The Breaking Point

The air in the small house always felt thick, heavy with unspoken words and the lingering scent of burnt toast, a testament to Hectorn’s latest attempt at breakfast. Sharin, now twenty, stood by the window, the afternoon sun doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep within her bones. Twenty years. Twenty years of being the steady hand, the watchful eye, the one who always had to be *responsible*. Her father’s voice, a low rumble that had dictated her life for so long, still echoed in the quiet corners of her mind. “You’re older, Sharin. It’s your duty.” Duty. The word tasted like ash.

Beside her, Hectorn, a gangly young man who still flinched at loud noises and fumbled with his shoelaces, hummed a tuneless melody. He was attempting to peel an orange, a task that seemed to require the focus of a brain surgeon. Sharin watched him, a familiar ache twisting in her chest. She loved him, of course she did. He was her brother. But the love was tangled with a deep, weary resentment, a resentment that had been simmering for years, building like a storm cloud on the horizon.

“Sharin,” Hectorn’s voice, high and reedy, broke her reverie. “It’s… it’s not peeling right.” He held up the orange, a mangled mess of rind and pulp. A tear welled in his eye, ready to spill. “It’s broken.”