Sativa.

9. Caliber

Blaine refuses to fester in guilt after her confrontation with Tina. She isn't responsible for her sister's selfishness. Still, weeks after their meeting, she can't shake the sickness of it.

While Clark struggled with addiction and Tina crippled in depression, Blaine as the outcast grew up relatively normal in comparison. Both a blessing and a curse.

Since Easter, after he carved help me into Grandpa Albert's floor, Clark's mind shifted as devastatingly as an earthquake. Overshadowed by demons not even professional therapists could put faces to. Tina found recovery then left the rehab. Clark never did.

Blaine's visits with her older brother are hardly tragic, though. Unlike Tina he isn't a miserable shell of a human being. He volunteer's at the library on Tuesday's and Thursday's. Those are the days Blaine chooses to visit him too because he's less likely to experience one of his... episodes.

A plump yet friendly woman greets her every week. The glass barrier between Blaine and the front desk resembles a fish bowl magnifying the nurse's smile into something disturbing as she says, "Miss Sativa."

Despite the warmness of her greeting, Blaine cringes. Being referred to as Miss and Sativa in one sentence makes her feel old. Despite summoning an equally welcoming smile she moves slow as she deposits her phone and jewelry into a plastic tub. Anything that can be used as a weapon is immediately discarded before visitation. Blaine is familiar with the routine but still commits to it robotically.

"How is he today?" She asks, unclipping the back of her second earring.

The nurse merely hmms in response which Blaine interprets as not well before the words even leave her mouth. "He's tired. Hasn't come out of his room all day."

Her mind spirals like water in a drain. Opening up into a vortex that makes her lightheaded. She slumps as her body follows the sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Can I see him now?"

"Sure can, sweetheart." The fat nurse yanks the plastic tub of Blaine's belongings behind the glass, abruptly ending their uncomfortable exchange.

Anxiety curdles her gut like milk left in the sun. She's soured by the feeling as she wanders a maze of memorized hallways. It's a sterile place muted in neutral tan colors and reeking of overwhelming floral potpourri and bleach. She counts each door she passes under her breath. Thirty-seven.

With a tentative knock she nudges the door open. Clark sits on a mattress without a frame to lift it off the floor. His glasses are perched on the tip of his nose but his eyes are drooping closed. She isn't sure if he's still reading the book propped on his lap.

"Hey Clark."

His limbs spasm at her voice but, despite the seizure-like reaction, his glasses and book remain in place. Recognizing her he slowly folds the book closed.

At first seeing him here was disheartening, painful even, but not as much now. This is Clark's home so Blaine treats it as such by energetically hopping onto the bed. The springy mattress bows, prodding uncomfortably against her bum, but she ignores it. His company has become more of a habit than an actual comfort.

Blaine sits to his left. This side of his face is light white by a marking of scars. As a teen, he was trapped in his room during a fire. Whenever she looks at the scarring a small piece of her suspects it wasn't lit by accident. He wanted to hurt himself as badly as he hurt on the inside. She won't ever ask him aloud, feeling guilty for even wondering silently.

"What are you reading?"

"Fear and Loathing."

"Again?"