Mattress Island

"Paul taught me something that afternoon: you don't have to wait for the darkness to lift. Sometimes you drag the blankets into the living room and make your own light."

The weight of Jamie's absence had settled over me like a thick, suffocating blanket in the days following his departure.

Nearly a week had passed, yet the ache in my chest persisted — a constant reminder of the void left in my life. Each morning, I woke expecting to see him at school, only to remember with a fresh jolt of pain that he was gone. Each afternoon, I walked home alone, my footsteps echoing on the pavement where we used to walk part-way together.

The days at school had been a blur of muted colours and muffled sounds, as if I were moving through the world encased in a bubble of grief. Teachers spoke, but I barely heard them. Classmates played, but I couldn't join in. The laughter and shouts during gang-up chasey, once a source of excitement and joy, now felt distant and hollow, echoing mockingly in the chambers of my lonely heart.

I had tried, once, to play. Had forced myself to run with the others, to chase and be chased. But when Tommy Brennan had tagged me, I had just stood there, frozen, unable to remember what I was supposed to do next. Unable to remember why any of it mattered.

The sun, usually so vibrant and life-giving, seemed to have lost its warmth. Its rays couldn't penetrate the gloom that had enveloped me. The familiar streets I walked to and from school each day had transformed into a foreign landscape, every corner a painful reminder of the friend who was no longer by my side.

There — that was where Jamie and I had found a dead bird and given it a proper funeral.

There — that was where we had hidden from the rain under Mrs. Lovelock’s awning.

There — that was where he had made me laugh so hard that milk came out of my nose.

The gap Jamie had left was like a gaping wound that refused to heal. I carried it with me everywhere, a constant weight in my chest that made it hard to breathe.

But as Friday dawned, something shifted.

I woke up and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and made a silent vow to myself. Today would be different. Today, I would force myself to break free from the melancholy that had become my constant companion. It was time to remember how to smile, how to laugh, how to be a child again — even if only for a few precious hours.

The decision felt monumental. A mammoth task that required every ounce of my strength and willpower. But I was tired of being sad. Tired of the weight. Tired of feeling like a ghost haunting my own life.

Jamie wouldn't want this. Jamie would want me to be okay.

The thought of what Jamie would want sent a fresh spike of pain through me, but I pushed it down. I couldn't keep doing this. I had to try.

As Paul and I burst through the front door after school, the pent-up energy of the week seemed to explode from us.

"Freedom!" Paul shouted, flinging his school bag across the entryway. It skipped across the carpet and collided with the wall with a satisfying thud.

"Careful," I said automatically, but I was grinning. The weekend stretched before us like a promise — two whole days without school, without teachers, without the pitying looks of classmates who had heard that my best friend had moved away.

My own bag hit the floor with less drama. My lunchbox tumbled out, forgotten, rolling under the hallstand. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything except the fact that it was Friday, and the week was over, and I had survived.

The house stretched before us, a familiar landscape suddenly ripe with possibility. Its rooms and corridors were transformed in my mind from ordinary spaces into a playground of potential adventures.

"Where's Mum?" Paul called out, his voice echoing through the empty hallway.

The silence that greeted us was telling. No call of welcome from the kitchen. No sound of the television. No clatter of pots or running water. Just silence, thick and heavy.

Paul and I exchanged a look. We both knew what that silence usually meant.

"Let's check," Paul said.

We raced through the house, our footsteps thundering across the carpets, creating a rhythm that seemed to match the quickening of my pulse. The kitchen stood empty, dishes from breakfast still piled in the sink. Cereal bowls with dried milk crusted around the edges. A coffee cup, half-full and cold.

The living room was silent too. The television's blank screen stared back at us, its dark surface reflecting our own uncertain expressions.

"Maybe she went out?" I suggested, though I didn't really believe it.

Paul shook his head. "Car's in the driveway."

Paul skidded to a halt just before reaching the end of the passage. I, lost in my own thoughts, collided with him forcefully. The impact sent a jolt through my body, snapping me back to the present moment.

"Ow! Watch it!"

"Shh!" Paul hissed, grabbing my arm. His body was tense as a coiled spring.

His sudden stillness was contagious. I found myself holding my breath, straining my ears for any sound that might explain his reaction.

Carefully, we crept towards our parents' bedroom. The door stood slightly ajar, not quite closed, not quite open. A sliver of afternoon sunlight cut across the room, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny, glittering galaxies.

The beam of light seemed to divide the room in two, creating a stark contrast between the illuminated slice and the shadows that lurked beyond. And on the bed, barely visible in the dimness, lay a familiar form — curled away from us, facing the window.

Mum.

"Is she asleep?" I whispered. My heart was suddenly racing.

Paul's response was a noncommittal shrug. "I'm not sure."

With the stealth of a cat, Paul dropped to all fours. I watched, torn between amusement and anxiety, as he inched his way around the corner of the bed, moving silently across the carpet.

His head popped up over the edge of the mattress like a meerkat surveying its territory. The absurdity of the image nearly drew a snort of laughter from me, but I managed to stifle it just in time, clamping my hand over my mouth to trap the sound.

Paul studied Mum's face for a long moment. Then his head disappeared again, and he crawled back to where I stood, his movements fluid and silent.

"She's asleep," he confirmed in a hushed tone. His face was unreadable. "I think she's taken a heap of pills."

The words were delivered matter-of-factly, but they carried a weight that settled in the pit of my stomach. Pills. Again. Always pills.

It was a familiar scenario, one that we had encountered far too often. The new orange bottles on her bedside table. The way she would disappear for hours. The slurred speech and glassy eyes. We had learned to navigate around it, to work around it, the way you learn to work around a piece of broken furniture that no one ever gets around to fixing.

Before I could dwell on it, however, a soft groan emanated from the bed.

"Paul." Mum's voice was thick and slurred, barely recognisable. "Paul, is that you?"

Each syllable seemed to take an enormous effort to form. Her words ran together like watercolours on wet paper.

Disappointment flashed across Paul's face — we had hoped to have the house to ourselves. But it was quickly replaced by a mask of concern as he approached the bed. He leaned in close, his face mere inches from Mum's.

I could see the struggle in his eyes. The battle between the child who wanted to play and the son forced to bear responsibilities far beyond his years. Paul had learned to read Mum's moods, to gauge how far gone she was, to know when to ask questions and when to stay silent.

"Yes, Mum," he replied softly. His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal. "It's me."

"Paul..." Mum's eyes fluttered open, but they were unfocused, staring at something beyond him. "Paul, I need you to do something for me."

"What is it?"

"Take the car to the shops." The words came out slow and deliberate, as if she was concentrating very hard on each one. "Get me some bread."

Paul blinked. "The car?"

"Yes. The car. Take the car." Mum's eyes were already closing again. "Get bread."

"Mum, I'm nine. I can't drive."

But she was already drifting back into her pharmaceutical haze. Her breathing deepened. Her face went slack.

"Bread," she mumbled one last time, and then she was gone — not dead, just absent. Checked out. Somewhere far away where we couldn't follow.

Paul stood there for a moment, looking down at her. His expression was complicated — something between frustration and resignation and something else I couldn't name. Then he turned and rejoined me in the hallway.

"Well?" I asked, though I had heard most of it.

I could see a mischievous glint kindling in his eye. "I don't think she'll bother us for a while."

For a moment, I felt a pang of worry. Should we call someone? Get help? The responsible part of me, the part that had been forced to grow up too quickly, urged caution. What if something was really wrong? What if she'd taken too many this time?

But then I looked at her — really looked. Her chest was rising and falling steadily. She was just... asleep. Deeply, chemically asleep, but asleep.

And I saw the grin spreading deeper across Paul's face.

"She told me to take the car," he repeated, and there was wonder in his voice now. "She actually told me to take the car."

"You're not going to—"

"Of course not, dummy. But she won't wake up for hours. We've got the whole house to ourselves."

I felt an answering smile tugging at my own lips. It was a smile that felt foreign on my face, as if my muscles had forgotten how to form the expression in the wake of Jamie's departure. But it was there, struggling to break through.

"Well, let's go then," I said. The words carried a weight of meaning far beyond anything they literally expressed. They were an invitation to adventure. A defiant stand against the gloom that had enveloped my life.

Paul's grin widened. A conspiratorial look passed between us — the unspoken understanding of brothers who had learned to find joy wherever they could, in whatever cracks the darkness left behind.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed, his voice barely above a whisper but brimming with excitement. "I have an idea."

He darted into his room before I could ask what the idea was. I heard things being shuffled around. A moment later, he emerged with his arms full of blankets.

The fabrics trailed behind him like a cape, transforming him into a superhero of our own making.

"What are you doing?"

"Fort," Paul said, as if it was obvious. "Help me get the mattress."

"Which mattress?"

"Mine. Come on."

Together, we wrestled Paul's mattress down from the upper bunk. It was heavier than I expected, awkward and unwieldy, and we nearly dropped it twice navigating the narrow doorway.

"Careful!" Paul hissed as we nearly took out a hanging photo.

"I'm being careful. You're the one who keeps—"

"Just lift your end higher."

"I am lifting!"

We manoeuvred the mattress through the hallway and into the living room, our giggles and grunts of exertion echoing through the house. The living room became our canvas, the mattresses our medium, as we constructed a fort of childhood fancy in the shadow of adult neglect.

"We need yours too," Paul announced.

"Why mine?"

"Because one mattress is just a mattress. Two mattresses is a fort. Obviously."

The logic was unassailable. We went back for my mattress.

By the time we were done, the living room had been transformed. Both mattresses lay side by side on the floor, creating a soft island in the sea of carpet. Blankets had been draped over the couch and across chairs we'd dragged in from the dining room, creating a canopy overhead. Pillows — every pillow we could find — were scattered across the mattresses like soft little mountains.

Each blanket we draped, each pillow we positioned, felt like an act of defiance against the darkness that lurked at the edges of our lives. This was our space now. Our sanctuary. Our fortress against the world.

"It needs one more thing," Paul said, surveying our work with a critical eye.

"What?"

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a torch. "For later," he said, placing it reverently in the corner of our fort. "When it gets dark."

As we spread our blankets over the makeshift beds, I felt a lightness in my chest that I hadn't experienced since Jamie's departure. It wasn't happiness, not quite, but it was a respite from the grief. A small spark of something warm, fragile and fleeting, but all the more precious for its rarity.

"Pyjama time," I announced. The declaration felt like a ritual. A magic spell that could transform our reality into something softer, safer.

"It's barely even four-thirty,” Paul pointed out.

"So?"

He considered this. "Fair point. Race you."

We bolted back to our rooms to change.

I emerged first, clad in my cream and brown spotted flannelette pyjamas. They were soft with wear, slightly too short at the ankles now, but comfortable in a way that nothing else was.

I dove under my blanket, burrowing into the warmth and safety it provided. The mattress was soft beneath me, the blankets heavy on top, and for a moment I allowed myself to pretend that this cocoon could protect me from all the hurts and fears of the outside world.

Paul's arrival was heralded by a war cry.

"BANZAI!"

He launched himself from the doorway, airborne for a glorious second before landing directly on top of me with all the force his body could muster.

"Ouch!" I yelped, more in surprise than actual pain. My elbow had connected with something — his knee, maybe — and the blankets tangled around us both.

"Death from above!" Paul crowed.

I retaliated with a well-placed kick to his stomach. Not hard — I wasn't trying to actually hurt him — but with enough force to send him tumbling off me and onto the adjacent mattress. He rolled with it, coming up laughing.

"Is that all you've got?"

"I'm just getting started."

We wrestled and laughed, rolling across the mattresses in a tangle of limbs and blankets. Paul got me in a headlock. I escaped and pinned his arm behind his back. He twisted free and we both ended up flat on our backs, gasping for breath, staring up at the blanket canopy above us.

"Truce?" Paul panted.

"Truce," I agreed.

For a moment, we just lay there. The house was quiet except for our breathing and the distant ticking of the clock in the hallway. Afternoon light filtered through the gaps in our blanket fort, dappling the interior with gold.

I felt the walls I'd built around my heart since Jamie's departure begin to crumble. Just a little. Just around the edges. For a moment, I was just a kid again, playing with my brother, free from the weight of loss and the shadows that lurked in the corners of our home.

"I have an idea," Paul announced suddenly, sitting up. His eyes had taken on that spark of mischief that I recognised all too well.

"What kind of idea?"

"A good one. Trust me."

He moved towards his duvet and began unbuttoning the cover at the bottom. Then, to my amazement, he crawled inside it, adjusting the fabric around him like a ghostly cloak.

He looked ridiculous. Like a caterpillar. Like a very excited, very lumpy caterpillar.

"Quick!" he urged, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric. "Get inside yours!"

Giggling, I followed suit. The duvet was warm and dark and smelled faintly of laundry powder. I wriggled until I was fully enclosed, the soft fabric pressing in on me from all sides.

"You have to make sure the duvet is in front of you," Paul instructed. "That way you can't see."

I adjusted my position until the duvet covered my face. The world outside disappeared, replaced by darkness and the muffled sounds of my own breathing. Inside this textile womb, I felt safe and hidden, protected from everything.

"Now what?" I called out.

"Now we fight!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than I felt a solid impact against my side. Paul had charged into me, blind within his own duvet cocoon, and the collision sent us both tumbling onto the mattresses.

We rolled and wrestled, completely blind, our laughter echoing through the house. I couldn't see where Paul was, could only feel the thumps and bumps as we collided. I swung at where I thought he might be and connected with something soft. He retaliated with a body-slam that knocked the wind out of me.

"Got you!"

"You can't even see me!"

"I don't need to see you!"

The physical exertion and the sheer silliness of it was intoxicating. Every laugh pushed away a little more of the lingering sadness. Every bump and tumble replaced the weight in my chest with something lighter.

"Wait!" I gasped between fits of giggles. "Wait, wait. I need to go to the toilet."

"Too bad!" Paul crowed.

I felt him roll on top of me, pinning me down. The weight of him and the duvet pressed uncomfortably against my bladder.

"Paul, seriously—"

"This is war. There are no toilet breaks in war."

"I'll wee on you," I threatened, barely containing my laughter. "I mean it. I'll wee right now."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

A pause. Then Paul rolled off me with exaggerated disgust.

"Gross!" he exclaimed. "Fine. Go. But hurry up. We're not done yet."

I wriggled out of my duvet and made a dash for the bathroom. When I came back, Paul had repositioned himself in the centre of the mattress island, still encased in his duvet, looking like some kind of fabric ghost.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready."

I dove back into my duvet cocoon. The battle resumed.

We must have played for an hour or more. The sun moved across the sky, the light in the room shifting from gold to amber to the deeper orange of approaching evening. Our battles evolved — blind charges gave way to pillow fights gave way to tickle attacks gave way to something that was half wrestling and half just rolling around laughing.

At some point, we ended up lying side by side on the mattresses, both still wrapped in our duvets, staring up at the blanket canopy above us.

"This was a good idea," I said.

"I know. I'm a genius."

"Don't push it."

Paul grinned.

"Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about Jamie."

The words hit me unexpectedly. A sudden ache in my chest, sharp and quick, before fading back to the dull throb that had become familiar.

"Thanks," I said quietly.

"He was cool. For someone who wasn't me, I mean."

A laugh escaped me, surprising us both. "He was, wasn't he?"

"Yeah." Paul was quiet for a moment. "Do you think you'll ever see him again?"

The question hung in the air between us. I thought about Jamie — his kind eyes, his dishevelled hair, the way he'd looked standing in the doorway of the church with sunlight streaming around him. The way he'd walked away without looking back.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I hope so."

"Brisbane's pretty far."

"I know."

"But maybe when we're older. You could go visit. Or he could come back."

The thought hadn't occurred to me — that there might be a future, years away, where Jamie and I could find each other again. The idea was fragile, like a soap bubble, but it was something. A tiny spark of hope.

"Maybe," I said.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway cut through our conversation. We both froze, our earlier revelry suspended.

"Dad's home," I announced.

We heard the car door slam. Footsteps on the path. The familiar jingle of keys.

"Dad!" Paul called out as the front door opened. He didn't bother getting out of his duvet — just raised his voice loud enough to carry.

Heavy footsteps approached. Each one sent a small vibration through the floor. The sound of Dad navigating around our abandoned school bags in the entryway.

And then he appeared in the doorway of the living room.

"What on earth are you two doing?" he asked. There was confusion in his voice, but also — I thought — a hint of amusement.

"It's Friday," I explained, poking my head out from my duvet. "So we're camping in the lounge room."

"Camping," Dad repeated.

"Indoor camping," Paul clarified. "It's better than regular camping because there's no bugs."

"And we can use the toilet whenever we want," I added.

"Important considerations." Dad's eyes were doing that thing they sometimes did — crinkling at the corners like he was trying not to smile. Then his gaze moved behind him, down the hallway, towards the silent bedroom where Mum lay.

His expression shifted. The almost-smile faded into something more complicated.

"Where's Mum?" he asked. The question was casual, but I could hear the tension beneath it.

"Asleep in bed," Paul replied. His head emerged from the bottom of his duvet like a turtle from its shell. "She told me to take the car to the shops and get bread."

A shadow passed over Dad's face — there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. A flicker of weariness, maybe. Or frustration. Or the bone-deep tiredness that came from dealing with the same problems day after day.

"Did she now," he said quietly.

"I didn't actually take the car," Paul added. "Just so you know. In case you were worried."

"I wasn't worried."

Dad stood there for a moment, looking at us. Looking at our fort. Looking at the mess we'd made of the living room, the blankets draped everywhere, the pillows scattered like debris from an explosion.

Then something in his shoulders relaxed.

"I'm guessing she won't be awake anytime soon," he said. His tone was carefully neutral, but I could hear the decision being made beneath the words. "Tell you what — let me get changed, and then we can go and get some fish and chips for tea."

"Really?" Paul sat up so fast he nearly toppled over.

"Yay!" I shouted, the word bursting out of me before I could stop it.

Fish and chips was a treat. A Friday night treat, when Dad was feeling generous and Mum was... unavailable. The kind of evening that felt special precisely because it was so rare.

"Really," Dad confirmed. "But you might want to get out of your pyjamas first. Unless you want to go to the chippy looking like that."

Paul looked down at himself, still wrapped in his duvet. "I could make it work."

"Put on proper clothes. Both of you."

As Dad disappeared down the hallway, Paul and I scrambled to our feet. The duvets fell away. Our earlier play was forgotten in the face of this unexpected treat.

"Fish and chips!" Paul said, punching the air.

"Chips and fish!" I responded, which didn't really make sense but felt right anyway.

We raced to our rooms to change. I threw on jeans and a jumper, not bothering to match. Paul emerged wearing his favourite t-shirt — the one with the skateboard on it — and mismatched socks.

When Dad returned, we were ready and waiting. He'd changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a faded jumper, and he looked more like himself.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready!" we chorused.

As we left the house together — stepping out into the cool evening air — I felt a surge of something that might have been hope. The sky was beginning to darken at the edges, stars just starting to prick through the deepening blue.

"Can I get a potato scallop?" Paul asked as we piled into the car.

"You can get whatever you want," Dad said. "Within reason."

"What's the reason?"

"Don't bankrupt me."

"I want two potato scallops."

"That seems reasonable."

The car pulled out of the driveway, carrying us towards the promise of greasy paper parcels and vinegar-soaked chips and whatever jokes Dad would make while we waited in line. Behind us, the house stood silent and dark — Mum asleep in her pharmaceutical haze, the shadows lurking in their corners, the secrets waiting for our return.

But for now, we were moving forward. Leaving it all behind, if only for a little while.

I leaned my head against the window and watched the streetlights flicker past.