Entry #1

I actually love the sick room smell. The bedroom stinks of it. The sweet smell of the dozens of flowers from all her well-wishers. The fresh air from the opened window allowing the scent of the evergreens outside to enter. The bowls of potpourri scattered amongst the vases, evidence of my mother’s desperate attempt to drown out the most prevalent scent of all. And it’s the best smell of all. It’s funny how you can smell a body’s decay no matter what else is in the room. And, in its own way, it’s sweeter than the roses next to the dying body.

I draw in a deep breath, letting the richness of the air settle into my lungs. It’s so satisfying to smell her dying. It soothes the pain more than any opiate could have. I ignore the fact that I can smell my own body turning slowly into a corpse. It bothers me, my human frailty. I’m nothing like her; I’m stronger and better. It doesn’t seem fair to share this basic connection with her. She’s nothing, while I am everything.

Just look at her, small and still on the bed. Her face is turned away from me—I like that. Her hair is matted to her skull from the sweat of the fever—I like that too. I watch the doctor turn away, his face carefully schooled into something that’s supposed to look compassionate, I guess. It doesn’t matter how he screws his face. I know what’s going on in his mind as if he had whispered it to me on the sly. His pretty blue eyes are blank. He doesn’t care. It’s just another life, like any of the others he’s seen pass. He’s thinking of the beer he wants after work, of that pretty nurse he’s sleeping with on the side. If I were him, I wouldn’t care about the worthless girl on the bed either. And the nurse looks like she’d be an enthusiastic roll. Good for him.

I watch him walk over to my parents on the other side of the room. He takes my mother’s hand. I can’t hear what he says; the fever has the blood rushing through my ears. But my parent’s reaction says it all. The triumph of it makes it hard to suppress a laugh. She’s going to die. I could have told them that based on the smell alone, but the sure knowledge is glorious. I can sit, huddled in my chair, the shivers racking my body, and emerge victorious. I can sit, huddled in my chair, and watch her die, every painful moment the disease eats at her body. I may die, but the important thing is that she will too.

And I hope she suffers. Why does anyone care what happens to her? Worthless. Here I am, my fever spiking, but I’m sitting in a chair, not lying around in bed. Because, yes, I am stronger. What did she ever do to deserve the flowers, and the tears, and my parents’ pain? Why is she so beloved? I want to scream with the injustice of it all. I’m dying and all my parents care about is that stupid girl in the bed. Why can’t they see that she’s nothing? That all that care and concern should be for me? I’m the worthwhile of the two of us. This is all her fault. I wouldn’t be sick had it not been for her. It was her stupid decisions that brought about ruin for us both. She decided to provide comfort to the dying. Like she could provide any comfort to the dying. What could you possibly say to people who already know they’re dead? That’s arrogance in the extreme. Instead, she brought death back to us both. Her actions were worse than futile. I’m dying because of her.

Our breaths are echoes of each other, a rasping inhale followed by a sputtering exhale, a rhythm that already knows where it ends. The death rattle they call it. But I bet she’s not enjoying each breath like I am. She appreciates nothing, just lies there. She’s already accepted death. Not even bothering to fight for her next painful gasp. How could she just give up like that? She deserves what’s coming to her. Every damn torturous breath. Every seizure that makes you want to split open your own skull to avoid the pain. But I don’t. I didn’t want her to go. I argued against it. And now she’s made the decision for us both.

Sometime during my vigilance, my father and doctor leave the room. There’s just my mother, collapsed in a chair. She’s sobbed herself into exhaustion. I dismiss her. Now it’s just me and her. I know she can sense me in the room, can hear me breathe, but she won’t turn her head towards me. Such a coward. She’s never wanted to face me, never wanted to admit I existed. She knew I was superior to her and did everything she could to pretend I wasn’t always there, whispering in her ear. But now, in the finale, she’s left alone with me. I know what I’m going to do. It’s so perfect, this ending for us.

I’m almost calm now, the rage in me there, but in control. I can use it now; let it give me strength for the perfect revenge. I stand up. My legs almost collapse underneath me, but I force them to stabilize. It takes what feels like years to get to the bed, my feet dragging, the anticipation mounting almost unbearably that it’s almost impossible to keep from shouting my joy. I sit gently on the bed, stroke her wet hair. She doesn’t stir, but she knows who it is. I can feel the knowledge explode in her brain and it brings a grin to my cracked lips. It’s so simple. I take a pillow, the one my mother stitched for her when she graduated high school, and lean over her. I admire the pretty colors as I let gravity do the work. She offers no fight; there’s no token struggle, no whisper of a protest.

I’m sure it’s done now. I cautiously remove the pillow and turn her towards me. I look at my face, so serene now. There’s the scar we got when we were seven and slipped on the water next to the pool on her chin. I hadn’t realized it had faded so much. The satisfaction is singing through me now. It’s time to go. Game over and I’ve won. It’s ended on my terms. But I always was the strongest of us.

I snap off a rose bloom as I leave. I really love that sick room smell.