“We were playing Capture the Flag in Kindergarten.” I tell her reluctantly, like I’m reciting from a book. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the hot, dirty gym floor. “Finn had the flag. He was running.” His skinny arms and legs were flying, his hair was damp on his brow.
“And then?”
My chest hurts a little. “Then he started screaming. And running in the other direction. He wasn’t playing anymore. He was screaming about demons chasing him.”
“And what else?” My mom’s voice is sympathetic, but still very firm.
“And my name. He was screaming my name.”
I can still hear him shrieking my name, his voice boyish and shrill and desperate.
Caaaaaallllllllaaaaaaa!
But before I could do anything that day, he climbed the hanging rope all the way to the ceiling to get away from the demons.
The demons.
It’d taken four teachers to get him down.
He wouldn’t even come down for me.
He was hospitalized for two weeks after that and diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, which is a nasty cross between Schizophrenia and Bi-Polarism and very appropriately referred to as SAD. He’s been medicated ever since. He’s been chased by those effing demons ever since, too.
That’s why he needs me.
“Mom,” I murmur desperately, because I know where she’s headed with this. But she’s unrelenting.
“Calla, he called for you. Because he always calls for you. I know it’s a twin thing, but it’s not fair to either of you. You’ve got to be able to go to college and figure out who you are outside of being Finn’s sister. He’s got to do the same. I promise you, we’re not doing this as a punishment. We’re doing it because it’s best. Do you trust me?”
I’m silent, mostly because my throat feels hot and constricted and I can’t speak from the mere frustration.
“Calla? Do you trust me?”
My mom is so freaking insistent.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Yeah, I trust you. But mom, it’s not a problem for me. Because when Finn’s on his meds, he’s almost normal. He’s fine.”
Almost. There’s only been a few break-through episodes. And a few periods of depression. And a few delusions.
Other than that, he’s been fine.
“Except for the times that he’s not fine,” my mom answers.
“But…”
“No buts, Calla,” she shuts me down, quickly and efficiently. “Honey, we’ve talked this into the ground. Now, I’ve gotta go. I forgot my reading glasses so I’m on my way back to get them. But the rain is bad so I need to focus on the road—“
She interrupts her own sentence with a scream.
A shrill, loud, high-pitched shriek. It almost punctures my ear-drums with its intensity and before I can make heads or tails of it, it breaks off mid-way through. And I realize that I heard something else in the background.
The sound of metal and glass being crunched and broken.
Then nothing.
“Mom?”
There’s no answer, only loaded pregnant silence.