Thirty-six

Daniel Addas






Clara can be so dramatic, it amazes me to no end. She was supposed to go kneel with the rest of the family up front. Since there are no men to represent the family, they allowed us this. And she comes in, creates drama and for what? To show that she's hurting more than me? That she loved him more than I ever could? Why do women like making funerals a competition of who is more devastated?
Its been one week.
Still, thinking about it still sends waves of rage surging in my veins.
When she started crying. I stared. Unable to process nor think. I remember sitting there, jaw sweeping the floor. Unsure what the problem was.
I thought: what a strange reaction. Like, who does that? Honestly?
To be honest I didn't understand what the fuss was all about. So Papa died, but what else is new? I don't get it. Why was she crying? I imagine when someone learns a loved one has died they first cry because of the shock and then because of the pain of losing said person but after a day? Why whine? For attention that's why.
Fathers have been dying since the start of time. Why would our situation be any different? I really don't get it. People like making a big deal out of nothing.
if it weren't for Clara making a total fool of herself, I wouldn't even remember the colour of the Kafan. I wouldn't even remember I went to a funeral last week. And most importantly, I wouldn't even remember my father died.
I should rename Clara, Vex.
I watched Wendy die. I never cried. I lost a father too, still no water works. Hell, when Wendy died I lost a child too. She took my offspring with. I never fucking wailed.
Now I suppose Clara will blame her pissing eyes to heartbreak. No brat. Just no. I do not believe in heart break. The term itself doesn't make sense.
People mistake like with love. Hurt with heartbreak. It's all in the head, you get? You tell yourself you love someone until you find something you don't like about them and then it's the same old line: I fell out of love. No . There was never love to begin with.
People like me, people who get it. Those that never misinterpret the feelings. The rest of the world call us psychopaths just so they can feel better about themselves. Less shitty. So that in their messed up minds they can label themselves normal. What is normal? By who's standards? I'm quite normal thank you very much.
The difference really lies in the fact that psychopaths are honest to themselves and those in their lives. I'm not like the potbellied CEO who's two timing his wife. Every single one of those brats screwing me know they'll never have exclusivity rights.
I live in a constant state of why. I still haven't accepted that the sky is blue just because. That the grass is green just because. That the heart breaks, bear with me, I know they don't mean it literally. But still.
Back to crying. I can cry when I need to. A great deal of physical pain might cause that reaction. The key word being might. However, I have a very a high pain tolerance.
Crying as a form of manipulation is very effective though. I got sympathy from teachers at school all last week when I pulled all my resources, slicing an onion in the bathroom. I realise that people, women more especially, are more gullible. When I was younger I'd go to Port Shepstone some thirty minutes away, and cry at the mall. People would come running towards me, asking if I was okay. I'd tell them some sob story about my parents getting a divorce and my step dad taking advantage of me. They'd offer to get social services involved but I'd tell them my step dad was a high political figure. Not just any politician. But a prominent one. That they'd get us in more trouble. Of course they'd give me money, offering I'm sorrys.
I really hate crying. Crying equals weak. Weak equals unattractive. Though I exploit my tears. I dislike doing so.
Crying is uncomfortable. Not just physically but emotionally too.Killer headaches. Runny nose. And besides, there are more effective ways to get what I want.
I'm sitting on the edge of the couch. Clara is lying down. A knitted quilt is draped over her. It's in arrays of orange, red, green, yellow and blue. Bright. Clara has been sick. Five days now.
I should be worried.
My sibling is sick.
It all started the day after the funeral. I thought it was flu. One minute: she's hot. Next. Cold. I couldn't keep up. She complained of headaches. Sore throat. Her eyes were watery. Just mild symptoms.
I felt some measure of pleasure. Karma. For keeping Papa's betrayal. Again, I should've been worried. My sibling is sick.
Second day: she was stinking up the whole house. Yikes. Diarrhea. The brat developed a rash on her face, arms and legs. Even complained about needles in the feet. Double Karma. But then again, I should have been worried. My sister is sick.
The third day? She was worse. Strictly bedridden. This was not a good sign. Not good. Still I didn't take her to the doctors.
She'll be fine. I tried to convince myself. Right?
It must be the body's way of dealing with the shock.
The death.
Now she was suffering from joint pain. The rash had moved to the neck. Her whole body wrapped in a blanket of pain. Clara could barely move.
Still I was not worried. And I should have been. I mean she's my sister. And she was sick damnit.
We didn't sleep a wink, Dahab, Clara and I. My sister was shitting up a storm. Dahab and I took turns cleaning up the mess.
Yesterday, Dahab suggested we take Clara to the ER. Of course not. I couldn't risk it.
Clara hates hospitals. They drive her crazy and a crazy Clara is a dangerous Clara.
"Tomorrow, Aunt Dahab, if she's not better," I offered.
Her lips did this strange movement, you know the one, up and down like how strippers booty go. Eyes narrowed. Suspicious.
"Why not tonight?" Lips straight and hard as a ruler.
I squirmed. Shit. "She needs more fluids." And to prove my point I escaped to the kitchen. Threw the pot on the stove and prepared soup. Onion, green pepper and salt to season. Tastes amazing.
Back again in the lounge, Aunt Dahab was cleaning vomit when I entered. Her nose wrinkled.
Today, it's a Thursday. The fifth day since Clara started showing these weird symptoms. It's worse. Much worse. She can't talk, nor swallow. The lips are so dry they crack. White in colour. Blood drips from one of the tears on her bottom lip. The face is a concrete mask. Not a single muscle can move except the eyes which are bleary and inflamed.
I look at her and a sudden freedom settles in. But unlike the previous days. I do feel pain. No matter how slight. I'm her brother after all. Her twin. Can't afford to lose her.
Pools of sweat wet the pyjamas she's in. She has the distinctive wet dog smell swirling the whole house.
The windows and doors are cracked as far as they can go. The fresh air coming through the window does little to elevate the smell.
This time I know she needs serious medical attention. This isn't just some bug. There's something wrong with her. Something only a professional can diagnose. I realise that I'll have to let Dahab take Clara to the hospital no matter how much of a tantrum she'll throw once she's better.
"Aunt Dahab...?" I scream. Not loud. Rather urgently. "Uncle Ali?"
They are upstairs getting ready. they're going to see a movie.
Dahab and Ali rush into the room. Dahab following her heavy husband.
"What is it?" She walks past him. And hauls herself to the knees. "Allahumma, Clara."
My eyes fly wide open with fright: oh no. She's having a seizure. Fuck. I get up, grab the car keys and throw them at Ali.
"Daniel wait for Ali," Dahab says, taking in my blank stare. White foam comes out of Clara's mouth. "Daniel," her voice is tense, fervent like she's barely in control. I'm still paralysed in shock. Then: "Daniel!"
I blink twice, trying to get back to the moment. To sort out the chaos in my head.
"Stop that," she shouts at me, voice thick with impatience. "Get Clara change of clothes."
I snap out of it.
"There's. No. Time." I push past Aunt Dahab and cradle Clara in my arms and march (for there's no other word to better describe how I walk ) out to damn house and into the back seat of the SUV.
"Let's Go," Ali is waiting for his wife on the porch with a bag slung awkwardly over his shoulder.
"Hurry, Ali," I say urgently.
He dashes down the driveway, a sober look in his face. Once he's seated he rolls the window all the way down, breathing heavily.
"Dahab...?" Ali shouts with his neck craned out of the window. The engine revs.
She sprints out the house. Aunt Dahab catches herself before she can fall face first. Keys. Handbag. Clothes. Drop to the floor. She picks them up. Runs towards the car.
"Lock the door," Ali shouts at her.
She runs back towards the house. Fumbles with the keys.
"Hurry," I say. The engine revs once. A couple of neighbours come out to investigate. "Hurry."
Dahab stumbles down the drive way. She's not wearing a bra. She must've forgot. The second her butt touches the seat, Ali accelerates down the street. The car door closes by itself when we turn the corner at the end of the street. Tires screeching like two Taylor Swift fans.
We make it to the hospital in less than ten minutes. I race towards the sliding doors, shouting: someone help. Please help.
Four doctors in white coats surround me. They rip Clara way from me and I'm told to wait. A lump forms in my throat. I should've brought her here sooner.
What if I'm too late?
The thought cuts me deep, slashing my heart.
What kind of brother am I?
Clara didn't sleep with my fuck buddy, Papa did.
I shouldn't have punished her for it.