I sidestep a plastic cup that was filled with God-knows-what and then go check her bedroom. Based on what I’ve seen, she’s probably still asleep. I pop inside, but she’s not in bed. Her comforter is scrunched up, and it’s possible that she’s lying beneath it, inebriated, but I just can’t tell, so I double-check. A bottle of watermelon-flavored water and an empty zip baggie are on the bed.
“Amy, damn it! Where are you?” I say out loud to the empty room.
I’m beyond irritated when I don’t find her in either the bathroom or the guest room. Out of desperation, I check the closets. Perhaps Amy went totally bananas and hid in one of them. I don’t know. I’m anxious because my mother is going to flip if I return without the prodigal daughter.
While my sister is not buried among a pile of coats, the full-length mirror on the guest room door does reflect something that catches my eye. An empty prescription bottle is visible just under the bed. As I retrieve it, I notice another bottle in an open duffel bag, so I slide that out from where my sister has it stashed to see what her prescription drug of choice is these days. The label is unreadable, but it doesn’t matter because what else I find in the bag takes precedence—razor blades, bags of unmarked pills in plastic bags, and what I can only identify as some sort of hunting knife.
Then, my breathing gets ragged.
There is a handgun—with boxes of ammo.
This leaves only two possibilities. It’s either a suicide bag, or she’s going to kill someone.
And I cannot find my sister—the person who used to be my world, who was vivacious and funny and loved me so hard that she sometimes suffocated me. It was eons ago, but it used to be the truth.
I repeatedly call out my sister’s name as tears blind me. The feel of this gun in my hand is grotesque, yet I cannot stop looking at it, even as it shakes in my grip. I’ve never seen a gun in real life, much less touched one.
It screams violence, death, and tragedy.
If I’m honest, it also screams out the possibility of relief. I consider that for a moment. I could put an end to my life right now. It could be fast and painless.
Then, I hear a noise, like something is breaking. I shove the gun into the bag and push it back under the guest room bed. I have to catch my breath and reframe my thinking for just a second, but then I rally.
The distinct sound of my sister’s laughter rings throughout the house, but nothing is funny about it. Her giddy cackle is clearly coming from her room. I crawl halfway across the floor before I get myself to her. Amy is in her bed, flat on her back, wild-eyed, and emitting moans and noises I’ve never heard. When I reach her, she is a mess of knotted, stringy over-bleached hair, and her skin is nearly gray. Her arms flail, pushing me away, as I try to calm her down.
“Amy, please. It’s going to be okay. Please, please…” I beg. “Shh…let me help you.”
“I saw him!” She slaps me across the face. “He’s perfect!”
Great.She probably thinks she’s seen God. Or Elvis.
While she is as skin and bones as ever, she is also surprisingly strong, and she shoves me aside, hard, as she rolls to hang her head off the bed while she vomits over and over and coughs with a hack that pains me.
In the midst of my tears, I call 911 and report my sister’s overdose. On what, I don’t know. A number of times, Amy tries to bat the phone from my hand, but she’s still vomiting. And laughing.
“Don’t call…” she sputters. “I gotta get back. Get away from me.”
She hits me again, and I careen into the wall.
I slump against her dresser and watch what’s left of my sister. She is in ruins, and I have no idea how to help her.
Soon, the sound of sirens rings outside the building.
My head falls into my hands. While something is atrociously wrong with Amy, something is equally alarming about me. I looked in this room earlier, at this exact bed she’s in now, and I did not see Amy.
I am slowly losing my fucking mind.
