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She’s always there when I visit. I asked my brother about her once when he was in a talkative mood. Apparently, she lost her child, he was abducted… They found his body five years later. It broke her, and she has never been the same since. She doesn’t talk, they have to PEG feed her, and whenever you touch her, she screams. Her wealthy husband shoved her in here instead of dealing with it himself. The prick doesn’t even visit.
“The fuck do you want?” comes a snarl, and I jerk my head around to meet Mitch-bitch’s eyes.
Shit, he’s not in a good mood. This isn’t going to go well. My heart sinks at that, even as I brace for the abuse. I repeat my mantra—he doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t know it’s me, it’s not his fault—again and again, until I force a smile and step into his room.
He’s standing before the window, his single, perfectly made bed to the left of him against the wall. He has a nightstand with a built-in lamp above it. Opposite his bed is an open wardrobe with his folded clothes—no hangers, after all—and the entrance to his private bathroom with no shower curtain and plastic decorations. It’s simple, clean. And I fucking hate that he lives better than I do.
Maybe if he was at least a bit grateful or thankful, I wouldn’t mind so much. But going through what I do, having all my money poured into his health while I live like a sewer rat, with no heat, clothes with holes, and practically starving. I don’t do what I do for the recognition, I do it because he’s family, because that’s what Mom and Dad would have wanted. But it would be nice to know he’s appreciative of the effort I go through, of what I give up for him.
He looks old, older than his actual age. His eyes are sunken in and surrounded by wrinkles. His teeth are yellow and, in some cases, missing, and his skin is dry and cracked—all signs of usage. His hands are stained yellow, and I know he will have track marks on his body. He’s skinny too, mostly bones now, with no muscle at all. His once thick black hair is thinning and receding, another sign of usage. He looks horrendous but better than he ever did at home.
“Hi, Mitchy, it’s me, Rory. Your sister,” I say, stepping farther into the room.
His eyes narrow on me, and I wonder for a moment if he is high again. “My sister is fucking dead, she died with my parents. Who the fuck are you? Did those men in the white coats send you in here?” he snaps.
It plunges a dagger into my heart, even as my smile turns watery. “Mitchy, it’s me, munchkin. I didn’t die. Please, sit, let’s talk—”
“Rory is dead!” he screams, and I recoil as he pants, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes wild before he starts to mutter to himself. “Dead, dead, she’s dead, they are all dead.” He begins to laugh maniacally, slamming his fists into the sides of his head as he paces.
I watch, my heart cracking at the sight, knowing I’m unable to help him. If I call the nurses, they will sedate him and then my visit is pointless. I need him right now. I guess I needed to talk, for him to tell me I’m not a terrible person. But I won’t get that today. Call it foolish hope, but I reach for him anyway.
My hand lands on his arm, and he freezes. His eyes swing my way, and I instantly know I made a mistake. I know not to touch him when he’s like this, yet I did anyway. I just craved a bit of humanity from another person, to be able to touch another without any sexual connotation. Humans need touch to survive. We die in isolation. Touch allows us to remember we are real, that we exist, that someone else can see us and feel us.
But Mitch-bitch doesn’t give a damn about me right now.
He grabs my throat and slams me into the wall. I gasp as I stare into his familiar gaze, so similar to my own. His lips are curled in a snarl, and his face is contorted in hate and anger as he squeezes, draining the life from me. I don’t fight, I stare brokenhearted into the face of the man who was supposed to protect me.
Love me.
“Rory is dead! Who are you?” he snarls in my face.
The nurses rush in, grab him, and pull him away as he kicks and screams. They struggle but get him onto the bed and strapped into the restraints. He jerks and writhes, spit flying from his mouth. His eyes are wild and he snarls as he yells at them.
And me.
I grip my aching throat and slide to the floor, my eyes burning with emotion as I watch them get a needle in and sedate him. Moments later, he slows down, mumbling his words and twitching slightly until…nothing.
He’s out.
I stare from the floor with tears in my eyes. My heart is shattered into a million broken pieces around me. The nurses step back, and one comes over to me, his mouth moving and asking if I’m okay, but I can’t bring myself to look away from Mitch-bitch. Only when the nurse reaches for me, probably to help me, do I snap out of it. I rip myself away from him and get to my feet, not accepting his help.
He watches me carefully, holding his hands up as he steps back. “Miss, are you okay?” he repeats.
“Fine,” I croak before clearing my throat. “Fine.”
I pull my coat tighter and turn to leave before freezing. “He’s okay, isn’t he? He won’t remember…hurting me?”
“He’s okay,” he assures me, but I notice he doesn’t answer the second question. I nod and scurry from the room and out into the bright hallway, just breathing there for a moment until I’m more put together. Lifting my head up, I turn and start to walk away, the broken pieces of my heart moving around in my chest, cutting me with each step I take.
I reach the desk swiftly, nearly running to get away from my brother and the pain in my chest.
“Rory, one moment please!” comes a rushed voice, and I turn to see Mr. Runwood there. He’s an older man, but he always wears a suit, no doubt designer. He’s still fit for being in his late sixties, and his gray hair is streaked with hints of black. He’s tall, almost seven feet, and his whole posture and demeanor screams money. But it’s his gaze that ensnares me, his blue eyes holding me in place. Fuck, I have dealt with him a lot, since he’s the owner of this private establishment. He’s a nice man, rich, but polite. I see the pity in his eyes as he spots my reddening neck, and I harden myself, knowing what’s coming.
“Won’t you step into my office for a moment?” he requests, moving closer to me.
I step back. “I really am in a rush. Can this wait until next time?” I ask, but he shakes his head.
“I’m afraid not,” he replies pleadingly.
