All-Consuming

by Taryn Rose Frazier

My sister walks in on me as I contort myself in bed, trying to take a bite of my inner thigh—the fleshy part that’s rubbed against the other thigh ever since I got curves. I sit up so fast my head hits the underside of the upper bunk.

Avery’s eyes are wide. “Rowan, what are you doing?” she hisses. Avery gets angry when she’s scared, because she hates being scared.

“Nothing,” I say. I tug my jeans up over the offending thighs and fumble with the zipper. Avery’s only two years younger, but I’ve always felt motherly toward her. Mom always lies to me when she doesn’t want me to worry—Dad and I are just having a loud discussion, or of course Grandpa is going to get better, or you’ll be fine—so I do the same for Avery.

Avery crosses her arms and waits. After fourteen years of sharing a room, she knows me well enough to tell when I’m lying. She also knows me well enough to tell when I’m not going to talk, so when an awkward minute passes and I’m still picking lint off my comforter, she throws up her hands and leaves.

That’s where it starts. (Continue Reading…)