In a Burning Building

Words.  Words are coming out of his mouth.  Listen.  Should listen.
         “…And then after that we’ll come back and have lunch.”
         After what? Don’t know.  Don’t care.  Or maybe I would.
         The anxious look on his face.  The catch in his voice.  They made her nervous, which made everything worse, magnified the whole situation.  She adjusted her glasses again.  The force of habit.  She did that when she lied, too.  Such a bad liar.
         Her brother was watching her.  His face was so intent, so concerned.  She hated to be who she was.  She hated what she had done, hated everything about herself at that precise moment, except for the small satisfaction she still held, an awkward guilty sense of pride that her sister had, at least, finally listened.
“Celia, are you okay?” he asked her gently.  She wanted to tell him that she was fine.  She wanted to be able to reassure him, but she really was a bad liar.
         She said it anyway. “Fine.”
         “Oh.”
The silence, the distance, the deadness in his eyes told her there was nothing she could say.
Celia smiled, as much as she could, and looked up at the house.
“Do you like it?”
         Trying to hear the tone, she missed the words.  Worry.  Exasperation.  Desperation.  It hurt that she was the cause. 
         “What? Oh, no.  That is, I mean, yes.  It’s good.”
         He sighed and looked over at her. “You hate it.”
         “No, no.  Really.  It’s better than the old one.”
         She had to stop lying.  Whenever she did that, everything went wrong.  And she wasn’t convincing, not at all, ever. 
         “Yeah.  Except for the fact that Nicole lived in the old one.” He gave a frustrated sigh. “I can’t read your mind, Celia.  Please, can you talk?”
         She remained sitting where she was, trying to phrase everything she wanted to say in some magical sentence that conveyed everything perfectly.  As though he would ever understand.
         “Maybe explain?” His voice almost cracked.  Compulsively, she ran her finger along the bridge of her glasses.  Nervous.  Because there was no way to explain.
         “Um…I don’t know.”
         She wanted to tell him exactly how it had happened.  She wanted to film a movie of her thoughts, of all the dizzy, hazy, wonderful, awful images and her own joy in betrayal, and let him watch it.  Let him think the worst of her, but at least he would understand.
         His face was expressionless. “Right.  Fine.  Okay.  Well, I have to go.”
         “No—I…”
         She trailed off, wondering what there was to say.
         Hope springs eternal, she thought wryly as they looked at each other the way they used to.  About to resolve everything.
         “Never mind,” she said after a moment, and then immediately wished she hadn’t.
         He must have been able to tell.  And maybe he didn’t care.  Maybe he just wanted to get away from her.
         Because in all honesty, she would have too.
         She raked her hands through her hair and then traced the frames of her glasses.
         It hadn’t been a conscious decision.  She could barely remember the last time she had made a conscious decision, actually.  Celia acted on instinct and then regretted it for a very long time.
         Regret and anxiety and worry and guilt…she hated it.  Hated cycles. 
         Her sister Nicole was writing a novel.  It took a lot of time.  Celia felt ignored.  Tensions became high.  Nicole started screaming at Celia whenever she talked.  Celia blamed the book.  So she burned the book.
         It was that simple, for her.  Or it would have been, if she didn’t have emotions.  And if the fire hadn’t gone out of control.
         The house had caught fire, and Celia hated herself and danced with joy in a burning building, because Nicole had listened.  And then she said it had been an accident.
         Except everything went wrong when she lied.  And everyone had left now.
         Not that I don’t deserve it.  I do.  So did she.  Except that no one could control it.
         She took off her glasses and watched the light fall through the dusty lenses, wishing that she were someone else.
         And then she took her cell phone out of her pocket, with nothing to say except sorry.
         Maybe they’ll understand.  Understand.  And listen.
         Even though it’s my fault.