Coma (Slowly Editing)

Before

“You know you’re gonna need to leave this couch at some point, right?” my dad asked. He was standing in front of the television, about five feet away from me, with his arms propped on his waist, brows raised in an attempt to look like a stern parent.

“Yeah,” I replied. “When I’m dead.”

“No can do,” he said. “I’m kicking you out when you turn eighteen. By yourself. Without this couch.” When I didn’t reply, he moved blocked my view of the TV entirely.

“Daaaaaaaaad!” I whined, trying to shift so I could watch Spongebob from a better angle. “Go pick on someone your own size, I’m fiiiiine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he said. “I’m worried.” He tried to sit down beside me, but I was sprawled out along the entire length of the couch, so he ended up in an awkward half-squat with his butt barely touching the seat. Served him right for disrupting my entertainment. “Are you facing some problems at school? I read this article about cyberbullying the other day. It says kids your age are very susceptible to it. Is someone bothering you?”

“Yes. You.”

“Anna.”

“I’m fine, Dad. Really. I just want to rest, that’s all. Don’t worry, I won’t kill myself or anything.”

“Yeah, suicide would actually mean that she has to get off the couch,” John, my older brother, quipped from behind. He padded over and unceremoniously dumped himself on my legs.

“Ow! GET OFF MY LEGS, YOU MORON!” I jerked my feet free and tried to kick him.

“Dad, the weird lady is being mean!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

My father rolled his eyes at us and stood up.

"Looks like you're alright, then. I’m leaving. John, be nice to your sister.” He wagged a finger at me as though I was a misbehaving dog. “And you, behave yourself. By that, I mean it’s Saturday night, you should go out and try to have fun!”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll going to start a strip club in this house while you’re gone. Please transfer some money to my pimp, John.”

“I accept cash, credit, and pepperoni slices,” John deadpanned. My father looked back and forth between the two of us as though he couldn’t decide if we were joking or not. Then, shaking his head, he moved away.

“I hate teenagers,” he muttered as he headed for the door.

“Heard that!” John and I chorused.

“Dang it. Little pests.”

“That too!”

The only reply was the sound of his laughter, followed by the front door slamming. I went back to watching Spongebob and John settled himself on the floor, leaning his head against my knees. Now that Dad was gone, we had no need to pretend to be quarrelsome siblings. That was all an act we like to put up in front of Dad, mainly because it annoyed the crap out of him when kids argue. The apartment was quiet except for the sound of Spongebob and Patrick causing trouble and I was starting to fall back asleep when John spoke.

“Have you spoken to her?”

“Who?” I asked, even though I knew clearly who he was talking about. John was hesitant. We both knew very well the very mention of her name could throw me off the edge.

“You know,” John said softly.

“No,” I replied. “I haven’t. And I don’t want to.”