LIVING (And other short stories)

LIVING

I glance at my sister in her hospital bed. Life ebbing from her, yet yearning to enter her again. Sleeping Beauty, I wonder, and then look away, tugging at my hair with guilt.

  It had been my fault for her rumored death, and no one else’s. I was mad that day, and did not see the flashing lights charging at me like a maddened bull. Had I heeded my sister’s warning, I would have avoided such danger to her and myself. Despite her crying and tugging on my arms, despite her screams and looking into my eyes with tears falling down like waterfalls, despite her constant nagging and the way she looked at me in her hospital bed; her eyes unseeing, her hands unmoving, she did not blame me. She did not find me guilty. Had she warned me sooner, we would have survived with no maiming, no guilt of death; no pain, no worry. I shrug these thoughts away, knowing that she would come back to me; that in my head, in my heart, she’d be alive and she’d call my name. But we were in the hospice, where they take the “damaged beyond repair”. My little sister Monica would never walk the earth again. My little Icky (Icky is what I called her when we were very young, and still called her now) would be

gone, and only in my dreams would she be real. The distant six years we were apart, with me being eighteen and her only twelve, would be extinct.

  I could never forget her black eyes or her long luscious golden locks; nor her bright red cheeks smothered with concealer in the times of acne, or her pale skin that made me have goosebumps, for it was so lovely and soft; nor even her breath as she slept: hot and soft. But–oh, those eyes! The eyes that couldn’t leave me alone; the eyes that scared the hell out of me when she was sad or angry. The way they fled and shined red like a demon’s sometimes, as if she was another being, and in no way related to me. That could be possible though, for my hair was as black as night and I had eyes an unusual bright blue colour. My skin was a shining tan and I snored, so loud that Monica would wake up in the dead of night when we were younger, come to my room, and sleep there as I rumbled on and on on the couch in the living room. It could be that she was someone else, someone conceived from a fairy or wizard; a goblin or elf; like Arthur Pendragon, son of a king but given to a poor man with a spiteful and vengeful, rightfully-his son, named Kay. But I could never hurt Icky. I daren’t poke her. Or taunt her or lie about the things she hadn’t done,

when I had done them myself. I could never, and did never do those as I lived with Icky all my life, and now I would never get the  chance.

  I wiped my face over and over, as a way to forget about her unseeing gaze, her blackened, ashen face, her skin so stained with blood and grime and glass it made me shudder, as if the doctors did not care to help her. And I had foolishly said they should try something.

  But there was nothing to do now, except feel her blind gaze boring into my back, like a defective laser or a blunt knife or machete. It is cold in the hospice, and I sit in front of Monica, smiling sadly and stroking her hair. She was not dead yet, but by her face already drawn with death, by her blind glare and white, unbreathing lips, I knew not what to believe. I bent down and touched her cheek one more time, and suddenly the rotten coldness of death that clung to her was ripped off like the jumpsuits in cartoons used to hide the clothes that the character was really wearing. A violent rattle unfurled inside her, but I stayed where I was, touching my cheek to hers, hoping that her spirit would intertwine with mine and rejuvenate her; that my life force would be

donated to her empty, hollow shell of a person.

  And then I heard something. “Xavier.”

  I open my eyes. I pull away from Monica. And she turns to me, looking up at me, smiling with those eyes, the eyes that had changed somehow; the eyes that would no longer haunt my wavering soul, as if I would die in Monica’s place. Her once white lips are full again, and bright pink as they always were. Her skin was warmer now and tears filled my eyes.

  “Monica,” I breathed, kneeling down in front of her. “Monica.”

  I place a hand on her head, running my hands through her hair. “Thank you, Xavier, I knew you could do it,” she whispers, her eyes fluttering, and I wanted to let her sleep, but I had to know what she meant.

  “What do you mean, Icky?” I ask, laughing through my tears. Her pale, soft hand touches my face and she smiles at me with her forever-white teeth.

  She is smiling, but her black eyes are serious.

“You brought me back to life.”

AIRPLANE BUDDIES

I woke up to dim light through a slot in front of me. Everywhere else was dark and my mouth tasted of blood and dirt. I pressed my fingers, but found they were paining me and they were wet. Putting them to the light, I saw they were wet with fresh blood, as if I had killed a man in my sleep.

  I notice something: I’m on a PLANE. I’m on a FREAKING PLANE. I AM ON A FREAKING PLANE. HOW THE HELL AM I ON A PLANE???

   I see my boss sitting diagonally to me, facing the window as if waiting for someone, when he should be waiting for me.

   I was a runaway, desperate for a job and food. At first, when I asked, he said that I had hair that was too long, and legs that were too short. Oh, well. I clearly wasn’t like him; a tall masculine figure with big hairy arms and a beard, one so big and black it was like a bottomless pool of darkness.

   I had asked to be on this trip for over a year and my boss said yes. The only things I can remember were looking through some

important files he had in his desk; him catching me and nearly spanking me to death. I want ti jump out there and present myself in my rags, like The Little Stockboy Who Could, but my “cage” was jammed, and the only space was too heavy to pull open. The plane reeks of airline food and the violently fresh perfume airline ladies constantly spray on. One comes up to my boss; one dressed in so much red it was horrid, and she had black hair and beautiful green eyes. She wore a tight skirt and jacket that celebrated her curvy figure, and tall red high heels that made her tower over my boss. She had big, red full lips that one would pucker up so much it would make them suffocate. She mumbles something about, if he was on this flight on his own. My boss smiled and said yes.

I rolled my eyes. As if he had forgotten he stuffed his eleven-year-old employee in the cargo-hold.

Birthday Present

My sister was a wildcard: she always phone calls from guys, wore punk black and dyed her hair, and stuffed little piles of cocaine in used syringe covers in her pocket. If only she had a befitting name for an attitude she beared since birth, instead of a wimpy girl’s name like Milly. If we could swap names, I’d give her my Scarlett, and take her Milly. However, with her oval madonna face, blue eyes and full lips, she looked like maybe an Adelita or Mikayla; names that suited her better.

  Again had she been out to a party with her alcoholic cronies; friends of hers I’d tossed away and ignored like three-day-old sushi. They said hi and I said hi back, but I never had a real conversation with them. Nor had my parents, for they loathed my sister’s friends and my sister for the path she had taken. I was their pride and joy, and always had been, and when they scolded Milly for her behaviour, she’d would simply ignore, which suited her best. But I was her rock; her spy; her confidante, doing everything I could to help her; provide for her; protect her, like a wounded bird. And when her wings had healed two years ago, I had let her fly off into a world she had invented long before.

Milly hung her coat and fished for a cigarette in her black leather jacket pocket. “Got a lighter?” she asked, pushing the unlit cigarette in my face so much that the raw cannabis burnt my nose just with the stench, and I pushing it away.

“Just light your cig the way you do with matches: strike them on the side, watch it flame.” I bury my nose in my book again; my sister walks around me, and I can feel the smile she wears as she ambles off into the kitchen. I snicker. It had been my birthday and she hadn’t said anything. But she didn’t need to. She gave me tattooing gear in advance because her pals wanted “markings”. I numbly agreed and did it for fifty dollars in the garage, but after St. Patrick’s day, I broke it down to a 15% discount, because I was in a happy mood.

Suddenly, a gun sounds and I rushed to the kitchen. My heart crumples when I see Milly lying on the floor, life ebbing from her; blood spilling from her side. There is a note on her limp shoulder and I tentatively read it. The words make my skin crawl:

“HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY SCARLETT…”