« Telepathy »

These short stories explore the ups and the downs of the special bond that exists only between siblings.

Every day, and every night, I’m thankful that I live in the basement of my house because of the darkness that overtakes my room during all hours. Having problems with insomnia, you tend to appreciate a cold, quiet and dark room at three in the afternoon; just around that time when your body finally gives out, begging your mind for mercy so it can catch a few hours of rest just before an overnight shift at the hospital.

I’m stretched out in my comfortable bed, short dark hair a mess, phone teetering on my cheek, with my girlfriend's voice quietly humming in my ear. She’s attempting to lull me into slumber, knowing the night I have ahead of me, and this is exactly what I planned to be doing the moment I left the hospital earlier. I planned to fall asleep to her singing, wake up to her laughing, and feel like maybe my oncoming shift wouldn’t suck as much as it no doubt will.

I hear a sudden crash coming from the main floor of my house, and even though my father is gone for the weekend and I'm not expecting anyone, I have no motivation or strength to investigate the noise or the possible intruder that made it. The best I can hope for is that whoever is trespassing isn’t here with the intention of bloodshed; they can take my God damn TV for all I care.

“Lay!” I hear my sister’s voice call, but I do not reply. She knows I work tonight, and that I’ve been having trouble sleeping, so she should not even expect one. I pray she does not bother me, that she leaves believing me to be asleep. However, with each footstep drawing closer to my door, I know my luck has run out.

My door crashes open, scraping against my darkly painted walls. I hear some paint chips, and dry wall too, spill onto the floor. I brave a single glance with one eye, and see her outline standing in my doorway as the light from outside spills through. She stares straight ahead, frozen in place.

"Lay?” She whispers now, not turning her head to meet me. As much as I’d like to continue the façade of sleeping, my anger spills out of me like gushing water.

“I’m trying to sleep, Kit.” I mumble sternly, “You know I work tonight.” I raise my voice a little and I feel ashamed not only talking to my sister this way, but that my girlfriend can also hear me. My sister is startled by my tone; she does not show it verbally or physically, but it’s something you can just sense within a sibling relationship. Their brain is yours, and vice versa.

“Alright, I’m just going to sit in the living room then. Enjoy your rest,” she says quietly, turning away and closing my door gently. I’m left there, in the dark silence, with such an overwhelming downpour of guilt washing over me that sleep would be impossible. I mull the thought over in my head: Could I be the insensitive jerk and pass out knowing I just turned away my other half when they needed me? No, I may be a lot of things, not all good,  but I am not heartless. That’s the one trait that keeps me sane these days.

“Hey babe, can you call me back?” I groan.

“Sure,” she replies with such beautiful simplicity, as if she knows exactly what I’m about to do. Hanging up the phone, I push myself out of bed and quickly jog up the stairs, slowing down as I enter the living room. I see Kit sitting on the couch cross-legged, face in her hands and a beer in front of her on the ottoman.

“Goin’ down smooth?” I ask, nodding towards the can of Budweiser.

“Oh come on, you know I don’t really drink anymore.” Kit shakes her head; as if she were a child caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

“So then what’s the celebration for?” I tilt my head to the side, observing her with raised eyebrows . She meets my dark stare and for a few moments we just look at each other in silence, connecting our brains as if our conversation was purely telepathic.

“My favorite patient died today.” She says, looking down. Kit is a nurse at the hospital I work at. She works the days, I work the nights; just another way we're the same, yet opposite of each other.

“He reminded me of Mack.” She uses our grandfather's nickname, instead of saying “grandpa” or “pop,” a habit that has stuck with us throughout the years.  I finally give up and join her on the couch, still just looking at her. In my head, I urge her to continue. She is the one who intruded my nap after all.

“I’m just so tired of watching people die.” She begins to cry lightly , and I give her an awkward squeeze of the shoulder. She meets my eyes and begs for my words, for anything that might console her broken soul.

“It will get easier. You may not want death to get easy, but one day, it will.” I shrug to her, as I feel I cannot offer any comfort at all. Still, her hand brushes off the escaped tears and no more come, and she nods her head understandably. She meets my eyes, and a half-hearted smile makes its way onto her lips.

I relax into the couch, and she turns on the TV to some pointless show. I stretch out in my boxers and t-shirt, my sister still in her nurse's uniform, and together we sleep with our eyes open. For a few hours we can escape, and forget that we're awake.