Sweet 1.6

by Daniel Clark-Mudge

October 8th

It’s my sixteenth birthday, and I literally can’t breathe. Smoke covers the room like a gray blanket. Lacey holds in a breath until her emerald eyes water. When she releases, she snorts, and we double over in laughter again, the kind that hurts your chest. I bump her with my shoulder. “Open the window,” I sputter. “The smoke alarm is actually going to go off.”

Lacey shushes me with a giggle, tears streaming down her face, and swings open the attic window—cool air drifts in, and weed-smoke hurries out. I don’t get the same feeling from smoking it that everyone else seems to, but I still buzz, and that’s enough. Lacey puts out the spent blunt, hiding it in the lone potted plant. “We should put on some music,” she smiles. She’s older than me by a year and a half, and her tangle of red hair flares next to my brunette. She gets up to the soundbar. “Surely some Olivia Rodrigooo.”

I shrug. I want something else, something fierce. Something mature—fitting for a sixteen-year-old. “What about Kendrick?”

Lacey pauses, frowning. “Holly, you don’t even like Kendrick.”

“I do!” I protest. Everyone does.

“No,” Lacey says, a strange, steely flint in her voice. “You don’t.”

My friend feels a lot older than me all of a sudden. I shrink. “Sure, Olivia then.”

She smiles, relief washing over her.

The door crashes open, and I become quickly and potently aware of the remnants of smoke that still drift across the air.

Dad fills the doorway, suit done to the top button, dressed all the way to his glowering eyes. He sniffs the air, and his lip curdles, hand gripping the doorway so tight it might crack. “Guests are here,” he says through a tight jaw. “Get yourself together.”

I’m shrinking again. “Dad, I–”

“Enough.” He turns to go, before swinging toward Lacey, whose eyes are downcast. “You should know better.” He slams the door.

I can’t breathe in this goddamn house. 

October 7th

It’s the day before my sixteenth birthday, and heavy rain batters the window of the attic. I stare out at a bruised sky and wonder how it would feel to be up there. Mum loved storms. Especially when it thundered. 

Lacey isn’t coming tomorrow; because of course she isn’t. Nobody is. She bailed again—something about her boyfriend. They’re probably smoking whatever they could steal from his parents. I think I’m supposed to feel upset about it. Maybe even mad? Instead, I leave my phone upstairs and Lacey with it. The only sounds are rain and the echo of my footsteps. There’s this heaviness to them, like my body is forcing itself to take each step. I think, briefly, about going to stand in the rain. Would it be cold? How long would it take to reach my bones?

The house is big and empty. Dad is at work. He hasn’t said anything yet about tomorrow. I’m not even sure he remembers.

A third sound joins me and the rain—a persistent thumping. “Hello?” I call, my voice bouncing from every wall. The thumping responds. It’s the Roomba, hitting the kitchen door. It pulls back and tries again. And again. Sisyphean. Poor guy’s just trying to do his job. I open the door, and it glides in. “There you go, buddy. Did you know it’s my birthday tomorrow?”

It doesn’t respond. I like that about it.

The doorbell rings. I close my eyes, and realise how badly I don’t want to speak to anybody right now. Maybe, if I close my eyes hard enough, whoever is there will go away and leave me with the Roomba and the rain. 

It rings again—insistent.

I open it, and my grandma is here, bag swung over one shoulder and an umbrella resting on the other. “Happy early birthday, Holly,” she says. “Let me in. It’s freezing.”

October 8th

Dad’s hands grip my shoulders tight from behind, guiding me along the procession of family and extended family that crowd our entrance. Even my tutor is here. Their arms are laden with bright-coloured boxes and bags stuffed with tissue paper.

It’s stifling, being surrounded by all these people. But I feel Dad’s hands, and I smile at every single one of them as they approach. Even as their names go in one ear and out the other. I usually have perfect memory, but something in me lets them slip away. I just don’t have the energy. It all feels so false. Practiced. Have these people even thought about me before today?

Dad grips tighter, so I smile tighter. I try to catch Lacey’s eye, but she’s in the corner, arms crossed and body still drooping in shame from Dad’s scolding. I try again, making a face. She ignores me.

Before I can dwell on it, a woman with leathery skin pushes her way in front of me. She’s in a pantsuit and heels; hair cropped into a neat black bob. The picture of professional severity.

“Grandma.” I smile, for real this time. She puts a warm hand on my cheek and smiles even warmer. “Happy sixteenth, petal.” Her eyes crinkle just like Mum’s used to. “I’ve gotten you something small this year,” she says to me, producing a rectangle wrapped in pink tissue barely bigger than a sheet of paper.

“Should I open it here?”

Grandma’s eyes swing towards Dad, ice in her pupils. “Let’s go somewhere quiet, if that’s okay with you, Paul.”

Dad’s grip slackens, and he nods stiffly. “Cake is in twenty minutes, so she needs to be back in fifteen.” It’s like he’s scheduling a meeting. I have to fight not to roll my eyes. 

Grandma leads me to the upstairs sitting room, setting herself atop a plush cushion. I sit across from her, pulling away the tissue. I gasp. I’m staring back at myself on canvas, my hair cascading around me in soft watercolours, my eyes reflecting painted light from glistening pupils. Grandma has been an artist her whole life, but I remember Dad telling me that she hadn’t painted a thing since Mum died. “Holy shit, Grandma,” I say. “This looks just like me.”

“Well, it is you.”

I giggle. “I know but this is like, identical. It’s basically a photo.”

Grandma leans forward. “I’ve known you for two lifetimes, petal. I know your likeness better than I know my own.”

She’s talking about Mum, I realise. I feel a tear on my cheek that I didn’t anticipate. “Do you miss her?”

Grandma’s jaw clenches, her own eyes swimming. She doesn’t let her tears fall, though. She never does. “Every day,” she says. “It never gets easier knowing somebody is gone.”

I hug her, and she gives me an odd look. Like she’s looking through me. As if she’s trying to talk herself out of something. The moment stretches and then snaps. She sighs. “Flip it over,” she tells me. “Look at what’s on the back.”

October 7th

Grandma’s practiced hands move deftly across the canvas, every stroke precise and calculated. The woman doesn’t waste a second. Time passes only with the hammering of rain and the soft scratching of brushstrokes. 

Dad still isn’t home, even though he’s an hour late. I’m not surprised. Grandma finally breaks the silence, and it’s like she read my mind. “Where’s Paul?” she asks. She always uses his name when she talks about him. Always. I hear the bitterness that seeps in her voice, which she’s never tried to disguise. It’s exhausting, the negativity. It’s like a physical thickness in the air. I just want to be alone.

“Working,” I mutter.

She says nothing, just scoffs and purses her lips. “Bring your hair over your shoulder,” she commands. Automatically, I do as she says. For a moment, it looks like she’s going to say something else before she thinks better of it. Outside, a peal of thunder shakes the walls. Her hand doesn’t flinch. 

“Grandma?” I venture. When she doesn’t respond, I barrel ahead anyway. “Do the two of you ever talk about Mum?”

Now, the rain is the only sound. She freezes, like she’s in stasis. “I’m not talking about that, Holly. Stop asking.”

I nod silently, not even knowing why I bothered to try. Nobody ever wants to talk about her. They’re much happier treating her like she’s a ghost, or a curse over our house. Like they don’t want me to know a thing about her other than the fact that she’s dead. Like they’re worried it’ll put ideas in my head.

In the corner, there is a patch of darkness where the Roomba now sits mutely, duties concluded. Maybe she is a ghost, I think. Maybe she’s there in the shadowy corners, bringing the rain and waiting for me to join her in it. 

Or maybe I was the one who brought the rain. That would be fitting. Like mother, like daughter. “I’m tired, Grandma.”

My grandmother nods, businesslike, and stands, picking up the canvas. “I’ll put the finishing touches on it tonight, then,” she says. “Get some sleep.”

That’s not what I meant. 

October 8th

I flip the canvas over and frown. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Read the date.” Grandma’s voice is distant. She’s somewhere else, far away. In the bottom right corner, in simple black pen, is Grandma’s jagged signature above a date.

October 7th, 2027.

“You painted this last year?” I ask. Slowly, Grandma nods. Like it’s painful for her. There’s an ache forming in my head, like something is in there, pounding at the walls of my skull, calling out. “How did you know I was going to grow my hair out?” My voice is quiet. “I had bangs last year.”

“No, you didn’t.” Her voice is brittle now. 

A fist pounds on the door, and we both flinch. “Cake,” barks my father. “Get down here.” His footsteps trail away. The window is closed, and the heat bakes the walls, seeping through into me. It’s making my headache worse. Grandma isn’t looking at me. 

I’m looking at myself, suspended in time. Like it was yesterday. But that’s wrong. Something is wrong. “What is this?” I ask quietly.

“We just couldn’t do it again,” she says, as if to herself. “Especially your father.” She doesn’t call him Paul. “Your mother was already too much for him.”

“I remember that. He didn’t sleep for weeks.” But what does she mean, again? I’m still here. 

Grandma’s eyes dart to me. “You don’t.” Something angrier laces her voice now. “You just think you remember that, and that’s our fault. I’m sorry, petal.”

“Sorry for what?” I feel my own anger rising now. At everyone in this house treating me like I’m some sort of child. Some idiot who can’t make her own choices, or go where she wants, or even think for herself. But the woman in front of me has stopped talking, head buried in her hands, anger deflated as quick as it came. Something like guilt hangs over her. She looks, for once, old. She doesn’t say another word.

I need air. I take the painting with me.

October 7th, 2027

For some reason, I’m nervous to step outside. 

Scared, even.

I blast Olivia Rodrigo, barely listening to the words. Then, I go straight to Dad’s kitchen cupboard, the one he doesn’t even bother locking because God forbid there even be a few extra seconds separating him and its contents. Tequila is the first bottle I see, so it’s the bottle I take. Night is falling, and the rain hasn’t relented. The bottle is warm in my hand. Slippery. I’m sweating, despite the chill. When the cork pops, I almost gag at the smell. Instead, I take a breath and then a sip, straight from the bottle. It hardly touches my tongue before I gag and it slips to the floor, shattering. A shard bounces and cuts my leg, red pain lancing through me.

I don’t cry out. Tears fall, but silently. Only for a moment.

I slump to the wet floor. Behind me, the Roomba whirs back to life, ready to resume its work. I pick up a shard of glass, still dripping with alcohol. I nestle it in the webbing between my fingers, pressing down until I feel pain. The throbbing in my leg dulls. My vision hones in on the shard as I press deeper. As I feel my skin bend under the pressure. As I see my own jagged reflection looking back at me. 

Is Dad going to be mad?

October 8th, 2028

I push straight past the guests: past Lacey, who pales when she sees the look on my face, and the painting still clutched in my fist; past my tutor, who bites her lip; past my father, who calls out to me. 

“Holly!”

I ignore his voice—I can only see the door. I need to go. Somewhere, anywhere. Just not here. When I make it to the door, I start to run. I hear Dad’s voice behind me laced with fury. “Simone!” He uses my grandmother’s name. “What the fuck did you do?”

I leave it all behind: the voices, the ghosts, the gifts. I can’t take it anymore. I need to be alone. To be able to breathe, even if it’s just for a moment or two.

I make it to the gate and swing it open, but something stops me before I can cross the fenceline. An invisible hand—a hook buried in my back, refusing to let go. My head is pounding, and pounding, and pounding, and pounding. So hard that it’s chipping away at my anger and replacing it with just…nothing. Everything is such a mess. Nothing makes sense. 

Footsteps catch up to me. Heavy. “Holly.” My Dad is panting. “Stop.” It feels like an order. One that I couldn’t refuse even if I tried.

I feel the truth sinking in.

October 7th, 2027

I leave the glass on the floor. I don’t want to feel the pain. I want to feel the rain. I want to feel the way Mum used to feel. A memory comes to me of her coming inside, hair stuck fast to her face, water pooling into the cracks of our expensive floorboards. Of Dad not caring, of Dad laughing—actually being there. Sweeping her off her feet and dancing to the sounds of pealing thunder and the bright flash of lightning.

A flash. That’s all it was. Light, furious light. Then, dark. Nothing but dark.

When I step outside, I’m instantly soaked. It takes just seconds to reach my bones, but I’m not cold. I feel so, so warm. Like she’s there with me, arms wrapped around my shoulders. I tilt my head up towards the sky, and let the rain hit my face. It’s coming so strongly now. 

I break into a run. The wind and water whips at my face, my eyes, and I throw open the gate, bounding across the fenceline and into the storm. 

October 8th, 2028

“Dad,” I sob. I can’t help it. I hold the painting up to his face, and watch his features darken. “What’s happening to me?”

My father’s eyes are hard, jaw clenched so tightly it could break. “She was supposed to throw that away.”

“Why?”

“Because of this,” he says, throwing his hands into the air. His eyes burn, but I can’t tell if it’s fury or sadness. “Just come inside,” he pleads. At the house, the guests crowd at the front door, watching. Lacey is in front, arms clutched to her chest.

“Dad…Why can’t I move?” Because I can’t. It’s not a metaphor. 

“You’re not leaving me again, Holly.”

I close my eyes. I remember Mum, and Dad. I remember rain. I remember growing up with Lacey. Because they’re my memories. Mine. I let the painting drop. “Tell me the truth.”

“Just come inside and blow out your candles.”

“No.” It feels good to say. Because I can feel, and my feelings are mine. Mine.

October 7th, 2027

It’s dark. Wet. The storm is getting worse. I can hardly see in front of me, but I keep running, searching for Mum in the dark. Ready at any moment for her ghost to come out of the trees and hold my hand in the rain. 

The darkness breaks. There’s light. It starts small, before getting bigger and bigger. It splits into two, brilliant beams.

“Mum?” I whisper.

The lights come right up to me, and the screeching of tires cuts through the storm. The lights swerve but not before they engulf me. I realise, distantly, as they fade, that it wasn’t Mum after all.

It’s Dad’s car. He’s finally home. 

October 8th, 2028

Dad closes the space between us, resting his hand upon my cheek. He leans forward, and presses his forehead against mine. His cologne smells like the world does before a storm. “Just say you’ll come inside, Holly,” he whispers to me. “Don’t make me do this.”

I try to pull back, but of course I can’t. So I shake my head instead. My hands, bunched into fists, are trembling. He closes his eyes, and when they open, any trace of warmth that might have been there is gone. Like he’s staring at a stranger.

“Paul Rice speaking.” Who is he talking to? “Code: 1-8-7-8 for model number X3. Administrative access requested.”

My body seizes up. The trembling stops, even though I can still feel it. The pounding in my head dulls, and then disappears. I try to speak, to ask him what he’s doing. But the words won’t come out, even when I try to force them.  I want to panic, but I can’t.

‍ ‍My memories are my own. My feelings are my own. I repeat it over and over again like a mantra.

He keeps talking in that clipped way. “Command: Memory reset.” My vision blurs. What was I thinking about again? “Sub-command: Personality reset to Holly Rice.” Everything stops. Goes numb. I can’t breathe. I can’t—

October 9th, 2028

It’s my sixteenth birthday, and I’m surrounded by smiling faces. Lacey sits to my right, fingers entwined with mine. Dad’s hands rest on my shoulders, gently. They start to sing, and the music washes over me. Lacey makes a face at me and I giggle.

When I look up, I make eye contact with my Grandma. She’s looking right at me, almost through me. Tears flow thick and fast from her eyes, like rain.

Blinking, I blow out the candles.