Everything in Havenport had been in Havenport since the 1800's , and I'm sure that goes for some of the people here too. Nobody ever left, and nobody ever came in. This isn't a tourist location, there's nothing special about Havenport and it's impossible to locate on any map of North America - let alone a map of Massachusetts. You can turn a corner one second and see large houses with brick walls and stained glass doors, and the next second you see multiple hovels held together with metal panels and planks of wood. There's one store in all of Havenport, and it's a dollar store. The nearest grocery store is an hour away, and the nearest mall is at least three hours away. Havenport was the simplest place is Massachusetts, if you knew one person, you knew them all. There were only two interesting things about Havenport, to be completely honest - the girls, and the abandoned mental asylum that was tucked away behind the Artaud household. Many people wanted to know what the asylum was like, but nobody ever dared to venture into it. But that's just who I am - a nobody.
My uncle sat across from me in his favourite navy blue chair. Both of us said nothing, we just looked out the window and watched people pull in and out of the long driveway. Downstairs people dressed in black shuffled around giving each other hugs and kissing each other. We both agreed that we would stay away from the crowd of people that we were supposed to be talking to and getting respects from. We aren't very social people. I am like he was when he was in high school. I have friends, but not many. I don't bother to join any clubs; I hate attention. I never go to parties; they're pointless and just another excuse for underage teenagers to get drunk and rub their bodies against each other. I don't have a girlfriend, I don't intend on having one. My uncle told me that girls don't matter during high school, and that I should wait until later. He's a smart man, but he barely shows emotion.
His wife died yesterday from an aneurysm two nights ago, and he hadn't cried once since. I've lived with him my whole life, and not once had I seen him cry, or tell somebody that he loved them. The only time I had actually seen him laugh was when I had gotten a fork stuck between my teeth as a kid. As much as it should worry me that he's emotionless, it doesn't. In fact, if he was to start showing emotion, I would become worried.
We continued staring out the window, watching the cars were pulling away from the house. I'm pretty sure that everybody in Havenport had came to visit us today, but we wouldn't really know that considering that we've been upstairs in the library all day. When I say 'all day' I really do mean that word for word. I could't sleep last night, so at midnight I came into the library and he was sitting there, sleeping with a book open in his lap. I didn't want to wake up, so I sat in the corner of the room and started reading. I think I read six books, all of which I had read before.
I looked over at my uncle once the driveway was completely cleared - except for my old jalopy of a truck and his tiny black bug. He kept staring out the window not even notifying my existance. "I'm going to clean up the mess downstairs," I said. He blinked in reply and I got up out of my chair and headed down the spiral staircase. The living room was almost spotless, except for a few wine glases that were on the coffee table. Automatically I thought about how many sad, drunken drivers had just pulled out of the driveway. I turned on the radio to our local station as I cleaned the room, listening carefully for any announcements of crashes. Suprisingly, I hadn't dropped anything, despite the shakiness of my hands. That was the thing about me; I got nervous and worried far too easily. I'm not sure if it was just how I was, or if I had anxiety problems, Either way, I'd rather just like to believe it's all in my head.
The room now appeared nearly spotless. There were a few drips of wine on the carpet - my uncle was bound to be angry about that, but in the defense of the wine the people who had spilled it were probably too busy mourning Aunt Silvie to even realize what it was that they were actually doing. I sighed and fell back onto the couch, my head hit hard against the arm rest making my skull begin to throb slightly. Before I knew it I was falling into a daze. My eyes fluttered closed and I drifted off.
I do not know how long I had slept for, but I awoke to my uncle standing over me, shaking me nervously. "Eli?" I shot up quickly almost making my uncle fall over. "Yes?"
"Are you okay?"
"You were screaming again."
I'm not quite sure, but I think I gave him a very confused look. He sighed and walked out of the room. Apparently I scream in my sleep a lot. It's not even just a basic little scream though, it's full on bloody murder screaming. My uncle had often described it was 'night terrors.' They came from traumatic events in ones life, that's all I knew.
I shook my head slightly and pushed my half-asleep body up off of the sofa. I yawned once or twice as I made my way to the kitchen. Slowly, I moved to the kettle, turning it on and steeping some Earl Gray tea, that's when I looked at the empty table and frowned - Silvie sat there every morning and drank her Earl Gray with class. I remember when I was eight, she would offer me some tea. I tried it once, but I spat it out. Earl Gray tasted like shit. Silvie would laugh as I washed my tongue under the tap; of course I would have to climb ontop of the counter to do so. She would smile at me, and call me "Lion Boy." Silvie wasn't just an aunt to me, she was more of a mother, whom of which loved me very much. I missed her, and I knew my uncle did too, even though he didn't show it whatsoever.