom, setting the broom on top. I need my heart to be made of steel, or stone, of anything harder than the average heart. It has to be able to endure this pain and so much more. Then again, I can’t fight forever. Everyone breaks down at some point, I’m just not ready yet. Am I?

“Are you there, God?” I finally let myself ask, my voice a mere whisper. Do I even believe in this being I’m speaking to? I stare at the broom atop the pile of glass. It fits right in, nicked and scarred from cleaning with me for years. I would fit right in too, my heart scarred as it is. 

“Are you here for me?” I ask God again. I slide down the wall, waiting for an answer I doubt will ever come. I let the tears come rushing down, leaving streaks down my dirty cheeks. I am not a heartless girl, even if I may seem like it.