Sunday, June 19, 2011
Out of the box. @ 11:59 PM
When I was seven, and my little brother was four, he had a fit.
No, I don't mean little temper fits, I mean a real fit. The ones that you could die from.
It was four in the morning. I woke up to a huge commotion. The corridor lights in my house were switched on, and I saw my little brother just lying there. His eyeballs rolled up, into his eyelids. You can barely seem them. He looked possessed.
Everyone in my family was crowding around him. My dad picked him up and brought him to the living room. Everyone was in panic. I could hear screams, crying, that fear embedded in people's voices, such that you can just immediately tell that they are afraid.
It's funny how I noticed the little things.
My little brother laid in my father's arms. I thought he was dead. He could not move. But then for a second, he blinked.
When I was seven, I had no fucking idea what the fuck a fucking fit was. But the fact that he blinked, I felt some hope.
I panicked. I gave encouragements, saying, 'Blink, blink! Don't stop blinking! That's it! Continue! Just blink!"
My dad shouted at me, saying he doesn't need to blink, he needs to continue breathing.
We were all in fright. Literally.
We had no car, there were no cabs roaming at four in the morning.
We knocked on all our neighbours' doors, waking them up, and half and hour later, a neighbour sent my father, mother and little brother to the clinic. The car could not fit everyone.
I walked into the room calmly. I hadn't shed a single tear.
There, I laid on the bed, under the covers, and I just cried alone.
I was seven. I could hear my grandmother's piercing voice, the only sound there was, as she cries with my elder brother in the living room. They just cried together.
I forgot when my little brother came back.
But I cannot phantom how glad I was that he was okay.
And although he might be a real asshole at times, I just want to say,
I treasure him.
