Free Reluctant Guardian by Melissa Cunningham Page B

my favorite Big Star jeans, or brush my hair with the silver brush and comb set my Gram bought for me before she died. Ache fills me as I look around, heavy, cold, and filled with regret.
    Not wanting to deal with it right now I head toward my parent’s bedroom and stop in front of their door. I don't hear anything, but I have the eerie sense that something is happening inside. Uneasiness, like the overpowering stench of rotten potatoes hidden in a dark cupboard—overcomes me.
    Taking a breath, I push through the door. Only a sliver of light pierces the room through a crack in the heavy brocade curtains. The familiar cherry-wood king-size bed stands against the far wall, and a stale odor permeates the room.
    A form lies on the bed, unmoving. I know who it is immediately and step closer. Familiar dark hair covers half of her sleeping face. A white, dry trail of tears ends in a wet spot on the pillow. She hasn't been asleep long.
    I kneel beside her and run my fingers along her cheek. Why is my mom sleeping in the middle of the day? She never used to. She was always the first one up, running on her treadmill, working with the PTA, doing volunteer work at the children's hospital downtown. She would have considered a nap in the middle of the day a complete waste of her time.
    I stay by her side and watch her breathe. It's not long before I hear the downstairs door open quietly, and then slowly click shut. I never realized I could hear so well, and I wonder who is sneaking into my house. Glancing down at my mother, I realize she hasn't stirred at all, but lies on her bed completely comatose.
    I go to the top of the stairs and see my little brother Tyler. He throws his backpack next to the wall and slumps onto the couch, grabbing the remote and flipping on one of those stupid Japanese cartoons I hate. A tug of nostalgia fills me. What I wouldn't give to sit next to him and watch TV.
    Normally, he gets a snack. He's never been overweight, but he was always a bit on the chunky side—perfect for playing little league football. Now his clothes hang from his shoulders, his pants baggy. He has barely hit puberty and can’t have burned off all his baby fat yet.
    I sit on the couch next to him and place my hand over his. A rush of loneliness washes over me, and feelings of despair settle in my chest. Is this what he's feeling right now? Is this heavy weight of torment what little Tyler carries around all day?
    â€œGo get something to eat,” I whisper.
    He doesn't move.
    I say the words again, more forcefully this time. He throws the remote down and gets up to rummage around in the kitchen cupboards, pulling out graham crackers and milk.
    He comes back with a bowl of soggy crackers, plops his feet on the coffee table, and stares at the TV. With a sigh of resignation I stand, thinking I should go back upstairs to my mom, but something tells me it's time to find Brecken.
    Dang.
    Â 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    ~Too Much Too Soon~
    Alisa
    Â 
    I close my eyes and picture Brecken—his dark, wind-blown hair, his thick, black eyebrows, and his intensely blue eyes. In a blink, I appear in some sort of basement bedroom—dark, dank, and surrounded by cement walls. A lone bulb swings from the unfinished ceiling.
    Brecken sits on the edge of an unmade bed, holding a pill bottle. I inch closer to read the label but his fingers close over it. He grits his teeth and opens the bottle. Maybe he's planning to overdose. Maybe my moment to help him is at hand. I'll be finished with my job and back to Idir Shaol in no time! I hurry forward, but instead of swallowing a handful of pills, he takes only one... without water.
    Oh gag. Doing that would have burned a hole through my esophagus.
    He pitches the bottle onto a small table that holds an old, wooden lamp, and then he lies down and faces the wall.
    â€œBrecken,” I whisper, unsure of what to say. Since visiting my family, the desire to fight has disappeared, and I don't want him