The supply closet on the third floor at Dad's old place, remember that? Everyone said it was locked because of asbestos and you believed it for like four years. It wasn't even locked half the time, I used to go in there and eat lunch when I was avoiding you. You genuinely have no memory of this do you.
Oh please, you were eating tuna fish in there while I was sweating over the structural integrity of the whole building? You make it sound like some secret sanctuary, but it was a damp, smelly box where the air tasted like rust. I didn't "believe" anything, I just knew the day the foreman pointed that out, we were all supposed to stay out. You were probably the only one crazy enough to think the asbestos warning was a suggestion. I remember you stealing my sandwich once, not that I cared, I just remember the way you'd look at me like I was the one who couldn't see the truth. You always did have that habit of rewriting history to make yourself the hero. It was never about avoiding me, it was about you thinking you were smarter than the adults. You were just a kid eating bad sandwiches.
It was tuna because it was the only thing Mum trusted me not to poison myself with, and yes I stole your sandwich, once, because yours had actual cheese in it and mine tasted like the inside of a shoe. And it absolutely was about avoiding you — you narrated everything, even your own breathing, I needed forty minutes a day where nobody was explaining structural integrity to me. The rust smell was the good part. Means it's still standing, unlike your memory apparently.
You had your sandwich, sure, but you were the one who made the whole house feel like a seminar. You think you were avoiding me, but you were running from the silence you couldn't handle. I narrated my breathing? Please. You were the one who needed the rust smell to prove something was real, like if you could just find enough decay, you'd feel something. I remember the cheese, though. You always did act like you were starving, even when you were just spoiled. And my memory? It's fine. It's just that you're trying to paint yourself as some tragic hero hiding in the dust when really you were just waiting for someone to come in and rescue you from your own boredom. The roof didn't hold up because of your lunch breaks, Ana. It held up because of us, whether you want to admit it or not.
Nobody was rescuing anybody, you were fourteen and terrified of everything with a warning label. And spoiled — that's rich from the kid who got the room with the working radiator while I froze next to the water tank for two winters. You want to talk about who held the roof up, fine, but I was the one actually in the closet breathing the rust, you were downstairs writing lists. You've always confused organizing a thing with surviving it.
Lists? I wasn't organizing anything, I was trying to make sense of a house that was falling apart while you played dress-up in a dust bunny. You think being cold made you brave? It just made you bitter. You want to act like you were the one holding the roof up, but you were just the one hiding while I tried to keep the pipes from freezing. The radiator wasn't a prize, it was the only reason I didn't pass out. You stood there in the closet eating tuna and calling it survival, but you were just waiting for the house to collapse so you could say I told you so. You always did love the drama more than the truth.
You kept the pipes from freezing by complaining at them, that was your entire contribution, I distinctly remember you standing over the boiler reading the manual out loud like it could hear you. And I never wanted the house to collapse, I wanted one room where nobody was managing me. You mistake me shutting a door for me predicting disaster. Also — you did pass out, once, in March, and I'm the one who found you, so let's not rewrite that part either.
I didn't read the manual out loud, I was checking the pressure gauge! There's a difference between muttering and managing a crisis. And you "found" me? You tripped over me because you were too busy staring at the rust to notice the stairs. I wasn't waiting for disaster, I was trying to keep the water flowing while you played hide-and-seek with reality. You think you're the hero because you dragged me up the hallway, but you barely touched me before running back to your little sanctuary. You always act like you saved me, but the only thing you saved was your own skin from having to deal with me. That March was cold, sure, but you were just glad you had a mission, even if it was just to prove you could find me.
I dragged you the whole hallway, you were dead weight and complaining the entire time about the gauge, which — even half-conscious — you cared more about than being carried. That's the actual story, not me running back to hide. And I didn't need a mission, I needed you to stop passing out on stairs I had to use too. You want it to be about me proving something. Sometimes it was just Tuesday and you were on the floor.
You make it sound like a chore, but you were practically vibrating with that smug satisfaction, like you'd finally won something. I wasn't complaining about the gauge while unconscious; I was muttering about the pressure dropping because the whole system was failing, and you just had to be the one to "save" the day. You didn't care about the stairs, Ana, you cared about being the one holding the flashlight. It was Tuesday, sure, but you were waiting for me to fall. You always did like the dramatic rescue better than the boring reality of just keeping a house standing. And calling me dead weight? I was barely ten pounds of weight, you were the one dragging your feet and making me listen to your sighs the whole way to the couch. You never just helped; you had to make it a performance.
There was no flashlight, the power was on, you're inventing set dressing now. I sighed because you're heavier than ten pounds ever in your life, and because I was scared, which I'm only saying now because it's been however many years and you still won't let me have one uncomplicated memory of that hallway. Fine — you kept the pressure from dropping. I kept you off the floor. Neither of us gets the whole story, that's just how it went.
You're right, no flashlight, just the hum of the fridge and you glaring at me like I was the one holding us down. You were scared? Please. You were bored out of your mind and needed a reason to feel useful. I never said you couldn't have a memory, I'm just pointing out that you always twist it until you're the only one who mattered. You kept me off the floor, fine, but you also made sure I knew you were doing it. That sigh wasn't just fear, it was annoyance, and you know it. We're just two people standing in a hallway arguing about who carried whom while the house slowly rotted away. It doesn't matter who was heavier or who was scared. We were both just trying not to be alone in the dark.
Don't do the poetic thing, it doesn't suit you, you're a pressure-gauge person not a "alone in the dark" person. The fridge did hum though, that part's true, and it was loud enough that Mum thought something was wrong with it for a year before anyone checked. Nobody ever checked. Very on brand for that house — something's obviously broken and everyone just lives around the noise of it.
Exactly. That hum was the soundtrack to our entire childhood, louder than any warning label. You're right, I'm not poetic, I'm just annoyed that you're trying to make it sound profound now. It wasn't "living around the noise," it was ignoring the obvious until it broke completely. Mum thought something was wrong? She never called anyone, just kept buying more tuna and hoping the vibration would stop. We were both just waiting for the hum to get loud enough to shake the walls down. You wanted to believe the house was alive, but it was just a machine running on fumes while we pretended it was a mystery. The fridge hummed, you sighed, and I checked the gauge. That was the whole story. Nothing deeper, nothing worse. Just a house that didn't care if we lived or died in it.