“What the hell?” I shout as I race to him, grabbing his arms and examining them. “What did you do?”
Long scratches stretch the length of his forearm, deep enough to bleed, perhaps even deep enough to scar. But not deep enough for stitches, or for permanent harm.
Thank you, God.
I look up frantically, and Finn stares down at me, his pale blue eyes so eerily calm.
“Why did you do this?” I ask, my voice shaking. “Are you upset because I went with Dare? Because you told me to do it.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says limply. “I was out in the woods. The branches….” His voice trails off and he would really have me believe that the branches cut his arms.
I stare at him in disbelief.
“I’m stressed,” he mumbles. “Maybe it was an accident.”
I open my mouth, but he holds up a hand.
“Calla, I don’t want to fight. And no, of course I’m not upset with you for going with Dare. I want you to go with Dare. I want you to be independent. Can’t you see that? I’m trying to show you.”
His face is pained now, but he’s still handsome and calm. He’s still my Finn.
“I don’t know what you want,” I admit softly. “I don’t want to feel guilty when I do something without you but when I do, I’m afraid you’ll react like….this.”
I purposely don’t look at his arms, at the blood that drips on the sand, staining it crimson.
“What are we gonna do, Finn?” I ask quietly. “We’ve got to get a handle on this.”
He smiles gracefully, his teeth perfectly white and straight. “You say we like it’s your problem, Cal. I guess that’s your problem. You’ve always assumed my issues like they’re your own. They’re not. We’re different in that way. You’re healthy, Cal. Act like it. It’s time.”
His voice is firm, an assertive tone that he rarely takes with me and I stand shocked, mesmerized by this new side of him.
“I don’t understand,” I tell him softly. “What do you want?”
He smiles again, and it’s eerie now in the fading light. Eerie with it’s calm, eerie with its knowingness.
“I want you to let go,” he says simply. “Just a little. You have to.”
I start to shake my head because a desperation wells up in my chest and threatens to overwhelm me. He holds up a hand.
“Let’s not argue,” he suggests. “I’m going to go clean up.”
And so I trail behind him, back up the trail and into the house, where we clean him up and wrap his arms in bandages. He doesn’t flinch when I spray him with first aid spray, even though I know it stings. He doesn’t flinch when I tell him he has to be more careful. He just remains calm.
It’s enough to terrify me.
Because one thing about my brother, he never remains calm. That’s not his thing.
But today it is.
We curl up in my room and listen to music, to old albums that mom loved… the Beatles, the Cure, U2. It starts to rain and it runs down the glass like rivers and finally, Finn turns to me.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Okay.”
“I’m tired, Cal.”
And he looks so very tired. So pale, so skinny. I suck a breath in because it’s like he’s deteriorating in front of my eyes. Dad is so lost in his grief about mom that he doesn’t even notice.