A plump hand juts out from beyond the counter holding a small plastic cup with three pills in it, each a different size. The nurse holds the pills out a little farther. I don’t intend to take them. I refuse. The pills won’t help me. Not now, not ever. I’m not afflicted with anything the doctors intend to heal me of. Not anxiety, or depression. Not schizophrenia. I am not insane, at least I wasn’t, only a victim to tragedy.
The nurse’s voice is cold and has lost any warmth and passion it may have held. I’m not sure what she has said, but I know it is to persuade or maybe even threaten me to take the cup. So much medicine. So much sadness. So much death.
I snatch the pills from her hand, not waiting for her to release the cup, my thin boney fingers wrap around the cylinder bottom threatening to crush the feeble plastic. The bones are countable beneath my tight, ivory skin and veins, the color of bruises, protrude. I walk down the hall, my pale knobby knees kicking up the formless white flannel hospital gown that swallows my frame. Such a narrow hall.
I come to sit in a plastic, armless chair backed against the cream white hallway wall. Such a sickly white. I brush my hair out of my face, dull, brown, lifeless, and dead. She used to tell me my hair was beautiful. Everyday, so beautiful. She used to try to run her small child hands, still plump with baby fat, through it. I would accuse her of causing it to knot and become tangled, and slap her hands away in vain. She could no longer watch my silk, auburn hair with envy, eyeing each lock with those small, innocent, violet eyes. Not from where she lies now. Not in her shallow dirt grave. Never again. My hair is dead now, no longer lustrous as it once had been, each lock hangs limp. Just like a doll’s. Just like the doll’s. Just like Sarah’s.
I spill the pills out onto my lap, covered over by the stiff canvas of my gown. My hands shake as I select the smallest pill. One pill for one event I should have seen coming. One pill for one event I could have attempted to prevent. One step closer to the death of my sister. One pill.
~
Hanna pressed her face to the glass pane of the storefront window, her nose flattened against the grime of the window. Violet eyes looked in upon the window display of miscellaneous knick-knacks that serve no purpose except to stand idle to human eyes. Grabbing her shoulder, I tried to urge her on. Her glazed eyes peer in, mesmerized by something behind the thick layer of dust-coated glass.
I attempted to wipe off the layer of dust that distorted my vision, preventing me from being able to see what my little, doe-eyed sister was almost hypnotically obsessing over. After a few seconds of wiping off the glass pane I gave in and admitted defeat. Years of grime were not affected by my minimal effort cleaning job.
My patience was wearing thin and I wanted to continue sauntering along the sidewalks until I saw my swerving slanted driveway leading to the pale blue façade of our colonial style home. Hanna insisted whole-heartedly that she would stay routed outside the sagging storefront of the rundown antique shop, looking in with her dazed stare.
“Molly, I want to go in. I want to hold her.”
In my mind I reasoned that the only way to fulfill the task of walking little Hanna home was to surrender my time, and gave my consent to quickly glance around the store. Truth be told, I wanted to see what had my sister mystified. I assume it must be something pivotal or genuinely interesting due to it’s ability to keep my skittish little sister so enthralled in it.
Hanna pushed the full weight of her petite figure against the outdated wooden door, once painted an unusual eye-catching rose pink with green detailing, but now dulled, faded, and chipped by the elements. The door edged open, its rusted hinges screaming in protest. Hanna allotted no time for looking around, instead she scampered over to the carelessly festooned window display, taking a disheveled looking doll in her arms, cradling it against her chest.
