Louise Hurrell
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was spike my little sister’s green tea and stow her away in my attic. Every morning, I climb up to watch her sleep, light slipping through the hatch to cradle her. A duvet of dust has fallen across her chest. I brush it away.
Sure, when she’s awake, she stomps and screams, so I can no longer have visitors. I stole her phone and now fob off calls from concerned friends. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I mean, what’s the alternative? Let her be free and autonomous? No, she’s safer here. A less toxic environment.
I stare at her slack mouth, the drool crusting her chin. Wrinkles trace her forehead. Before I stashed her in the attic, she would’ve been appalled at the sight of herself.
I have gerascophobia, she used to joke, but her laugh was too high-pitched. We met up on birthdays for brunch, ordering mimosas and cake. Until her fortieth, when she stopped drinking mimosas. And eating cake. And celebrating birthdays. They age you. She dyed her hair in preparation of going grey and removed all the mirrors from her house, ranting about antioxidant bombs as though she was waging war against time.
I’m so old and ugly, she cried. I wanted to hug her, be the big sister who used to comfort her when we were little, rocking her back and forth after every nightmare. But she wouldn’t let me hold her – too frightened I’d accidentally smear her concealer or add new wrinkles to her skin. Instead, I limply asked if she was okay. Don’t worry, I’m fine. But she wasn’t. I had to do something.
The following month I invited her over to my house. When she accepted my offer of tea (Twinings, her favourite), I saw my chance. In the kitchen, I rummaged in the drawers for some sleeping pills, crushing them with a spoon.
I paused. Self-doubt lurched in my stomach. Should I be doing this? Then I remembered all the bottles on her bathroom shelf: retinal, toner, day serum, night serum, defence serum, damage reverse serum, future restore serum, snake serum (it mimics viper venom so my skin is firmer!) How I watched her smother and scrub every trace of life off her body until she was as smooth as a silicone doll. I knocked the powdered pills into the teacup and stirred.
I’m the big sister; it’s my job to look after her. Everyone has fears – I’m terrified of failing – and we have to find ways to cope.
Now, I take out the phone and snap a photo of her. She would never allow this normally; she hates photos. Another marker for the passing of time. So, I wait until she is asleep. I’ve taken one every morning she’s been up here.
One day, I’ll show her the pictures – once she’s calmed down about the whole ‘drugged and kidnapped’ thing obviously. I’ll show her her true self: the laughter lines, the serum free skin, the greying hair beneath a cobweb veil. I’ll zoom in on the moles and freckles, the dirt beneath her fingernails. I’ll hug her and tell her the truth: she’s never looked more beautiful than she does now.
Louise’s prompts were: In an Attic, Someone With a Phobia, Strange Photos
Louise Hurrell is a writer from Dundee, Scotland. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Flash Frog, Temple in a City, and The Waxed Lemon. She too worries about aging.
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