Fiction: The Rhythm At My Door

The dark sky outside my bedroom window is streamed with thousands of neon lights, not a wishing star in sight. I could hear the banging of the local wannabe musicians just outside the record store on the corner of the block mixed with constant car horns debating the reasons why their driver had the right of way. The smells of Doug’s dinner just below my apartment made my mouth water but as I laid in bed trying to finish off the latest hour of sleeplessness, none of these normalcies made me want to drift.

It was almost three in the morning when I heard the light knocks at my door. I wasn’t sure if I had actually heard anything until the echo of a familiar voice came between the cracks. I staggered to open it and there stood my little sister or at least I thought it was my little sister. Her hair, which was always so neatly brushed, was now tangled and ratted. Her eyes looked much paler against the raccoon circles that had formed around her eyes and her whole body looked weak and tired, not even a hint of what her 20 year old frame typically looked like. I don’t think I would have recognized her if it hadn’t been for her voice. That never changed.

“Hi big brother,” she half smiled at me. She looked about ready to fall to the ground.

I sighed back at her. It had been almost two years since she had come to my door in the same condition. She could never figure out when she was becoming worn down before her whole body finally just collapsed. Luckily, this time, she was at least able to speak to me in a language I understood.

I grabbed her bags and threw them on the couch; she didn’t seem to care. I then carried her in my arms and laid her on the bed; she was instantly gone to dreamland. I kissed her goodnight and for weeks she barely made a sound.

Every now and again I would make sure she at least ate something, even if she fought me to the death on it. I wanted to take her outside for exercise but there never seemed to be a day that wasn’t pouring rain. Still, I made her walk and do some of my morning workout with me as she started to get stronger.

The only real problem I had with her running to me was what she was running from. She had done this so many times that all the people in her life had started to figure out that if she was gone she was likely at her safe house. That’s what I was, a safe house. 

The second week she was here, the calls started. The first was her manager who loved screaming about the issue into my ear. I had to keep switching the phone from ear to ear so as not to go deaf. Then there was her agent, who acted like he was the only one who was suffering from my sister’s run away. Finally, the piece de resistance, her fans, who were nothing more than stalkers, wanted to know when their favourite actress would be sleeping in her own bed again. I hung up on each and every one, until all I could do to stop them was unplug the phone.

I wanted to tell her so many times that she didn’t have to go back, and in the beginning I did at every chance I had. It became a waste of time over the years; she strongly believed there was no escape, only breaks in the cycle.

When I woke up in the middle of the fifth week to find her gone I wasn’t surprised, but like every time, she left a letter telling me how thankful she was to have me as her big brother, and that she would make it to this Christmas, she definitely would.

Two weeks later I turned on the TV to see my little sister as the top headline on every news channel. No one was completely sure how it had happened, but many speculated that her heart had just given out. They guessed it was drugs or some health defect, but none of them were willing to claim that they were the ones who had in fact caused her heart to shut down. No, that wouldn’t register in any of their minds.

At night, while the lights stream, the crappy music plays on and Doug cooks up another late-night pizza, I can still hear her faint knocks at the door. They sound in the continuous steady rhythm someone might hear through a doctor’s stethoscope, a rhythm that becomes weaker and weaker as the night passes on until a voice finally speaks up.

“Shaun,” it squeaks.

I then try to shut my eyes and stop the tears that come at exactly three a.m.