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aboveallthings[In your hand is a fidget cube, a rounded white cube accented with buttons, dials, and switches in the color of a certain Family on the ship.
Play with any of the fidget cube's six sides and you'll receive a vision. There are two problems with this:
1) some very important information seems to have been blocked out, and
2) you know, with a bone-deep certainty, that this vision isn't yours.
But if this vision isn't yours...then whose is it? Maybe the color of your cube is a clue.]
BACK TO THE EVENT POST
Play with any of the fidget cube's six sides and you'll receive a vision. There are two problems with this:
1) some very important information seems to have been blocked out, and
2) you know, with a bone-deep certainty, that this vision isn't yours.
But if this vision isn't yours...then whose is it? Maybe the color of your cube is a clue.]
BACK TO THE EVENT POST
JOJO
Date: 2025-11-14 10:24 pm (UTC)~
NOTING: This memory involves mentions of eating disorder/self-harm.
MY YOUNGER BROTHER TROTS SLEEPILY down the stairs. Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas. Teddy in his arm. I’m glad that he’s never understood what’s wrong with Chance.
“You all right, Oscar?”
“Mmmyeah.”
“You gonna go to bed?”
“What about Chance?”
“He’ll be fine. Leave it all to me.”
Oscar nods and ambles back up the stairs, rubbing his eyes. I rush toward the kitchen door, which is closed.
I feel sick. I’m not even fully awake.
“Chance.” I knock on the door.
Total silence. I attempt to get in, but he’s blocked it with something.
“Open the door, Chance. I’m not joking. I’ll break the door.”
“No, you won’t.” His voice is dead. Empty. But I’m relieved, because he’s alive.
I turn the handle down and push with my whole body.
“Don’t come in!” He sounds panicked, which makes me panicked because Chance is never panicked and that is what makes him Chance. “Don’t come in here! Please!” There’s a clattering of things being frantically moved around.
I keep heaving my body onto the door, and whatever is blocking it begins to move away. I make a gap large enough for me to slip inside, and I do.
“No, go away! Leave me alone!”
I look at him.
“Get out!”
He’s been crying. His eyes are dark red and purple and the darkness of the room drowns him in a haze. There is a plate of lasagna on the kitchen table, cold, untouched. All of our food has been removed from the cupboards and the fridge and the freezer and set out in order of size and color in various piles around the room. There are a couple of bloodstained tissues in his hands.
He’s not better.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks, slumped in a chair, head rolled backward, eyes vacant. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
I can’t do anything. It’s hard not to throw up.
“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “I’m so sorry.”
“Where’s Nolan?” I say. “Why is he not with you?”
He goes deep red, and then mumbles something inaudible.
“What?”
“We argued. He left.”
I start shaking my head. It goes from left to right to left to right in an uncontrollable act of defiance. “That bastard. That stupid bastard.”
“No, ■■■■■■, it was my fault.”
My phone is in my hand, and I’m punching in Nolan’s number.
“Hello?”
“Do you understand the severity of what you have done, you absolute prick?”
“■■■■■■? What are you—”
“If Oscar hadn’t called me, Chance might have—” I can’t even say it. “This is entirely your fault.”
“I’m not— Wait, what the hell’s happened?”
“What the hell do you think has happened? You left Chance during a mealtime. You can’t do that. You can’t do that. You can’t leave him while he’s eating, let alone upset him. Didn’t you learn that last year?”
“I didn’t—”
“I trusted you. You were supposed to look after him, and now I’ve walked into the kitchen and he’s— I shouldn’t have gone out. I should have been here. We’re—I’m the person who is supposed to be there when this happens.”
“Wait, wh—”
I’m holding the phone so tight, I’m shaking. Chance is looking at me, silent tears falling from his eyes. He is so old now. He’s not a little kid. In a couple of months he’ll be sixteen, like me. He looks older than me, for God’s sake. He could pass for eighteen, easy.
I drop the phone, draw up a chair next to my brother, and put my arms around him.