It’s a quiet Sunday. I stayed in with Madeleine yesterday after we got back, but I don’t know how much of a comfort I was to her. She had severe stomach cramps – as you’d expect – so I lay her on the couch and sat on the floor next to her while we watched TV. I can’t even tell you what we watched, to be honest. Because all the time, I could only think of Sylvia.
I’m thinking of Sylvia now. I’m in Madeleine’s room, and guess what? We’re watching TV, even though it’s only mid-morning. Madeleine seems to be in a lot of pain, judging from the occasional grimaces and groans. I’ve asked her if she wants to go to the hospital, but she says that the pain will pass and that she just needs time. I can’t argue with that – what would I know? But I do know Madeleine, and I can tell that it’s not the physical pain that hurts her the most. So I just stroke her feet, which I know she likes, and my mind comes back time and time again to Sylvia.
I’ve called Sylvia’s house, of course. Enough times to be classed as a stalker, to be honest. And needless to say, I’ve not managed to speak to Sylvia; just had the occasional terse exchange with her father. Funny, I’m not even thinking about how much I hate him as I speak to him. I’m not thinking about how aggressive and unhelpful he is, and I’m not even thinking about how he hits Sylvia. Rather selfishly, all I can think about is that I have no way of getting in touch with Sylvia short of going round to her house. And there is no guarantee that she would be there. And what if she was, but that guy was with her? Would that make me feel better? I think we know the answer to that. Anyway, I can’t leave Madeleine. Before there was Sylvia, there was always Madeleine. And no matter what happens, there always will be Madeleine. Why the hell can’t Sylvia carry a cell phone? I hate her for that.
And now I can hear a car pulling into our driveway outside. Mom and Dad are back, obviously. Yesterday, I really wanted Mom to be around for us, but right now I’m not so sure. I’m being selfish, but the thing is, she’s going to find out that Madeleine is unwell – we’re obviously not going to tell her why – and she’ll be fussing over Madeleine, just like she should, I guess. And that means that I’ll be pushed to one side. And all I’ll do then is churn over how I’ve seen Sylvia kissing that guy. God, I can feel Sylvia’s kisses now and it brings a lump to my throat. I just want to die, thinking of Sylvia with that guy.
‘Hi, we’re home.’
Mom has popped her head around the door. She is smiling her sweet smile at first, but that’s quickly dropped and we’re seeing her concerned Mom face now. Well you’d be concerned if you saw us, I guess. Madeleine suffering from stomach cramps and depression, and me just going quietly mad. Yes, I am, really. I’m losing control. Sylvia is consuming me and I can’t do anything about it. And now I’m going to have to be alone with my thoughts. I’m not sure that I can handle that.
But I do handle it, after a fashion. Mom has made Madeleine come downstairs and lie on the couch. Mom thinks that Madeleine is having severe period cramps, even though the timing would suggest that that would be unlikely. As if Mom would know that though. Mom is fussing over Madeleine and talking to her in a low voice, like they’re sharing ‘secrets of the sisterhood’. If I wasn’t so miserably mired in my own self-pity I would sneer in contempt. What with the gazillion lessons we’ve had at school over the years, and with having a sister as uninhibited as Madeleine, I reckon I know enough about the menstrual cycle to be a top-notch gynaecologist. Still, I leave them to it.
It’s night again, and I’m alone in my room. Last time I checked, Madeleine was looking a little perkier. Having Mom around to look after her has been a tonic after all. I am ashamed that I am so wrapped up in my own business that I haven’t been a real brother to Madeleine at just the moment when she needed me most. I’ll have to make it up to her some way, someday. Someday soon at that. But right now I just want to talk to Sylvia, so I pick up my phone and hit the number – yes, she’s on my speed-dial list now.
The phone rings half a dozen times.
‘Yeah, who is it?’
Sylvia’s father, of course, but he doesn’t sound quite as aggressive as he usually does.
‘Is Sylvia there please?’
There’s a pause and I’m waiting for the customary growl telling me that she’s not available.
‘Sylvia! Phone!’
Oh God. She’s there. Now I feel nauseous and my chest tightens up. I was so expecting her not to be there that now she is, a tiny part of me is actually afraid.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi. It’s only me.’
I’m cringing at how my voice is squeaking. Surely she can feel my fear and lack of confidence. And surely she’ll understand straight away the subtext to this call.
‘Oh. Hi.’
‘I was just calling, you know, to see how you were.’
‘You shouldn’t call. We shouldn’t see each other Tom. I can’t be responsible if you do something stupid. I can’t afford to blame myself.’
‘But I’m not going to do anything stupid…’
I know, I know. I know how it looks. I’ve already done something stupid, so why should she believe me? Of course, she doesn’t believe me, so that’s okay then.
‘Tom, I’ve got to go. You’ve got to stop calling.’
I’ve been expecting that this call wouldn’t go well, but short of stabbing me in the heart with an ice-cold dagger, I can’t imagine how much worse it could be than just hearing her say those cruel words like that.
‘But, honest – Sylvia…’
There’s no point me continuing because she’s put the phone down. And I’m picturing her going back to her room and that guy being there. Bet you can imagine just how that feels, right? And I’m thinking of Madeleine downstairs and how she had been depending on me, and all I’d done was the least that I could do. And I’m sorry for myself because there’s nobody here to look after me. And I’m hurting too. I want my mom. I really want my mom.
And now you can see that I’m crying. I’m silent because I don’t want anyone to know, but you can see the tears as they splash onto the chrome scissors. The bandage is on my lap and a fresh one is by my side. I can’t talk to you or anybody really. My mind is blank and I don’t even feel the blade open up the wounds that are already there. I do see the blood though. That part never changes. Seeing red.
Actually, I feel kind of peaceful knowing that the blood is running down over my arm. I’m pressing the point a little deeper so that I feel the sharpness of the blade this time, but the pain somehow becomes a comfort. I’m aware that there is a lot of blood now that I’m cutting deeper, and that it’s dripping onto the bed, but I don’t care. I’m in a world of my own.
Until there’s a scream from downstairs. Mom! The shock makes me slice the blade in deeper, but I soon drop it. I’m only half aware that the blood is spurting from my arm as I jump off the bed and race for the stairs.
When I get to the living room, I stop dead in my tracks. Madeleine is lying on the couch crying and holding her stomach. Her knees are tucked up, but it doesn’t stop me from seeing that her pyjamas are absolutely soaked with a dark red stain that seems to be growing between her legs. Mom is holding the phone and punching in numbers – calling an ambulance I’m guessing.
‘Maddie?’
I can barely get her name out. I’m scared. I notice Mom turn at the sound of my voice.
‘Tom?’
I can see that she’s not looking at me, but at my arm. I look down and I see that blood is pulsing from an open wound where I’d pushed the scissors too deep.
‘Mom…’
I look at Madeleine again and she’s crying and hurting and I swear that the blood stain between her legs is getting bigger. And I look to where my own blood is dripping onto the polished wooden floor. And before you know it, I’m sliding down to join it.