I am standing in Ruthie’s shower, engulfed in billowing clouds of steam, attempting to think straight. I have scrubbed my skin raw, washed my hair frantically and rinsed off under a relentless downpour of scalding water. I gaze at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. I am quite disheartened by what I see. I am teetering on the brink of adulthood and yet I still look bizarre: I am tall but bereft of any grace. My frame is all angles and bones, my torso lean and slender, with bones jutting out of everywhere. My tiny and delicate waist stands in stark contrast to my wide, matronly hips and robust thighs. My skin, usually ghostly pale, now shows the flush of the tears I’ve shed. My eyes, “big like saucers” and “hazel like Ethiopian coffee” as Mum used to say when I was a little girl, are bloodshot and swollen. My hair is a mess of purple rebellion, hacked into a fierce pixie haircut. I have numerous piercings and two small tattoos, etched under the radar of Mum’s ever-watchful eye. Cyril, Ruthie’s brother, insists it’s a blessing I’m not a conventional beauty because this way I get to cultivate a sparkling personality to make up for my awkward looks. It is the glorious year of 2003. In a mere fourteen months, I will be turning eighteen. The countdown to graduation ticks with tantalizing promise; I simply can’t wait to graduate and bid a gleeful adieu to all the bullies and the high school jocks. I’ve been spending a lot of time at Ruthie’s place lately, driven by the unbearable situation at my own place. I have a twin brother, Joseph. I have never seen anyone so breathtakingly handsome, like a figure summoned out of an El Greco canvas. He stands tall and willowy, his blue eyes aflame with an otherworldly intensity. He seems to possess an ethereal aura that clings to him like a wispy cloud, evident in his every move and word. At just sixteen and a half, Joseph’s arms and legs are a tapestry of beautifully crafted tattoos. If Mum were to discover my two discreet tattoos, all hell would break loose but Joseph has never been reprimanded for his ink. The understanding that Joseph holds a cherished place in Mum’s heart isn’t lost on me and the reasons for it are crystal clear. Joseph had always been exceptionally fragile. Our Dad’s unexpected death of an aneurysm when Mum was barely into her eighth month of pregnancy led to our untimely and premature arrival. To make matters worse, I had assumed the role of the dominant twin while still in utero, greedily drawing sustenance, nutrients and vitality from Joseph. When we were born, I was an average newborn whereas Joseph, a mere fraction of my weight, required immediate intubation. He spent his first three months in an intensive care unit as his tiny body struggled to survive a brain hemorrhage and a set of lungs that hadn’t properly formed and kept collapsing. A sense of immense guilt, fixated on the tender fragility of those embryonic days has long since lingered within me. I have always felt that, in some enigmatic way, I might have orchestrated his fate when we were still swimming around in our pre-birth quarters. Growing up, I was quite a robust child, always thriving and looking healthy whereas Joseph grappled with severe asthma, consecutive respiratory infections and epileptic seizures. Driven by guilt, I have often found myself struggling to make amends to both Joseph and our Mum, subconsciously seeking redemption for the role I unknowingly played in shaping our destinies. When we were eight years old, we shared the same diagnosis: autism. My case was described as moderate; I could navigate life with minimal intervention as long as I learned to manage my sensory difficulties and my social reticence. Joseph’s case proved far more challenging as his autism was aggravated by a raging ADHD and frequent epileptic seizures, a concoction that summoned a nightmarish pharmacopeia of different remedies. Adderall turned him into a jittery wreck. Fueled by nervous energy, he would spend whole days skating at a deserted building site. Strattera made him lose so much weight that he became almost translucent, like an apparition. Ritalin brought the desired stability but increased the occurrence of seizures. As adolescence dawned upon us, Joseph became distant and withdrawn. He spent his days in the sanctuary of our shared bedroom, scratching the strings of his bass guitar, listening to music, reading books and smoking pot. He only emerged out of his cocoon to go skate. He failed out of three schools within four years. Mum was at her wit’s end. Our house reverberated with their titanic disputes. In the midst of this chaos, I became invisible. Every time he changed schools, I trailed behind like a shadow. Much like our time in the womb, I found solace in the knowledge that he was there; lying on the bed next to mine, breathing the same air as me, rifling through my meticulously organized collection of books and CDs, and stealing my pillow to get his skinny frame comfortable. Last year, with a ferocity that defied any reason, Joseph slit his wrists. Remarkably, he left no note, later confessing that it had been a spontaneous act. He had been lying in bed, listening to the Sound, tripping on magic mushrooms and he just decided it was high time he silenced the relentless cacophony of his life. As fate would have it, Ι had stayed longer at school that day because the school choir rehearsal was running unexpectedly late. What a cosmic irony: I was singing hymns while my brother was bleeding out in our recently renovated bathroom. People often say that there is an inexplicable bond that connects twins, akin to a celestial walkie-talkie; so when tragedy befalls one of them, the other one somehow senses it. On that dreaded day, I remained blissfully oblivious of my brother’s suicide endeavor. I was simply annoyed I had to stay longer at school. All I yearned for was to return home, whip up a grilled cheese sandwich and watch an episode of Daria with Joseph before my evening piano class. No sooner had I opened the front door when I saw the blood. There was a crimson trail tracing all the way from the bathroom towards the front door. The walls were smeared with bloody handprints. Mum’s favorite canary yellow sofa looked like a Rothko painting. I sank on the blood-splattered sofa and wailed until my mum called, saying in a trembling voice that Joseph had had “an incident”. Mum and I spent the following weeks crying together and blaming each other for the warning signs we had missed and the omens we had overlooked. Joseph spent a considerable amount of time at a psychiatric clinic. When he came back home, the wildfire that once blazed in his gaze had dulled but at least he was among the living. Initially, a fleeting moment of respite seemed to form. Joseph gained a bit of weight, slept better, started coming to school with me, took me to a skating park and introduced me to his band of misfit skaters. Slowly yet steadily though, less than a year after his failed suicide attempt, he started descending into an abyss again. He no longer wanted to share a room with me, having found a new haven in our tiny attic. I could hear him pacing up and down and muttering all night long. Each thud that reverberated through the attic floor sent me into a panic, fearing he might be experiencing yet another epileptic episode. I would knock on the attic door, begging to be let inside. Joseph invariably opened the door, his face ashen, his hair a matted mess and his blue eyes glassy. He always reassured me he was fine, kissed me on the top of my head and disappeared into the darkness. The attic became an enigmatic no-entry zone. He barely ate, he hardly ever spoke, he dropped out of school, he stopped skating and he only ventured out of the house to ride his bike to his therapy sessions. His life seemed to have spiraled out of control again. One day, an overwhelming sense of curiosity compelled me to break into the attic as fears of Joseph arranging a genius suicide masterplan gnawed at my mind. I held my breath as I stumbled upon an arsenal of drug paraphernalia: Mum’s silver spoons, my leather belt, dozens of needles, crumpled balls of tin foil, Dad’s Swiss Army knife and even the Soundgarden lighter I had gifted him a few years ago. Joseph had been shooting drugs right under our noses. Without hesitation, I told Mum. A tremendous fight followed this revelation, a true tempest of fury, tears, screams and utter chaos that triggered a horrifying epileptic seizure. The last thing Joseph spewed at me as he was rushed to a rehab facility was that I had betrayed him and that he hated me. And he meant every word. Joseph remains in rehab, transformed to a subdued, clean, stable and docile version of his former self. Mum has donned a façade of normalcy to mask her sorrow: she diligently manages the household, does the grocery shopping, bakes healthy oat cookies and works full time. Nobody hates me anymore, not even Joseph who greets me with a sad, pained smile every time I visit him. I prefer Ruthie’s house with the TV blaring twenty four hours a day, the food pantry overflowing with candy, the Barbie wallpaper on her bedroom walls and her brother Cyril feeding me pills to lift my spirits. Cyril, fresh out of university, relentlessly brandishes his cum laude Pharmacology degree and boasts about his grand plans to pursue a PhD in the therapeutic applications of medicinal plants. He is the golden child, the cherished prodigy, the jewel in his parents’ constellation. He truly is a bit of a renaissance man, deftly juggling academic excellence, polo championships and working part-time at the university lab. He is undeniably charming, like someone out of a Gap catalogue: tall and handsome, tanned and muscular, clad in the most expensive brands of street fashion. My introduction to Cyril hinted at the true nature of our future relationship. I was barely 14 years old and I was at Ruthie’s house, helping her with a World Literature project. My head throbbed with a persistent migraine. Ruthie’s mum, in a gesture of misguided concern, suggested that I approach Cyril “for a little something”. When I inquired about ibuprofen, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small wallet with Mickey Mouse emblazoned all over it. He unzipped it and to my surprise, I was presented with a colorful array of pills and tablets, all neatly aligned inside the wallet. He took out a tiny yellow pill and a bigger blue tablet, crushed them together on Ruthie’s desk using my copy of Solzhenitsyn’s Cancer Ward as a makeshift pestle, mixed them with his finger and dissolved the powder in my cup of coffee. I couldn’t help but remark on the twisted irony of employing Solzhenitsyn’s magnus opus for my minor ailment. Cyril acknowledged my literary acumen, casting a calculated gaze on me, sizing me up for the very first time. Within a few hours, his enthusiastic compliments cascaded like a deluge: he praised my refined taste in music, my impeccable academic records, my edgy hairdo, my distinctive tattoos, my sparkling teeth, my vocal range, my grunge style. He even inquired politely about Joseph, evidently aware of his downward spiral; apparently, they shared the same weed dealer and this kind of news travelled faster than wildfire. Unfortunately, Cyril and I clicked right from the start. Cyril has always maintained we are like brother and sister, cut from different cloth but stitched together by some wild cosmic thread. He insists he has stepped into the shoes of my beautiful, albeit physically absent, brother just as I have supposedly slipped into the role of his vivacious and fun-loving sister who is always busy chasing after the football team captain or the coolest senior year boys. Cyril has filled some of the raw, gaping wounds that Joseph left behind. In all honesty, sometimes he patched these wounds with his warm companionship and his attention but most of the time he has wielded his magic elixirs and potions to help me. I never dared to pry into the specifics of those pills but I grew accustomed to the little Mickey Mouse wallet. Over the years, Cyril conjured up solutions for the myriad afflictions that plague the average teenage girl: pills for my migraines and pills for my PMS and pills to help me unwind when life got too much for me and pills to bolster my focus during the exam period. At some point, Cyril developed an interest in herbal medicine so he switched to herbal remedies. He brewed cauldrons of tea for us to share. Some of his infusions bore genuine healing properties but most had a rather recreational character and a clearly illicit allure like an ayahuasca infusion we shared one evening while listening to Electric Wizard. In the height of these moments, a shadow of semblance to Joseph flickered through my mind but I always reassured myself that, unlike Joseph, I wasn’t plummeting into the abyss; unlike Joseph, I was no dope fiend; unlike Joseph, I knew what I was doing. Or, to put it in a better way, Cyril knew what he was doing. He knew how to help me without getting me hooked or risking an overdose. He wasn’t bluffing; I am living proof. I am still here, functioning seamlessly. I am an exemplary student. I am the mezzo soprano in the school choir. I can gracefully play Erik Satie’s “Gymnopédies” on the piano. I can engage in conversations spanning a broad spectrum of topics, from the Romantic poets to John Cassavetes’ films and from 1990s alternative metal to Marxist theory. I am a dutiful daughter. I am a lousy sister, though and this is the nagging ache that plagues my mind all day and all night long. Although I couldn’t deny the unsettling truth about this twisted relationship, at some point I found myself yearning for Cyril’s approval. Having rejected external judgments all of my life, this cry for Cyril’s affirmation became uncharted territory for me. Slowly yet steadily, Cyril’s unsolicited counsel began to insinuate itself into personal matters concerning my appearance or my sexuality. We would go swimming and he would crudely remark on my lack of conventional femininity or my sexuality status. “Why don’t you wear tight clothes? You know you have a fine piece of ass, don’t you?” he’d sneer. And then, he would add mockingly “Hit 18 still a virgin, die a virgin”. It felt wrong but I knew from my numerous traumatic school experiences that this kind of schoolyard humor was commonplace amongst boys. However, I was also deeply worried about the fact that I remained a virgin at the ripe age of 16. Everyone around me seemed to engage in wild sexual acts and yet, there I was, as chaste as a seahorse, devoted to practicing my piano, studying feverishly for my Latin class and smoking weed late at night in the back yard to unwind and coax sleep. Even Joseph, much to our Mum’s dismay, had enjoyed an on-and-off carnal relationship with a woman in her early twenties working at the local tattoo parlor. I became determined to reinvent myself. I let my hair grow. I traded in the grungy loose sweaters and ripped jeans for collared dresses and mary janes. I transitioned from resembling Kurt Cobain to a bizarre reinterpretation of Courtney Love. At Cyril’s suggestion, I even reluctantly agreed to partake in a blind date with one of his polo team peers. The prospective suitor was Billy, a senior university student majoring in Marketing and Finance. It was hard to imagine a more ill-suited match for me. Billy looked like a Patrick Bateman version of my high school jocks: he picked me up in an ostentatious sports car wearing a hideous suit, took me to a pretentious restaurant, ordered for me the way Mum used to order French fries and chicken nuggets for us at Wendy’s when we were small, infantilized me throughout the date, showed scant interest in whatever I said, monopolized the conversation and finally aggressively tongue kissed me outside my house, his hand unwelcome and intrusive on the top of my thigh. I was disgusted and I swiftly ignored Billy’s subsequent invitations. Yet, amidst my disdain, a nagging thought persisted: what was so fundamentally wrong with me? One day, I visited Joseph at the rehab clinic meticulously attired in a mini dress and sky-high platform shoes. His heavily sedated gaze revealed some signs of alarm at my unexpected sartorial transformation so I explained that Cyril had encouraged me to embrace my femininity and try to find myself a boyfriend. Joseph wearied but resolute, shook his head slowly, his fury seeping through each deliberate syllable “Cyril is the epitome of a wanker, a paragon of idiocy, and a jerk of the grandest magnitude. First and foremost, he is a fucking dealer; everyone knows that so stay the fuck away. Secondly, how can you not see it? He wants to groom you, chew you up and then spit you out”. As it turned out, he had been acquainted with Cyril long before I had crossed paths with him. After all, they shared the same weed dealer. To my utter surprise, I felt taken aback and even slightly offended. Cyril had witnessed me at my most vulnerable states – stoned, adrift and desolate - and he had never made any advances. Moreover, I knew what dealers in our town looked like; they were walking clichés, losers who seemed to have embraced dealing drugs as their one-way ticket to nowhere. Cyril, on the other hand, was a scientist, for crying out loud! Why would he need to dabble in the world of drug dealing? One day, as Cyril and I were sharing a joint in the woods behind my house, I proudly declared my intention to study Cultural Anthropology at university. Cyril raised an eyebrow and openly scoffed at the idea “the Humanities are a realm for pussies”. Instead, he proposed a “manly and consequential” path like Biology or Science. With his usual air of arrogance, Cyril suggested tutoring me in order to help me hone my academic pursuits to a state of flawlessness. This suggestion, draped in patronizing undertones and clichés, sent shivers down my spine. Right then and there, something snapped; a line was crossed, a line marking the territory between my desires and his insinuations. The words escaped my lips “It’s none of your fucking business”. At this point, something shifted the dynamics in our relationship like a tectonic rift. He disappeared for days. My calls remained unanswered. One morning, I swallowed my pride, walked all the way to his house and rang the doorbell. He greeted me coldly, claiming he had been too busy. What followed was a vicious circle of emotional distance and intimacy, a messed-up dance of pulling close and pushing away: Cyril hurled insults like arrows, anticipated my fiery response and then retreated into icy silence for days only to unfurl a sudden bouquet of conciliation usually in the form of a much desired present- a rare book, a piece of jewelry that had caught my eye months ago in a shop window or a very special “herbal tea” promising transcendence to places unknown. We followed the same twisted rollercoaster of insult-confrontation-icy silence- forceful reconciliation-truce for months. I longed for someone to guide me out of this relentless cycle but I felt that my options were quite limited: I couldn’t bear to burden Mum with my silly trivialities. Joseph’s outburst had left me feeling emotionally shaken. Ruthie was caught up in the pursuit of the school football team captain. I was adrift and all alone. One evening, after a gut-wrenching visit to the rehab clinic where I tried in vain to console a desperate Joseph, I went straight to Cyril and Ruthie’s place hoping for some lifeline. I knew that if Ruthie were home, we would order pizza and talk things over and if Cyril were around, he would give me a pill to cheer me up. Cyril opened the door with a towel wrapped around his waist. Ruthie was nowhere to be seen. The eerie silence of the house combined with the fact that Cyril looked oddly agitated created an unsettling atmosphere. Despite my sense of apprehension, my own despair was suffocating so I decided to take my chances, stay over and seek some comfort. Cyril, sporting a coy smirk and pupils dilated like moons, purred all the reassuring things I wanted to hear “Oh come on, Ellie, addiction is like a roller coaster, you know? Joseph was just having a bad day. He wants to come back home but they have to make sure he’s clean. Forget about it now. Let me help you” and slid me half a tablet of something that would help smooth the jagged edges. He put Slowdive on his father’s fancy soundsystem, turned off the lights and settled on the sofa beside me. My exhaustion mixed with sadness weighed heavily upon me and soon I drifted away. I woke up after what felt like mere minutes later, a raging migraine hammering my brain. I pried my eyes open with great difficulty and saw Cyril’s face a few inches away from my own, his body bent over my own, and his hand cupping my breast. To my sheer terror, I realized I had taken off my sweater and unbuttoned my jeans. Cyril was stark naked. He kissed me. Primal panic surged through me. I bolted upright, draped my jacket over myself and furiously pedaled my bike home. Upon my return, I threw myself on Joseph’s bed and buried my face in his pillow. Suddenly, my bedroom door creaked open and Mum peeked inside “Ellie, you have a guest”. Cyril was standing behind her. He sat next to me on the bed, his demeanor calm and collected and with an even tenor, he asserted that he was willing to forgive me for my “transgression”. He emphasized with a patronizing air that he nurtured only brotherly feelings for me. Then, he embarked on a semi-professional lecture on “erotic transference” between patients and therapists, explaining in a condescending tone that sometimes the psychologically challenged person makes erotic projections on their healer. My mind swirled with confusion. Had I really made a pass at him? Had I humiliated myself that much? How could that be? He had kissed me. He had drugged me and kissed me, hadn’t he? Was I losing it? And who was the “healer” he was referring to? Bolstered by optimism or sheer naivety, I decided to grant Cyril another chance. Perhaps everything had been a terrible misunderstanding. I limited my visits to his place to once a week as I was determined to channel my energy into revising for the forthcoming exams. For added safety, I steered clear of his magic pills and his mysterious tea infusions just to be on the safe side. Cyril feigned offense at my perceived lack of trust in his profound knowledge of pharmacology but actually, it wasn’t his judgment I doubted anymore; it was my own. As the weeks rolled on, Cyril’s sense of closeness morphed into a sense of unsolicited intimacy. He’d casually slide his arm around my waist at concerts, playfully pinch my ample hips or rest a hand on my knee during conversations. His words were cutting, not comforting anymore. He constantly criticized my relationship with Joseph, labeling it “borderline incestuous”. Every time he said something hurtful and my eyes immediately started to water, he called me “mama’s crybaby”. Whenever I tried to wriggle free from his embrace, he would look genuinely exasperated and hiss “don’t be so damn cold!” The more intimate he got, the harder it became for me to manage my sensory difficulties. I couldn’t stand being touched. One sweltering May morning, things reached a critical point. We had gone swimming and he purposefully stood in front of me as I was changing out of my swimming suit. I firmly told him “Go away” but instead, he drew closer, grabbed me by the shoulders, pinned me against a tree and planted an unwelcome and aggressive kiss on my lips, his hands running down my back and all over my thighs. By the time we got back in the car, I was seething with anger. I complained coldly that he had crossed a line. The car screeched to an abrupt halt, Cyril bolted out and started kicking my door, yelling that he couldn’t stand my “autistic obsessions” and my “frigid attitude”. Then he ordered me out of the car and drove away. I walked back home in my tattered all-star sneakers and soaking wet swimming suit wondering at what point I had lost the game. Upon returning home, I found Cyril seated nonchalantly at our kitchen table, engaging in a deeply concerned conversation with Mum. He had spanned an epic story for my mother: we had had an innocent argument over something trivial “ah, you know how Ellie takes everything personally, haha” and I had stormed out of the car and fled towards the dense forest. He had supposedly been searching for me for hours. I stood before them, looking sunburnt, flushed and disoriented. Tears were streaming down my face and my lips were quivering with frustration. My mother embarked on a lengthy lecture about my utter inability to control my temper and thanked Cyril for his boundless patience. Cyril handed my mum a small tulle bag with an infusion that would help me “vent my frustrations” alongside a little rosy pill “for heat exhaustion”. My mum put the kettle on and handed me a glass of water with the little pink pill shining on a napkin next to it. Her words cut through me like razorblades “For God’s sake, Ellie. Pull yourself together. What is wrong with you? I nearly lost Joseph; I can’t bear to lose you too”. As the exam season drew near, I found myself seeking an excuse to head to Cyril’s house. Every time I walked towards his house, I thought about all those zombie apocalypse movies we had watched with Joseph where the zombies patiently sleepwalked towards fresh blood. My mind had turned into a whirl of conflicting emotions and contradictions. I was simultaneously attracted and repelled by Cyril. His pull was magnetic, drawing me like a moth to the flame but at the same time, I sensed that he was the ticket to my impending downfall. I was intrigued by our kisses but I also felt revolted by the coy forcefulness they entailed. I loved the pills. At the same time I hated them because they were a bitter reminder of the parallel lives Joseph and I led. We were nothing but two mirror images of the same coin. Consumed by sorrow, years of poor health and misguided medication, Joseph started shooting heroin to numb the pain. I was stupid, confused and lonely so I turned to the finest things that medicine and nature could offer to quell these overwhelming feelings. Was I in control of my destiny or was I also about to plunge into the abyss? So, here we are. Today it’s Friday, the 13th of June. This day’s journey has been nothing short of an epic Odyssey and this is precisely why I find it extremely difficult to leave the wet cocoon of Ruthie’s shower cubicle. On a brighter note, though, I seem to be experiencing a newfound sense of lucidity and clarity that have pierced through the clouds of sorrow, self-doubt and regret that have shrouded me for years. For the first time in years, I can see things clearly. Today marked the grand finale of the dreaded exams period. Right after school, I boarded the bus to visit Joseph at the rehab clinic. The doctors reckon that in a couple of weeks he will be released. He is doing remarkably well; his blue eyes look like electric sparks, shining with vitality and his bony face looks soft and healthy. I started babbling about all the mundane trivialities of my everyday life right away: Mum’s new culinary escapades, the hilarious stage dive attempted by one of his skating buddies who ended up on the floor, my meticulous plans concerning my senior year revision, how much I enjoyed Massive Attack’s new album “100th window”, how we should definitely watch Mystic River the moment he got back home. I found myself rambling on in an incessant, anxious rush and I knew Joseph had sensed that something was amiss because he was gazing deep inside of me, resurrecting the old connection between us. Suddenly, he interrupted me “Ellie, are you on crack? What the fuck is wrong with you?” My façade crumbled and I erupted in a deluge of tears, spilling my heart’s secrets. The doctors at the clinic had cautioned us against burdening Joseph with troubling matters but I couldn’t restrain myself. I unloaded my trivial problems onto him: the grind of school and the pressure for high grades; our financial problems; the relentless bullying; mum sobbing every night; my body image issues and my virginity status; my sensory difficulties and my innate reticence resurfacing; Cyril manipulating me; the kisses that left me feeling revolted; my own grip of sanity slipping through my hands; the joints; the infusions; the pills. As my storm subsided, Joseph’s hand caressed my cheek and wiped away my tears. His piercing gaze met my eyes and he spoke the words that I needed to hear “Ellie, you are in deep shit. You have lost your bearing. You need to pull yourself together. Quit it all. No more pills. No more Cyril. Stay away from him”. Feeling embarrassed by my outburst, I quickly shifted the topic. Yet, Joseph looked laden with sorrow and fatigue. I felt guilty I had disrupted his respite with my petty crisis. Before parting, he embraced me tenderly and whispered in my ear “Don’t let the fuckers beat you down”. On my way out of the clinic, I overheard some of the young nurses discussing Joseph. Holding my breath, I tried to eavesdrop discreetly: one of the nurses remarked on how dashing Joseph would look if he got himself straight and gained some weight. I smiled because I wholeheartedly believed that too. Not even addiction had tarnished his handsome face and his beautiful mind. Then, to my absolute terror, she dropped a venomous comment “it’s such a pity he’s a gonner”. Her words hit me like a lightning bolt. The other two chimed in and jokingly placed bets on how quickly he would overdose or attempt suicide the moment he left the rehab facility. The air grew thick with toxicity and my stomach started churning with sorrow, disgust and despair. I started running. I ran all the way from the clinic to town, my head throbbing with a horrible migraine. I stopped to catch my breath and clear my thoughts. The idea of going home and telling Mum everything crossed my mind but I couldn’t see how sharing this tangled web of speculations would do either of us any good. I thought about going to the beach for a quick afternoon swim but I was feeling so depressed that the prospect of making a spontaneous leap off a cliff sounded realistic. In the end, I found myself walking the well-worn path towards Cyril and Ruthie’s for a quick fix of whatever: a scoop of ice-cream, some pizza, a hug, a pill, a joint, anything to muffle the incessant screaming inside my head. I rang the doorbell and to my bad luck, Cyril answered the door looking high. Against my better judgment, I stepped inside and told him everything. He stared at me glassy-eyed and unsympathetic, smirking like Alex DeLarge. Without a word, he reached deep inside his pocket and handed me two yellow pills. I was half expecting Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony to start playing in the background. I swallowed the pills without a second thought and within minutes, a warm drowsiness enveloped me. I could feel Cyril leading me to his bedroom, one steady hand pressing on my back, his muffled voice warming my neck. As I entered the room feeling light-headed, a small voice within urged me to head towards Ruthie’s room. I closed the door behind me and collapsed onto her bed. I forgot to lock the door. Cyril slipped inside, sank on the bed next to me and started kissing me and trying to undress me. Sheer panic overtook me and I started yelling and kicking. I stopped only momentarily, when I felt Cyril’s stinging slap across my face. His hiss, venomous and seething, mirrored the disdain in his eyes “You waltzed in here asking for my help, didn’t you? What kind of icy bitch are you? Don’t you realize I have feelings and needs too? There’s no more ride for free” I continued sobbing hysterically. He switched tactics, opting for a more honeyed approach. He ran his fingers through my hair that was wet with sweat and tears “you know I love you, don’t you? You are my best friend”. I was gasping for breath between sobs. He forced another kiss and reached inside my dress. It felt repulsive. Nausea spewed forth and I vomited violently all over myself, all over his smart, expensive clothes and Ruthie’s fluorescent pink bedspread. Cyril looked exasperated. He kicked me onto the floor and started yelling “a couple more pills and everyone is going to think you‘ve gone the same way as your crazy brother”. That’s when I saw Ruthie and her mother standing at the door, looking mortified. In an instant, Ruthie whisked me away to the bathroom and locked us in. As she was helping me regain my composure, she hugged me and said “I know”. But now I know too. I am in deep shit indeed but I possess the strength to claw my way out of it. I have been consumed by concerns about the literal toxicity coursing through my veins – all those drugs weaving their way throughout my body- and wondering whether I had been turning into an addict like Joseph but I had never thought about the figurative toxicity I had been subjected to by a person only wishing to assert his control over me and reduce me to a mere shell of myself. Joseph has been fighting with his body and the chemical imbalances in his mind all of his life. I have been blessed with good health and a strong mind but amidst my sorrow and my inner turmoil, I allowed myself to be intoxicated by a person wishing to feel manly and powerful at my expense. The options before me are infinite. I can report this to the police and provide an official statement. I can sue him for his actions. I can write an article for the school newspaper, expose his behavior and ridicule him. I can ask Joseph’s cokehead skater friends to smash his nose in, break his collarbones or crack his jaw. But beyond immediate retaliation, I know I ought to protect whoever I know from falling prey to this type of sociopaths who feed on the vulnerability and pain of people in distress. I will keep on sharing my story to make sure that they remain vigilant against whoever wants to manipulate them. I dress up, wipe my face and walk out of the bathroom.
Angela Patera was born in Athens, Greece in 1986. She is an ESL teacher and a mother. Having studied English Literature at the National University of Athens, she pursued a Master’s Degree in Cultural Communication. Angela’s gaze is focused on the nuanced representation of womanhood, race, and disease in culture.