Fearless

Short, choppy haircut that was dyed black. Ring in my eyebrow, a stud in my nose, three holes in each ear. A tattoo that says Fearless in scratchy, harsh letters on the inside of my wrist. Muscular, athletic build. Medium height, around five feet, seven inches.

When people saw me on the street, they either averted their eyes, afraid that I was going to lash out at them, or they stared, watching me like I was a fucking circus act. They liked to pass judgment that I was a hard-ass that wasn’t worth shit.

But I begged to differ.

“It’s okay,” I soothed, rubbing the back of my older cousin Rachel as her body lurched forward again, the sound of retching and splashing filling the small bathroom of our apartment. My other hand was wrapped around her platinum blonde hair, making sure that none of it fell in her sweaty, pale, clammy face. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Why do I do this?” she moaned, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Why do I do this to myself?”

I swallowed back my emotion. “Because you’re sick,” I whispered, wishing there was something I could do. “Because you need help.”

Instead of answering, she vomited again. When she finished, she slumped against the toilet, completely out of energy, putting her face against the cool side.

I reached up, leaning over her body, and flushed it. So softly that I almost missed it, she breathed, “Thanks.”

I stared down at her. God, she had been so beautiful. I remembered when we were kids growing up, how I used to envy her gorgeous cheekbones, her long, dark eyelashes that clashed with her light hair, her thin yet curvy figure.

But then she reached her senior year of high school and discovered alcohol. She got addicted to the buzz it gave her, how she felt on top of the world when she was drunk. Her grades slipped, her girlfriend dumped her, and she felt alone. But alcohol…it was always there for her.

A few more tears dripped down her cheeks, and I leaned over to wipe them away. “Do you want me to make you some tea?” I asked her quietly.

She nodded. “Jazzy, I don’t know what I did to make you so nice to me.”

“You’re my family, and I love you,” I answered simply before walking out to the kitchen.

After filling the tea kettle with water and setting it on the stove, which I turned up to get the liquid to boil, I leaned against the counter and sighed. No matter how many times I saw Rachel hit that same low, I could never get used to it. Seeing the anguish in her light blue eyes killed me.

And there was nothing I could do. So I played my role, picking her up from the parties where she got trashed (often tearing her away from a boy that was trying to take advantage of her), and holding her while she cried over how much she hated her life. All through the night, she’d puke and cry, and then by eleven the next morning, she’d gotten over her hangover and would be ready to go to her job as a waitress. Then, a few nights later, she’d start the whole cycle again.

It was exhausting, but it was something that I’d grown used to. I was used to putting my school papers on hold so that I could take care of her. It had gotten so normal that teachers almost expected me to pass in papers late or ask for extensions, and they stopped penalizing me for it. My situation was common knowledge, and my papers were typically so well-written and put-together that professors just looked the other way. The other kids hated me for the most part, but I never really did care much what people thought.

Just as the kettle started screaming, spitting out a cloud of steam, Rachel stumbled out from the bathroom and collapsed on the couch, emitting a long, sad sigh.

Her entire face was drained of blood, making her look like a corpse that hadn’t been dressed up for the funeral yet. Next to her was a big black bucket, poised in a ready position for whenever the nausea dominated again.

After readying her tea the way she liked it and putting a few Saltines on a plate, I joined her in the living room.

I sat down on the arm of the couch next to her, handing her the dish.

She shook her head. “No, Jaz.”

I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the acrid stench of sickness in the air. “They might help absorb the acid in your stomach,” I reminded her. “Just give ‘em a try.”

She turned them down more emphatically, pushing my hand out of the way. “Just the tea, please.”

I did as she wished, handing her the small teacup and watching as she sipped it tentatively.

There was a long silence between us as she lied down, occasionally drinking but mostly trying to fight off her urge to vomit again. I watched her carefully, watching for any sign that she was going to be sick. The last thing I wanted her to do was drop the scalding liquid all over herself while she was already ill.

“This has to end,” she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut as a couple more tears raced down her face. “I can’t put up with this anymore.”

I made a sympathetic clucking noise as I leaned over and brushed a couple of sweaty hairs away from her face. “Maybe it’s time to get some help,” I suggested as gently as I could.

She shook her head. “We can’t afford it,” she defied. “I’ll do this by myself. I know I can.”

“We can figure out a way,” I argued, trying my hardest not to get angry at her. “I’ve done research, and we can set up a plan to pay later, or little by little.”

“Like some kind of rehab layaway?” Rachel snapped back with all the venom she could muster.

“Don’t put it like that,” I begged. “Just think about it, Rach?”

“No. We’re not doing it, and that’s final.” She got to her feet, unsteadily, and I rushed to help her. “Stop,” she snapped. “I can do it myself.”

She reached her bedroom and muttered, “Thanks for the tea,” before slamming the door behind her.

I buried my face in my hands and took deep breaths, trying to fight the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that was trying to take me over. I just wanted to her to get better. It hurt me to see the person I loved more than anyone else in the world in so much pain.

For a few minutes, I leaned my head back against the wall, my eyes closed as I breathed deeply, trying to find my inner peace.

When it finally came and I forgot about the argument, I went into my room, leaving my door open as a means of communication whenever she was ready.

I sat on my bed and opened up the MacBook that had been provided for free from my university. The only reason I was able to go to college at all was because I got an entirely free ride, since I was valedictorian of my class, working so hard that I got straight A’s my entire high school career while also having a job busing tables, and I’d applied to a school that was way below my standards.

It was the best decision I’d ever made in my life, and I was determined to get my degree, become an accountant, and make a better life for Rachel and myself.

That was, if Rachel was willing to cooperate.

“She’ll come around,” I tried to convince myself as I opened my Religions Around the World paper, prepared to finish it off.