Sickness -- Meghana Vadassery
Editor's Note: Winner of 2017's Horror Fiction Writing Contest
Her listless gaze remains preoccupied on the overhead light fixture, her orbs dancing ever so slightly in tandem with the object’s almost negligible sway. I stare at her with the same meaningless gaze, closely observing the nuances her face displays - if there are any.
Like usual, there aren’t.
She catches my line of sight, and I am prompted to turn away. Only I don’t. Our eyes lock together, searching for any flicker of emotion, any indication to our thoughts, anything. She is the first to give way.
My sister laughs - if you could call the noise that. It sounds more and more like a strangled heave as the weeks go by. The only evidence that I need not to call an ambulance is the smile that decorates her face. No matter how weary and sickly she grows, no matter how dry and rough her hair gets, it is the one part of her that will remain everlastingly beautiful.
After her fit is over and she subdues to a simper, she nudges me at the end of her bed with her foot. “Continue,” she insists, her voice cracking partway. I look back down on the book resting in my hand. It’s War and Peace by Tolstoy, who she claims to be her favorite author and this to be her favorite book. I know it isn’t. Her favorite author is Dostoevsky. She loves The Idiot. I should know. She’d read the book religiously over the summer, and I’ve even spotted her lugging a copy to school. And if that weren’t enough, she’d prance around the house, quoting lines in different voices until she settled on one she deemed to suit the character.
It’s a pity she can’t do that anymore.
She has no reason to lie. I’m her sister, after all. I’ve suspected she’s grown bored of the way I read the never-ending book, lacking expressions, humor, or even a compelling voice. She doesn’t complain, though. I’ve suspected that she only insists that War and Peace is her favorite to keep me reading longer, and in the process, stay by her side for more time.
I comply, clearing my throat for dramatic effect. “The day after the conversation, Natasha put on the old dress she specially associated with the fun she had often had when wearing it in the mornings, and began from early morning to take up her old manner of life, which she had given up ever since the ball. After morning tea, she went into the big hall, which she particularly-”
“Tea,” I hear a feeble voice croak out. I turn my attention to my sister, whose eyes have illuminated with some excitement. “Could we have tea?”
I’m used to the slight beg her voice carries now. She’s realized that the fulfillment of her wishes relies on me. But I don’t ask for compensation. I’m satisfied only when she’s happy. I flash a brief grin and nod, before folding the corner of the page and scurrying to the kitchen.
Tea has become a craving for her. A necessity, almost. That’s what, after all, every sick person wants.
It all started half a year ago. I recall the events as I gather the tea bags - the morning she woke up ill, the vomiting, the wheezing, the fever. For an entire week, she had suffered through what we had originally assumed to be the flu. With fevers running up dangerously high, the inability to keep anything down in her stomach, and her unbearable body aches, we had promised her all the agony would end within a week.
It didn’t.
The medications didn’t work. My concerned parents brought her to the doctor, to whom, after a thorough examination, declared it was nothing like he’d ever seen before. She was brought to the hospital promptly. During her stay, gradually, her symptoms lessened, to both our euphoria and bewilderment. After 2 weeks of complete isolation, we were allowed to bring her home. There, we showered her in affection and adoration, pampering and fulfilling her every whim.
But the sickness started to act up again.
For a long time, the cycle continued. Doctor. Hospital. Home. Sick. Three months in total, I believe. They poked and prodded with needles, collecting samples for examinations.
They couldn’t find any virus.
The doctors weren’t prepared to write her off as an abnormality just yet. Instead, they suggested outpatient care when my parents’ finances took a nosedive. The process was simple - keep her home, while medication and professional visits would remain ceaseless, until she was totally cured.
And this was the situation now.
My parents couldn’t handle the stress of managing their jobs and taking care of their daughter. So, they settled on me. They’d arranged something with the school that allowed all my classes to be shift to home-schooling while I took care of my elder sister. I’d be her “guardian and assistant”, as they described. Although it wasn’t a simple task, I was thrilled to be spending more time with my sister.
She was a bright girl, studying in her sophomore year before the disease had overcome her and ate away her body. She had the admiration of all who had the privilege to know her. My sister could manage everything so elegantly, so effortlessly. That unfaltering smile of hers charmed all who saw it. It grew when she became passionate. She was passionate a lot.
And perfect. Everyone knew it.
My parents saw the potential in her at an early age. At least, that’s what they told me. I didn’t know the first 5 years of her life first-hand. I wish I could say I loved her.
I could only admire her.
The distinction was clear. My parents, though they denied it promptly, had picked a clear favorite - her, not me. They boasted of their elder daughter. They fawned and cherished their elder daughter.
They forgot about the younger one.
It didn’t hurt, surprisingly. It should have. It should have mattered. I should have mattered.
It didn’t. It didn’t matter. I didn’t matter.
I don’t know how I managed to admire her. Had I tricked myself into thinking so? I knew the distinction between admiration and love. I knew it. I really did.
But what if I was wrong?
No, I’m not wrong. I’m not wrong. I’m not wrong.
I can’t be wrong.
She and I hadn’t spent much time together before her bedridden state. Always running off. Never had time with her sister. She indulged in the thrills accompanied by her friends rather than opting for a family life.
Envy? Wrath?
It’s a delicious combination. Just as delicious as my tea. It’s different now. She’s here. She cares. She needs me. She loves me. And I know I’ll learn to love her.
The cups of tea are hot to the touch. The heat pools at my fingertips as my fingers curl around the handles. I hastily return to the room, eager to release my hold on the scalding porcelain. My sister is unresponsive towards my entry. She’s asleep, tucked into her own little world of dreams. Or maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s not dreaming. Maybe she’s imagining a dark void staring back at her. It could be a nightmare, but her face is blank. It is seemingly only now, in her sleep, can she finally have some privacy.
It is the only time that she cannot be with me.
I feel cheated. Betrayed.
It all seeps away once I slip the white powder into her cup and place it onto the nightstand next to her. She’s always enjoyed the way I make tea. She has some everyday. She says it’s her favorite drink.
This, I know to be true.
I take my own cup and sit on the edge of her bed, careful to avoid her feet. The steam dances upwards, licking my face. It singes the surface of my skin, sending content shivers down my spine. I lean forward to take a sip.
I’ve got to be careful when preparing the tea. Wouldn’t want to slip the poison into my own cup.
Her listless gaze remains preoccupied on the overhead light fixture, her orbs dancing ever so slightly in tandem with the object’s almost negligible sway. I stare at her with the same meaningless gaze, closely observing the nuances her face displays - if there are any.
Like usual, there aren’t.
She catches my line of sight, and I am prompted to turn away. Only I don’t. Our eyes lock together, searching for any flicker of emotion, any indication to our thoughts, anything. She is the first to give way.
My sister laughs - if you could call the noise that. It sounds more and more like a strangled heave as the weeks go by. The only evidence that I need not to call an ambulance is the smile that decorates her face. No matter how weary and sickly she grows, no matter how dry and rough her hair gets, it is the one part of her that will remain everlastingly beautiful.
After her fit is over and she subdues to a simper, she nudges me at the end of her bed with her foot. “Continue,” she insists, her voice cracking partway. I look back down on the book resting in my hand. It’s War and Peace by Tolstoy, who she claims to be her favorite author and this to be her favorite book. I know it isn’t. Her favorite author is Dostoevsky. She loves The Idiot. I should know. She’d read the book religiously over the summer, and I’ve even spotted her lugging a copy to school. And if that weren’t enough, she’d prance around the house, quoting lines in different voices until she settled on one she deemed to suit the character.
It’s a pity she can’t do that anymore.
She has no reason to lie. I’m her sister, after all. I’ve suspected she’s grown bored of the way I read the never-ending book, lacking expressions, humor, or even a compelling voice. She doesn’t complain, though. I’ve suspected that she only insists that War and Peace is her favorite to keep me reading longer, and in the process, stay by her side for more time.
I comply, clearing my throat for dramatic effect. “The day after the conversation, Natasha put on the old dress she specially associated with the fun she had often had when wearing it in the mornings, and began from early morning to take up her old manner of life, which she had given up ever since the ball. After morning tea, she went into the big hall, which she particularly-”
“Tea,” I hear a feeble voice croak out. I turn my attention to my sister, whose eyes have illuminated with some excitement. “Could we have tea?”
I’m used to the slight beg her voice carries now. She’s realized that the fulfillment of her wishes relies on me. But I don’t ask for compensation. I’m satisfied only when she’s happy. I flash a brief grin and nod, before folding the corner of the page and scurrying to the kitchen.
Tea has become a craving for her. A necessity, almost. That’s what, after all, every sick person wants.
It all started half a year ago. I recall the events as I gather the tea bags - the morning she woke up ill, the vomiting, the wheezing, the fever. For an entire week, she had suffered through what we had originally assumed to be the flu. With fevers running up dangerously high, the inability to keep anything down in her stomach, and her unbearable body aches, we had promised her all the agony would end within a week.
It didn’t.
The medications didn’t work. My concerned parents brought her to the doctor, to whom, after a thorough examination, declared it was nothing like he’d ever seen before. She was brought to the hospital promptly. During her stay, gradually, her symptoms lessened, to both our euphoria and bewilderment. After 2 weeks of complete isolation, we were allowed to bring her home. There, we showered her in affection and adoration, pampering and fulfilling her every whim.
But the sickness started to act up again.
For a long time, the cycle continued. Doctor. Hospital. Home. Sick. Three months in total, I believe. They poked and prodded with needles, collecting samples for examinations.
They couldn’t find any virus.
The doctors weren’t prepared to write her off as an abnormality just yet. Instead, they suggested outpatient care when my parents’ finances took a nosedive. The process was simple - keep her home, while medication and professional visits would remain ceaseless, until she was totally cured.
And this was the situation now.
My parents couldn’t handle the stress of managing their jobs and taking care of their daughter. So, they settled on me. They’d arranged something with the school that allowed all my classes to be shift to home-schooling while I took care of my elder sister. I’d be her “guardian and assistant”, as they described. Although it wasn’t a simple task, I was thrilled to be spending more time with my sister.
She was a bright girl, studying in her sophomore year before the disease had overcome her and ate away her body. She had the admiration of all who had the privilege to know her. My sister could manage everything so elegantly, so effortlessly. That unfaltering smile of hers charmed all who saw it. It grew when she became passionate. She was passionate a lot.
And perfect. Everyone knew it.
My parents saw the potential in her at an early age. At least, that’s what they told me. I didn’t know the first 5 years of her life first-hand. I wish I could say I loved her.
I could only admire her.
The distinction was clear. My parents, though they denied it promptly, had picked a clear favorite - her, not me. They boasted of their elder daughter. They fawned and cherished their elder daughter.
They forgot about the younger one.
It didn’t hurt, surprisingly. It should have. It should have mattered. I should have mattered.
It didn’t. It didn’t matter. I didn’t matter.
I don’t know how I managed to admire her. Had I tricked myself into thinking so? I knew the distinction between admiration and love. I knew it. I really did.
But what if I was wrong?
No, I’m not wrong. I’m not wrong. I’m not wrong.
I can’t be wrong.
She and I hadn’t spent much time together before her bedridden state. Always running off. Never had time with her sister. She indulged in the thrills accompanied by her friends rather than opting for a family life.
Envy? Wrath?
It’s a delicious combination. Just as delicious as my tea. It’s different now. She’s here. She cares. She needs me. She loves me. And I know I’ll learn to love her.
The cups of tea are hot to the touch. The heat pools at my fingertips as my fingers curl around the handles. I hastily return to the room, eager to release my hold on the scalding porcelain. My sister is unresponsive towards my entry. She’s asleep, tucked into her own little world of dreams. Or maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s not dreaming. Maybe she’s imagining a dark void staring back at her. It could be a nightmare, but her face is blank. It is seemingly only now, in her sleep, can she finally have some privacy.
It is the only time that she cannot be with me.
I feel cheated. Betrayed.
It all seeps away once I slip the white powder into her cup and place it onto the nightstand next to her. She’s always enjoyed the way I make tea. She has some everyday. She says it’s her favorite drink.
This, I know to be true.
I take my own cup and sit on the edge of her bed, careful to avoid her feet. The steam dances upwards, licking my face. It singes the surface of my skin, sending content shivers down my spine. I lean forward to take a sip.
I’ve got to be careful when preparing the tea. Wouldn’t want to slip the poison into my own cup.