No Pills

How to ruin your kids

WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of attempted suicide.

Charlie's P.O.V

There are a lot of reasons why I love living with my grandparents. First, Grandpa is mainly in the woods, and Grandma only bothers me when she's in the kitchen. They don't barge into my room. They don't shove implausible expectations down my throat. They are placid and appropriately lovely when you do them favours, like assisting with their cooking and hunting ambitions.

Why would I want to leave them?

"You are not leaving us," Grandma clarifies, setting a pan on the stove, "you will take care of your mother for a bit. Then you can come back."

"But I don't want to," I press. Grandpa sighs beside me and nudges my shoulder for the hunting rifle. I turn to him for help, only for him to give me a smile that doesn't reach his sad eyes and leave me weaponless. Traitor.

"Sydney is faring badly, " Grandma reckons sotto voce. I frown, folding my arms over my chest. "How?"

"Can't... Explain, " she croaks, her teeth chattering. Her flaky grey hair shivers over her head like a cloud of tears. Her eyes shut as if she has just forgotten what to say next. I gulp. I don't want to be the cause of another meltdown. The last one, when my classmates beat me up, and the school nurse had me call her in, was unbearable. I'm not ready to watch her wail quietly like that again.

Not today. Please, God, not today.

"Ok," I sigh. Her eyelids flutter open.

"Oh," she beams, "oh you sweet," reaches over, "sweet, sweet boy," and wraps me in a warm embrace.

"Oh, you're such a sweet boy."

*

There are, however, reasons for me to detest living with them too. One is that they don't have a library. It's truly devastating. They have a garden, the woods, a rifle store, fine cutlery, a landline, a gramophone, and a roof, but no world of books for me to relish.

Due to this, I always have to speed into public libraries in the city and out, trying to outrun the sun, which makes our neighbours presume I steal the books. At least, if that were true, I would have a classic to read to get my mind off having to stay with Sydney.

I bathe, contemplating convincing them to allow me to go to the library tomorrow. They will think I intend to run away - which is not a bad idea anyway - so I have to act like I'm happy with their decision. I've to be their sweet boy.

I set two bottles of chocolate milk and a plate of cookies, then a tiny vase for two scented white roses on a tray. I knock on their door gently. No one answers. Before I can utter a chirpy greeting, I am cut off by Grandpa yelling, "Oh, for goodness sake, this was your idea!"

"You think I want this?" I hear Grandma reply in audible disbelief," You think I'm happy she tried to commit suicide?! Huh?!"

The tray trembles. I set it on the ground, chocolate milk sloshing like my emotions.

Who's she? She better not be Sil.

"Look, I already almost lost her, and I'm not about to take my chances on him either. At least his mom has money to take him to therapy or something. "

" But you said she's not doing well," Grandpa emphasises. Grandma replies, "She said she has a rich boyfriend now, so."

So she's... Sydney?

"That harlot."

"Martin, no bad language!" I hear her gasp, then grumble, "She's well financially. Let's just pray she can handle him. She started this mess, so she should fix it. We did warn our son about her kind, but he didn't listen. Now, see what she has done to my grandbabies. We almost lost Sil, and we weren't even aware until the detention officer called."

My breath hitches. I back away from the door. Grandpa says something, but I am too stunned to hear it. All I hear is my feet staggering straight for her room. Flinging the door open, I rummage through her wardrobe, then her drawer. Many of her clothes unfold and fly unto her unmade bed. The covers groan as I slip onto it. My puny arms tremble as they caress my knees. My nails dig into my loose trousers, into my calves, into tiny hair follicles growing out of my skin, into an atom of blood. She has longer fingernails.

She is here, painting them red.

"Give me your hand," she says. She takes my hand and frowns at the red stain.

"Dude, you're messing it. Let me do it for you."

And when she is done painting my pinky finger, she chuckles.

"See? Better. Now we are matching."

*

It's her. It makes sense if it's her. It shouldn't make sense, but it does. When did she do it? What was I doing then? Would I have sensed it? Some people believe twins have telepathy, but I don't know what she was thinking.

Perhaps it is because I have never tried reading her mind. To me, that would be intrusive. We don't share the same brain, after all. We are two very different beings. Sil is a massive ship with no captain. I am a fish out of the Atlantic Ocean. She slapped Sydney during our Easter family gathering because she came home late the previous night, and Sydney was nagging about that to the guests. She flushed my goldfish and stole some of my medication. She apologised and compensated me with The Picture of Dorian Grey. She held my hand when I was getting tested for STDs. I did not tell her what happened first. She was disheartened when she found out.

No,-

Enraged.

Wrath was signed all over her sullen face. She did not hide it. If something is left to understand about someone who is a literal mirror of her emotions, then perhaps, I should not know.

I should stop thinking about her. I should stop thinking altogether. She is fine. She's okay. Please, stop it.

Sil tried to kill herself, but she's not dead. The end. That's all there is to know. Flipping through pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray, I realise this...

Perhaps, I shouldn't know why.

Perhaps I don't need a library after all.

*

The following day, I sit behind a computer monitor. I tell myself I travelled to this small internet cafe uptown without permission because my grandparents don't deserve to know my every move if they can hide secrets from me.

I boot the computer. Sil loves to stalk people online. If I do that and enjoy it, will she enjoy it too? Will that make her happy?

I open her Instagram and glance at her followers' usernames. None are familiar except one. I double-click, and sure enough, squares of that familiar face fill the bottom half of the screen.

Sil, are you seeing this? He's moved on.

Many pictures had him swimming, eating, laughing, and pouting. There is one of him singing and playing his guitar in an arena filled with students in white and grey uniforms, and the caption is
"Spencer High 47th Speech Day Celebration. Guess who performed?!"

She would have said,

"Shut up, Harry."

*

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