Seventeen

"The fact that you see the need to lie to me about it tells me it's not just nothing," he pauses as though he's forgotten his next words and swallows hard before continuing, "What has father done?"
"I think there's a frightening amount of laundry in the basket, don't you?" I say to Daniel as I saunter past him and into the hallway.
As expected, he follows.
"I should get some done today, so that when weekend comes I'll have more time on my hands. I've been meaning to stalk Drake online again. I wonder if he's found a girlfriend yet."
He'd better not have. I wouldn't like that.
My brother prowls around the bathroom where he takes the washing basket full of dirty clothes and leads the way to the basement turned laundry room.
"You know Clara, I won't let this slide, no matter how hard you try to ignore me." He pauses to open the door to the basement. "You should know better."
"You disappeared at school," I ignore his remark. Hopefully, by tomorrow morning he won't still remember this conversation. "Where were you?"
He places the basket and we shift through the clothes, grouping them into like-colours. I stand with my arms folded, waiting for an answer.
He stares back at me for a moment, almost glaring, before a slow grin emerges. "You know your father's clothes aren't here," Daniel says. He runs up the stairs while shouting, "I'll go get them."
I chuckle.
He's avoiding my question just as much as I'm avoiding his. When I stumble upon his socks I wrinkle my nose. They reek of malt vinegar. I'm singing one of Drake's songs, Signs. I'm doing it mostly to irritate Daniel. My vocal abilities are outside of what most consider talent.
He stumbles down the stairs as I sing, "Sex all the time, oh all night. Faking it right. Faking it perfect."
Daniel's face is as blank as a window glass. If my twin was himself he'd have corrected my lyrics by now. He darts his eyes all around the room, they are the size of baby tomatoes, . An unhealthy dampness has settled into his skin. Once he runs his hand over his face, Daniel drops to the blue sofa in the middle of the floor.
I nudge him with my elbow. "What's wrong with you? Look like you've seen a ghost."
His eyes struggle to stay on mine. He glances around the room from the white walls, the dead washing machine, to our embarrassing baby pictures on top of the bookshelves. He fidgets. It's like he's never been here before. Like he's lost. "I have to tell you something — oh God. Oh God."
Discomfort and stillness grab me. I wonder if he can see this. I don't want to but I ask, "Tell me what?"
"Sit down," Daniel sighs. He pats the spot near him.
Why is he so serious.
"He's. He's dead." His mouth frame the words in whispers, eyes wide with horror or maybe it's disbelief. "Papa's dead."
My stomach flips, slow. The walls wobble. It takes me a moment to realise I am feeling nauseous. I clutch my stomach, right now it doesn't matter that other people have lost fathers, that other teens didn't even get a chance to meet their fathers.
"No. No. No." The scream is so loud that it makes Daniel jump. "Dad isn't dead. He's alive. I just saw him... An hour ago. You're lying. You're lying."
Even as I say this, I know that Daniel speaks the truth. There's no way he could fake the sadness clouding his eyes. The aura of uncertainty surrounding him.
"When... When I walked into his bedroom. He was just lying there. His limps at odd angles. I looked everywhere, from his closet to under the bed, but couldn't find the head."
I pause and try to make sense of what he's saying. I heard him but I don't understand. It doesn't make sense. Papa wouldn't die. He promised he'd always be here for me. Papa always kept his promises. Father's should never leave their children. No, Daniel is lying. "You're lying..." I glare at him. Accusing. "You always do this. This is no time for practical jokes. Even if you did find a body upstairs, with no head, there's no telling if its really Papa. I refuse to hear you."
He takes a deep breath and stares at the wall behind me. "Go see for yourself."
But then I remember Samantha was here. I hadn't left him alone. Since Samantha is not even half his size, it doesn't make sense to me how she could possibly overpower him. No. There has to be a mistake. Papa is not dead.
I'm on my feet now, frantic. "Let's go. I need to see him. He needs me. He needs us."
My brother grabs my shoulders to keep me still. He looks into my eyes and in complete earnestness says, "He's gone, Clara. The doctors wouldn't have been able to save him even if I'd called the ambulance.
Daniel looks horrified. He pukes on the floor, some greens, carrots, bits of meat and vodka. It stinks. The smell of vomit penetrates. I gag.
A sharp shooting pain stabs through my heart and it leaves a hollow, dead feeling. My muscles relax and I allow myself to drift, losing my sense of self. I don't fight to remain in the surface and my eyelids have an added weight. I welcome the darkness, and the world dies basking me in black nothingness.
When I come to, I wish I haven't.
I get up from the couch trembling and make my way to the kitchen. My brother employs a worried glance as he follows me. In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water and when I lift it up to drink, my hand is trembling so bad that water spills to the floor.
I drop to my knees, the glass shatters around me and the water soaks my socks. As I rock myself side to side, I scream and curse the God Papa loved so much for taking my Father from me. Daniel reaches down and tries to pull me to him but I shrug him off violently.
“Don’t touch me!” I scream at him for considering intervening. " It's all your fault. You wanted this to happen. You hate Papa so much. Please... Daniel, take the pain away. Make it stop, please. Please. Bring him back. Tell me you're lying."
"I'm so... so sorry," he says. He's crying too, now. Paralysed in shock. "I'm so sorry."
I continue to rock as I scream, my face turns towards the ceiling, my eyes accusing. I wail louder and harder than I've ever cried in my life, a horrible keening sound, like a tortured animal.