Rest For a While

This floor smells like Bleach and Bubbles. It’s not supposed to smell like Bleach and Bubbles because that would mean it was just mopped, and it’s not supposed to be mopped because it was waxed only this morning. I specifically told the cleaning lady not to since we’d run the risk of damaging the tiles. 

But, like every other employee, does she listen? Does she do what I tell her? 

Of course not. They only listen to him.

Maybe if I threatened to cut her salary or sack her permanently-

“Stay with me…stay with me…stay with me,” those are the words I hear him say.

At least I think so.

I know he’s speaking and he’s speaking to me, but I can’t really tell what he’s saying or if I should even respond. I feel him right next to me — over me, in fact, but his voice sounds like we’re drifting apart. Literally, like he’s being carried off on a boat someplace else, the sounds reaching me over the water.

I can’t see much. Actually I can, but the world is hazy and opaque and I wonder if it counts as seeing at all. Light. Darkness. Light. Darkness. Maybe my eyes are fluttering, and he’s telling me to keep them open. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I’m tired — exhausted deep down in my soul. I want to rest. I want to sleep. When did I last sleep? I don’t remember. Must have been ages ago. I just want to lay my head on a big soft bed and rest for a while. I can already see my bed. It’s made up very nicely, so someone else must have made the bed for me, because God knows I’d never have time for that. I could have surprised myself and made it though. I can see my pillows, pink and silky. I can just stay there and rest.

Rest for a while, rest for a while...

Could that be him? That’s unlikely. He hates it when I fall asleep, especially at work. When I have work. And there’s always work. “a little sleep, a little slumber, yada yada yada.”  That’s what he always says. I resent him because of this, but he’s my brother and my boss, so he probably already knows and just doesn’t care. I bet he thinks I’m a slacker, but the truth is I do all the work here. So much so that I just might be the reason  we’re still afloat. I oversee other employees. I manage the finances. I get up at 6am and don’t sit down till 1am the next day just to make sure this godforsaken business makes its cut. He however, takes credit for everything. He’s the boss after all. I blame myself for being a workaholic and perfectionist, and for never having a burnout since I was twelve.

Maybe this is it. Every bad decision I’ve ever made, coming back to haunt me. The cog finally caught in the wheel.

Wait, is that why he’s asking me to keep my eyes open? So I don’t fall asleep? Probably. That’s a bit selfish to ask of me right now, even for him. I’m not even supposed to be working. I actually just got shot like 15 or so minutes ago. Somewhere in my chest. A little to the left I guess, I’m not sure of anything anymore. The warmth that spread over me previously is fading and I’m starting to get cold. It’s funny how I thought I had a fever this morning because of how I was burning up, and now I think I might start shivering…maybe I do have a fever. Sigh, I wish I brought my jacket, I bring it in every other day. It’s red and tweed and designer and probably the only interesting piece of clothing I own. I have others, but, there’s just something about the colour red that’s just right. It’s the colour of the passion my life seems to lack, my lipstick, and as a bonus, the colour of the blood spread over my chest. Ah, yes, the shot. I’d almost forgotten about that. I remember being in so much pain, now I feel next to nothing besides external pressure. In addition to this and with how close my brother is, it might have gotten all over his hands too — the blood, I mean.

He’s saying more words I can’t make out, maybe, ‘listen to the sound of my voice, don’t go.’ He watches too many dramas for his own good, because go where, please?

I never once imagined myself being in this situation. Like ever. I’ve led a very simple life, not engaging myself in anything risky — if we’re not counting my nonexistent sleep schedule — that would ever warrant a thing such as this. Crazy. Laugh Out Loud.

So how did  I get here? Great question, and the story is a little embarrassing, but I’ll tell you.

There I was, making my way downtown to the office, when I passed by a little gathering of arguing folks. I’m sure they weren’t even bickering over something important, but boy did it escalate quickly. What started out as a simple altercation turned into a really sticky situation. People were trying to separate the fight, but I was just looking for a good place to take a nap. I wasn’t even paying attention. There’s pushing, screaming, a little saliva action too, and a really loud bang. Next thing I know, pain explodes in my chest. I’m on the floor, and my nostrils are attacked by the violent smell of Bleach and Bubbles. People gather around me. I should mention now that I don’t fancy people very much, which is ironic, since this is a really big restaurant. The shooter — a poor one, I should add, missing his damn target by a ridiculously long range — is chased down by others, caught and beaten half to death. That’s my guess anyway, since I’m too busy being in pain to know. How did he even get hold of a gun anyway? I thought those were illegal.

Warm liquid envelopes me. My ears ring. A sharp, metallic taste floods my mouth. Seconds later and his face materialises in front of me. My brother. A panicked expression I haven’t seen in the longest time appears on his thirty-something year-old face. He doesn’t worry about me much, says I’m grown and can handle myself. I’m twenty-seven, so he’s right. He shouts out orders for someone to get help and starts to press on the wound, like it doesn’t make it hurt all the more. He’s still pressing it right now, but all I feel is the weight of his hands.

“Keep your eyes open. Please,” he says again. So annoying. He’s not tired, he’s not cold, he’s not laying on the floor in a pool of his own blood with a hole in his chest, so he doesn’t get to tell me what to do. Out of sheer irritation, I stare up at him. There’s a look on his face that I can’t quite place. Worry? Fear? Horror? All three? Maybe. But also, his large brown eyes are glassy he looks very tired, I won’t say tired like me though, but tired nonetheless. There’s faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his once coal-black hair doesn’t look so black anymore. I’m surprised. When was the last time I looked at him? He’s only in his early thirties, but the last I remember him was ages ago, when he was just nineteen. Back when he only ever smiled and was playful and mischievous and everyone said he’d end up behind bars if he wasn’t careful. I used to get most of the compliments then, but I always thought he was handsome. Even if was was the star, he stole the show. Back when we were inseparable. He wanted to become an actor — it suited him, but then he didn’t get into the college of his dreams and our dad died and left us in debt and we had to work in our restaurant because it was the only option we had left. Then I guess that was where we started to drift apart. The restaurant picked up nicely, and we managed to pay off a big part of the debt, but it just wasn’t the same anymore. We simply never had the time. Now when we talk, it’s only about the restaurant, or when he’s telling me to stop sleeping. Look at him. He doesn’t even have a girlfriend, or even a life outside this job. To be fair, I don’t either.

A small part of me wishes it wasn’t this way, that we still found time in each day to laugh, or even just talk. I stare at my brother, and I suddenly realise that I miss him so much. How odd. It took dancing with my lifeline for me to come to this realization. 

I don’t have any other siblings, and I can’t speak to my mother for more than 10 minutes at a time. But I used to have him. Before life happened. Before the restaurant swallowed us both whole.

 I guess I just need a friend. I’m so lonely these days. I’ll bet he is too.

I want to say sorry. For letting life have it’s way. For letting the rift grow so much. For everything. I want to reach out and hold his hand. And have a nice little dinner where we can talk about random things that don’t have to do with money or work. I just want to be friends again.

I wonder why I’m thinking about this now. Maybe the stress has finally gotten to me. I can’t even lift my arms. I’m still so cold.

I can hear sirens now, but they’re so distant. Are they coming or going? I’m being shaken. “I’m sorry,” I begin to say. “I’ll just rest for a while.”

He says something again, and another figure materialises in front of me. I’m being wrapped in a blanket — finally. Something hard presses against my face and slips into my mouth. I’m being lifted off of the floor. Hopefully I’m taken to a bed. Getting a little dizzy now. I can’t hear my brother’s voice anymore, but I can hear other voices, doors, sounds.

They’re crashing over me. But they’re far away.

So. Far. Away…