The hotel was warm and less trashy than River was expecting. He’d fallen asleep drunk the night before, and woke up the same way. Liquor was much more expensive in Iceland than it had ever been at home, and River survived only with the little money he got from the government. As a kid, he had goals and aspirations for the future. By maybe the age of nineteen, his only goal was always to make it through the day. This seemed simple to the average person. Most of the time, the hardest part of life was getting out of bed.

“River, Mom and Dad are dead.”

Staying in the extra bedroom in Salem’s townhouse, River spent a lot of time painting. Maybe, when he was dead, people would care about his art. Several weeks before their trip, Salem poked his head inside River’s room, holding a joint in one hand. “Mosiah told me. They both died within a week of each other.”

It might have been a surprise, to somebody outside the family. Their deaths may have been unexpected, sure, but it’d have been stupid to say River was surprised. “I don’t care.”

He wished he could be friendly like Salem, or confident like ZIna, or assertive like Mosiah. River had no sense of himself outside of his siblings, he’d been told. Relationships were short-lived and fickle, like people no longer existed once they weren’t in the same room. An old therapist of his had once suggested taking a moment in times of frustration before speaking - and he’d attempted this. He never seemed to be able to calm down.

Lying stomach-down on top of the unmade hotel bed, River clutched a bottle of dark rum in both hands. He was alone in the room, and he hated being alone. Having woken up that morning with a hangover, River had downed half the bottle of rum to make himself feel better, and then fallen asleep again. “What the fuck."

It was very bright outside. Once again, he’d been abandoned.

River rose, yanked open the door, stepped into the hallway with his thick grey socks. “Salem! Where are you?” The night before, they’d chatted and watched several old movies. At home, Salem was always too busy to spend time with. “You can’t just leave me like that!”

Their room was down the hall from an elevator, and next to a room with small noisy children. There was nothing to do here for someone who didn’t understand the language. If it hadn’t been for Salem’s hasty translations, River would feel completely lost.

“Riv, relax.”

Salem emerged from the elevator, holding a small plate of food. He had a septum ring and a ponytail he refused to cut. “I just went to get breakfast. Here, I brought you a plate.” It was filled with bacon and sausage, River’s favourite part of any brunch. Zina used to eat brunch with him every Sunday. Salem had been vegetarian for ten years.

“You didn’t tell me where you were going.” River snatched the paper plate, turning back down the hallway. “I woke up all alone. I didn’t know if you were coming back.”

When River was growing up, his mother had a habit of apologizing for him. “I’m sorry,” she’d say to friends and congregation members, “I don’t know what’s wrong with my son. He likes to be dramatic.” Only this wasn’t true, and River didn’t like to be dramatic at all. The screaming in his head, the uncontrollable anger over something small, the feeling of complete abandonment after being left alone for ten short minutes: all of this left him exhausted. River wasn’t mean, or dangerous. He was just sad and alone.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Hey, I’m back now. Come sit down. Have a smoke.”

Years ago, River had a therapist named Tonia, whom he saw weekly. Eventually, Tonia, like all the therapists he’d had in the past, had grown tired of him. “You said you have a lot of siblings,” she said once, sitting in front of him in her cluttered office. “How many?”

He hadn’t been to therapy in a while. He needed to go back.

“Nine sisters and eleven brothers.”

After Tonia, there was Daisy, who did group therapy. River hated this - though he’d made a few friends in therapy groups. They were all long gone, now.

“Growing up, how often would you say you felt neglected by your parents?”

“That’s easy. Every day.”

On the days where River woke feeling disgusted about himself, he begged for validation from his favourite people. He never liked people casually the way a regular person did. He never liked anything casually at all. Since moving in with Salem, he’d become fixated with the man: leaving him voicemails in the middle of the night, sitting in front of the door waiting for him to arrive home from work, becoming irrationally angry when he spent time with other people. River was consumed by his emotions, always, waiting for them to give him a break. At least twice a month, he dyed his hair a different colour. There was no reason for this, really, except for the desire to feel control over something for once.

River lay on his back, having eaten half of the small plate of food. Despite eating semi-regularly, he lost weight often, and became lightheaded almost daily. “I don’t think Dad would kill himself.”

The television was on, playing one of the few hotel channels, mostly ignored. Even away from work, Salem was busy with work. He responded to emails and made rough drafts of schedules on his phone, which irritated River. “I don’t, either.”

In the hallway, hotel guests laughed and socialized loudly. River longed to be a person who could socialize with anybody. “I heard Samantha skipped town after Mom died. She probably killed them. That’s why she ran away.”

It was strange to think how different his life might be if only he’d been born in a slightly different year, or a slightly different place. It was bittersweet to think about the different routes his life could have taken, had it only been a little different. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been so unreliable, or messy, or melodramatic. Perhaps he would have grown up to be a productive member of society.

The bottle in his hands was crooked, nearly spilling over onto the bed. Salem took it from him gently, setting it on a table with a clink. “I don’t think that’s true.” He was so forgiving, so helpful - it was aggravating, though really had no reason to be. “Let’s go do something. Maybe you need a distraction-”

It was cold. Despite this, River was sweating. “I don’t need a distraction! Why do you hate me?” He didn’t mean to say this. Most of the time, he exclaimed things without taking a moment to think.

“This session, we’re going to work on emotional regulation. It’s important to remember that our friends and family still love us even in the midst of a disagreement. It’s important to remember that they still love us even when they spend time with other people.”

Dialectical behaviour therapy had worked wonders for River in the past. These days, he was too anxious or sad or dysfunctional to go. It was easy, in theory, to put the things he learned into practice. When it came time to act in the moment, he rarely acted any differently. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so much - so dramatic, so emotional - he would have been somebody worth loving.

No one wanted to be River’s favourite person. He’d had many in his life. The thing about River was that once you were dead to him, there was no coming back. “Riv, I don’t hate you. I just think you’re not in a great headspace right now. Let’s go for a walk. Do some exploring, maybe.” It was isolating. Like everybody else, citizens of Iceland found him to be overwhelming and rude.

Most of the time, it was easier to be drunk than present. River had realized this years ago. Standing, he snatched the bottle back, taking a gulp. It wasn’t like River to feel anxious. Since arriving in Iceland, he hadn’t stopped.