Izzy's Bed

"A car crash, I heard –"

"— yes, the brother, Troy –"

"— the only survivor –"

Troy curled up in his father's leather armchair, trying to make himself as small as possible. He didn't want to be here, to listen to the adult's talk, to even think about the events of the past week. But he had to. At every turn, there were reminders – pictures of Izzy, the soccer trophies she had won, and, now, the gossip in the living room. He hated the gossip.

It's not right, he thought. She's dead, goddamn you, stop talking about it.

"They were in a carpool," someone was saying, "going home from soccer. There was a collision with a semi, and then – then –" The voice broke off into sobs.

Troy looked up. The sobbing person was his mother. She was sitting on the sofa, her brown hair falling over her face, and positively wailing. Aunt Eleanor hugged her.

The redheaded thirteen-year-old sighed deeply. He wished his mother wouldn't recount the horrible event that had taken not only the life of his sister, but also the lives of three other children and the driver. Why did Mom have to bring it up? The last thing he wanted was to think about it, to reexamine the awful memories – the pain of the glass cutting through his skin, the heat of the fire, the smell of his sister's burning flesh –

He buried his head in his arms and tried not to think.

Miraculously, Troy had escaped the horrific crash without much more than a few deep cuts and a couple of bruised ribs. He had been the only one who had escaped at all.

And now it was Izzy's funeral, and it had been the most depressing hour of his life. He hadn't thought he could feel any worse than he already did, but he had been wrong. Perhaps because she was seeing the most people she had in a week, his mother was a total wreck. She couldn't even look at Troy anymore without bursting into tears.

He himself hadn't yet been able to cry. Maybe it was because there were all these people there; maybe because doing so would make him think about Izzy, which he didn't want to do.

The funeral party, however, didn't seem to care. "Troy?" asked a female voice.

Troy lifted his head out of his arms. Aunt Eleanor. She bent down and hugged him; he didn't respond. "I'm so sorry, honey," she whispered. Her cheeks were wet, Troy noticed.

"Why?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse and distant.

Aunt Eleanor didn't answer; she just hugged him again. "I'm sorry," she repeated, then she moved on.

Troy hugged his knees to his chest. Leave me alone, he thought sadly.

He watched the group in melancholy for a while, not talking to anyone and glad that no one was talking to him. Then he saw Moriah come into the room.

Despite the solemnity of the occasion, Moriah had still managed to look pretty and stylish. Her black dress was nicely shaped and cut, falling in a straight line to just past her knees. Her wavy blonde hair was swept back in a black velvet headband, and she wore a thin black choker.

The first thing Troy did when he saw his sister walk into the room was try to escape. He was halfway to the staircase when she spotted him. "Troy!"

He looked back at Moriah. Moriah – the absolute last person he wanted to talk to right now. "Leave me alone!" he snapped at her, then dashed up the stairs as fast as he could.

The door to a dark bedroom flew open, and Troy ran in. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked around. No one had followed him. He sighed in relief and flicked on the light.

Troy, Moriah, and Isabel had been triplets, and so their room was divided into three sections. Each was personalised to the kid's taste, from the colour of the wall to the bedspread. Troy's corner of the room was in red and yellow, his two favourite colours, and the walls were covered with pictures and posters of his two favourite bands. His guitar lay on the fire-patterned bed. Moriah's section was in light blues and whites, and was the messiest of them all. There were paintings of angels and birds on the wall, and a small collection of angel statuettes on top of her dresser.

But it was Izzy's bed that attracted Troy's attention now. Her walls were done in grass green; her bed was green and covered in pictures of soccer balls. Soccer had been her entire life. It was tragically ironic that it had been the end of her life as well. He sat on her bed, staring at the various pictures of her and him on the field, holding their first soccer trophy (which sat beside the picture), the three kids at an amusement park....

He looked away, not wanting to remember. His fingers picked at a seam in the comforter. "Izzy..." he sniffed. "Why did you have to die?"

Troy lay down on her bed, burying his face in her pillow. "Why'd you have to leave me?" He hadn't been able to cry before.

But now, he lay in Izzy's bed,full ofIzzy's scent, and cried.

fin