Phoebe's Performance

Sisterly Love

Author Note: 29/06/2017

Well...if you've made it to this point...thank you for your support. I can't tell you how much that means to me. 

As I mentioned in a few of the earlier chapter updates that I've updated the entire book today. I've made quite a few large changes to the manuscript and I'll be posting the whole novel up because it's off to beta readers for feedback.

I will however be taking the book off after I receive feedback.

If you too would like to get involved in offering any feedback, please do, because I'll use that in my changes. 

Enjoy reading.

xxx

Alicia

Chapter 3

How do you extract your twenty-five year old, baby sister (younger only by one year), from her bed without pouncing on her? I coil my fists in her bedroom doorway and a long list of grievances run through my head. Whenever I recall the interview with Annika, a sizzle stirs in the pit of my stomach.

Her body is mummified, cocooned within the duvet, an 'easy target' so to speak. But fighting with my darling sister, Michelle Vermont, is never easy, something I learnt, growing up together. There's always a tussle because she fights to get her way, on everything.

Let's take her name as a typical example: Michelle. Not in my wildest dreams would I refer to my sister as 'Michelle' even if it's the name that appears on her birth certificate. At a wee age, someone mentioned that 'Michelle' was the feminine for 'Michael' and she'd been named after my dad. From that instant she adopted our dad's nickname 'Mickey' because she wanted to be just like dad. Never mind the confusion it might cause. But my beloved sister isn't the type to back down then. That's why the nickname stuck. And that's why even as I stand in her doorway, ready for some action, my fingers slowly uncurl and I wish she'd just move. It's kind of unsettling how still she is and I can't force her out of bed. I also don't have the physical frame to lift her out.

The room has developed a pungent scent like clothes left too long in the washing machine or old cheese (quite possibly from the lasagne that's still next to her bed). She's not the type to stand for wafting cheesy smells and I don't understand three days of inactivity, complete bed rest and essentially wallowing.

Also the bowl of Bran Flakes I proffered earlier this morning looks like the remains of dirty mop-bucket water. Granted the little cardboard chunks aren't as sexy or appealing as pasta. Okay. They're not even close to being tasty but to my sister, eating Bran Flakes is part of her regular morning habit, something she consumes each morning in a state of almost unconsciousness.

Now she's living off air.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know what to do.

I sit on the edge of her mattress and the springs groan in response. Her leg twitches, so she's not a corpse quite yet. I lean over her figure, unsure whether to leave her as she is.

Maybe today isn't the right day for a showdown? Maybe she didn't mean to completely rewrite my resume without mentioning it to me? All thoughts are wishful thinking because my sister would have known exactly what she was doing. She thought she was right, she interfered and she crossed the boundary of acceptability.

A low whistle escapes from her lips like an old woman on a deathbed and I stroke her tangled red hair. "How are you feeling?" I finally ask.

"I'm fine."