Birds || Fuenciado

Chapter 14: The Plot Thickens

I remember one very specific day from many years ago. I was twelve, Mike was ten, and things were at their worst.

I woke up that morning (it was a Saturday) and I was ready to do some homework, until I sat up and looked down at my pillow to find a clump of hair there. I was somewhat used to it by then. It didn't surprise me or shock me, but it did upset me, because we had school photos on Monday and I would have to wear a hat for them. I sat on my bed for half an hour, knees drawn up to my chest, blanket cuddled around me, until I felt brave enough to leave the safety of my room.

Downstairs, things were no better. I remember Mom was trying so hard to get the washing up done and she had several letters and bills open on the desk, trying to organise them and pay them off, but she didn't get a spare minute to sit down. Neither did Dad - they both scrambled around the house whilst Mike had seizure after seizure after seizure. Sitting - or lying - on the sofa, it was a miracle if he got twenty minutes he wasn't convulsing or shaking or passing out.

Homework was abandoned, that day. Instead, I dragged my blanket down from upstairs and I cuddled up on the sofa with him. In the brief periods of time he was clear headed and coherent enough to hold conversation, we played eye spy, or we did the most mundane tasks like colouring in colouring books. The colouring books we used are still around the house somewhere, and some pages are nice and neat, and others have scrawls across the page where he would be in the middle of colouring and another fit would begin.

That was the worst day. It was the day my parents snapped and they took him to the ER, found another doctor to give a second opinion, and that's where he stayed for a few weeks until, finally, the doctors stopped saying he'd 'grow out of it' and prescribed him medication. But that day...it goes through my mind so often because at that point in my life, I had never been more worried or scared. I had always known about the epilepsy - I'd been raised around it and I knew what it was and I knew what to do, but on that day when there was little rest, when I had to keep lying him down so he wouldn't choke and turning him on his side and making sure his limbs weren't restricted whilst he jerked and twitched uncontrollably, and when I called out for Mom too many times to keep track, and when I had to catch him every time he suddenly fell unconscious and his limbs went limp...on that day, it was all so relentless I was scared my baby brother was going to die.

I was worried he was going to seize so violently he was going to hurt himself, or a fit would go on so long he'd be a medical emergency and stop breathing...a few times I cried, because the gaps between some fits were too small and I struggled to differentiate them. Things got a lot better for him after that, but, to this day, I have never been more worried.

I get scared about the future - about going to uni and having to be self-reliant and cooking my own meals and paying my accommodation fees and, like Alex, living off an economy sized bag of pasta. I get worried about work sometimes, if it's a review day and I have to go in without a hat on. But nothing - not one thing - has ever or will ever scare me more than the prospect of something bad happening to my brother.

Which is why I'm so worried now.

Mike has stopped smiling.

"Hello trouble," I say brightly when he walks in on Wednesday afternoon, mid November, a few weeks before the semester ends. He walks in alone, no Nick or Jordan in sight, and doesn't return my greeting, and instantly I start feeling uneasy.

"Please can I have a mocha?" He says quietly, barely meeting my gaze, voice lower than normal and shoulders hunched, his entire body drooping like there are weights tied to his wrists and ankles, and I frown.

"Of course you can buddy. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he nods, trying to sound convincing and failing miserably. At the other end of the counter, his off-mood even has Stumpy looking over his shoulder and frowning more than usual, concerned. I pause for a moment, waiting to see if he shakes it off, but he doesn't.