Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

THE FINE ART OF BULLSHIT

TARA

"This isn't Latvia or whatever the fuck it's called."

"It's Lithuania, smartarse," I mouthed at him, sticking my tongue out, hoping he'd get the message.

"Why can't you talk?"

I raised an eyebrow, catching the slight unsteadiness in his stance. "Are you high right now?"

He wobbled slightly, then squinted at the IV line running into my arm, his lips curling into a crooked grin. "Pot meet fucking kettle, smartarse," he muttered, his voice low and amused.

Touché, I thought, smirking to myself. My brother was sharp when he wanted to be, even when he was off his face.

"Joey, love, how did you get here?" Edel swooped in, her tone full of concern as she gently guided him into a chair, making sure he didn't collapse onto the floor.

"I flew here," Joey beamed lazily, looking up at her with half-lidded eyes. "Like a fucking bird."

"You're definitely flying, kiddo," John chimed in from the corner, a chuckle escaping him before he quickly swallowed it, realizing Edel's eyes were fixed on him like daggers. He straightened up, clearing his throat in an awkward attempt to appear serious. "I'll get you a notebook and a pen, or a whiteboard, so you can talk to your brother. Be back in a jiffy."

Edel turned back to Joey, her brow furrowed. "And your siblings?" she asked, sounding as though she fully expected the rest of them to appear at any moment, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Saint Darren," Joey spat, his tone suddenly sharp with sarcasm. "Our house looks like fucking Animal Farm."

"You read that book?"

Joey chuckled, the sound warm and familiar despite the haze in his eyes. "You lent me your essay, remember?" He grinned lazily. "By the way, I don't think I ever thanked you for that."

He might've been high, but he wasn't thick. Just lazy when it came to schoolwork. Being his twin—and the older sibling by ten minutes—I'd often handed over my homework for him to copy. Same teachers, same assignments. We never got caught. If anyone raised an eyebrow, we just told them we worked on it together. Twins have that advantage, I suppose.

"Right, here we go." John breezed back into the room, balancing a whiteboard and a marker under one arm, a bottle of water and a packet of crackers in the other. He set the whiteboard on my lap, carefully handing Joey the water and crackers. "Sorted."

Joey nodded his thanks, then cracked open the water, his lazy grin widening as he started to speak again. "Shannon spends as much time outta the house as he can. Tadhg refuses to listen to Darren, and they're always fucking fighting. Ollie doesn't trust him, and Sean... Sean doesn't talk."

My hand darted for the marker, scribbling quickly. Why doesn't he talk?

His face softened slightly, the smug look from earlier fading. "The poor lad's traumatised from what happened in the kitchen," he said, his voice quieter now. "We all are."

I wrote furiously, my hand shaking slightly. So, selective mutism?

He nodded. "Yeah. He's been calling you at night, y'know? Mam tries to calm him, but it only makes him cry harder. Shannon's the only one who can get him to sleep a bit."

How's Shan?

"Severe concussion, traumatic pneumothorax, a few stitches on her cheek, and bruised ribs. But no need for surgery, thank fuck."