Happy Pills & Razor Blades

Arshia throws back her shot with one quick flick of her wrist, and feels the liquid leave a burning trail down her throat. She is not supposed to be drinking; she isn't even legal to be drinking yet. She couldn't care less about the legality of anything, however, when she is never allowed any privacy at all. She is certain there is some lowlife hidden under the sickeningly fluorescent lights of the dive she has begun to frequent, but she finds that it scarcely bothers her anymore. She will always be followed, her every move watched, scrutinized, judged. She has no control over her own life, and she never will. It makes sense for Danika, her elder sister. She deserves to be hounded, deserves people hanging onto her every word. She will take over their father's massive conglomerate, and pave the way for its future. She is already being groomed to be the perfect leader. Always the golden child.

Less can be said for Arshia, the inconsequential second daughter. She can have questionable friends, a rebellious streak, and damaged hair from bleaching it too many times. Nothing she does is of any significance. She has only ever been the backup. An afterthought.

Sometimes she laughs away all the articles inspired by her terrible fashion choices and unruly manner. Sometimes nothing really matters as long as she is seeing everything through a lavender haze, blurry lights obscuring all the unsightly details of her life. But most of the time, Arshia is a ghost of the self she pretends to be. Makeup for the dark circles, sequins and lace for all her scars. They don't really care about her, she is aware. All she is to them is fodder for gossip magazines. Something to talk about at clubs before they move on to the next topic. She is a temporary plaything, only interesting when she messes up. Good thing she messes up all the time.

Her friend elbows her from the next stool. It's getting late.

"I know you love breaking every rule in the book, but we've really gotta be going," says Sameera, raising an eyebrow. Her painted eyelids look feverishly pale under the lights, the harsh white glow highlighting every imperfection in her winged eyeliner.

Arshia senses a storm brewing in the depths of her mind. "I know. Call a cab. I need to use the washroom."

"I thought your chauffeur was waiting for us." Sameera frowns.

"I sent him away. Call a cab." Arshia gets off her own stool and reaches for her purse on the counter.

The walk to the women's restroom is more difficult than Arshia anticipated, what with her five-inch heels and slipping sobriety. She trudges past with unsteady footsteps, fingertips brushing against rough walls, eyes squinted against the brightness. When she gets to the sinks, Arshia stares at her reflection in the huge mirror, barely recognizing herself. Her makeup is arguably worse than Sameera's, and the rest isn't much better. Her face looks gaunt and exhausted, her decreasing weight apparent in the way her cheeks sink beneath the bones of her face. She didn't even have fun tonight.

There is an envelope on Arshia's desk back at home. Carefully hidden under the multiple dark cabaret records, it remains invisible to unassuming eyes. No one knows she applied to attend the Glasgow School of Art. No one knows she got accepted. They believe her proficiency at the piano is the result of a carefully orchestrated hobby, nothing too serious. They don't know about sleepless nights she spent attending masterclasses, all the times her fingers cramped from practicing too much. The beautiful black vintage Kawai gathers dust in a closed hall in her father's house, its ebony and ivory keys yearning for her delicate touch. All while she rots away, pursuing an applied sciences degree she doesn't care about.

Arshia slowly fishes inside her purse for her little bottle of pills. She knows the attack is coming, and she knows herself well enough to not take any risks. She blinks back tears as she drops a pill onto her palm. 25 milligrams of amitriptyline to hold her back from the abyss. One tiny pill to save her from herself.

Arshia finds a cab waiting for her at the edge of the curb, its parking lights blinking impatiently. She feels the rush of emotions subside and get replaced by a renewed sense of apathy as the pill works its magic. The drive home is a blur. She struggles to stay awake.

When one is too familiar with something, they can immediately tell when something is amiss, even if they don't immediately know what exactly makes it so. As soon as Arshia steps through the threshold of her home, she senses that something is wrong. There is no one waiting for her at the base of the stairs. The usually warm and bustling foyer feels unused and cold. She readjusts her shawl around her shoulders. A clock ticks in the distance.

As she makes her way across the living room, Arshia sees Talya, a maid who normally helps in the kitchen. She beckons the nervous-looking girl.

"What is wrong? Where is everyone?" Arshia is surprised to find concern in her own voice.

"Young miss! No one told you? Miss Danika, she... She's in trouble..." Talya trails off while staring away into nowhere. A cold feeling begins to take over Arshia, clammy fingers running up her skin in a slow, agonizing ascent.

"What do you mean? What happened to Danika?" She asks animatedly, her voice rising despite herself. Talya swallows audibly. "She... She is in the hospital. Miss Danika slit her own wrists." ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Some things you just never see coming. Danika is the perfect daughter. There is not a soul on the planet that doesn't adore her, Arshia thinks. She is lovely and gentle, but firm if she needs to be. People believe Arshia envies Danika, but people don't know anything about either of them. Dani has always been Arshia's rock, her light at the end of the tunnel. The reliable elder sister, always there to support her decisions—even the mindless ones. Arshia didn't mind growing up in her shadow. If anything, it was reassuring.

There was almost nothing about Arshia that Danika wasn't aware of. Her first C, all her heartbreaks, her Elavil prescription. Everything except Glasgow. But it is only as she is hurrying through disinfected hospital corridors that Arshia realizes she doesn't know much about Danika at all.

She opens the door to her sister's ward quietly, letting her nose adapt to the harsh scent of antiseptics. Multiple machines beep on one side of the bed in which her sister lays. Her beloved Danika, peacefully unconscious, her chest rising and falling weakly with every breath.

Arshia stares at her sister's sleeping figure, her bandaged arms. Dark red blood blossoms through the pristine fabric at her wrists like a riot of lycoris flowers. She looks away. The doctors said Danika had used a razor from the inside of her elbows down to her wrists. Torn apart her skin like an old shirt she no longer needed. Tears sting Arshia's eyes.

Arshia has always believed she would end her life before she became dependent on the drugs. She has had detailed thoughts about the where and the how, about the pain she would have to endure. To think that Danika was having the same thoughts while she handled everyone's ceaseless attention, that she had whispered words of consolation to Arshia while she slowly slipped under the murky depths of her own mind...

Arshia feels her breath catch as Danika's eyelids flutter. She fixes her gaze on the veins on her sister's papery skin, her eyes still struggling to believe what they see. Her ever-graceful sister reduced to a fragile apparition in a sterile bed. Danika slowly opens her eyes.

"Dani... It's me, Arshia. Do you hear me?" Questions flood Arshia's failing mind, but she holds them off with an iron will.

"Arshia?" Danika speaks slowly, her voice hoarse. The machines continue to beep by her side.

"Mhm, I'm here now. You'll be okay, I promise." Her tears fall freely now, her body and mind devoid of strength to hold them back.

A nurse enters the room, bearing a tray with sedatives.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but the patient needs rest. I request you to leave in five minutes." She leaves the tray on a table and stands next to it stubbornly, intent on staying.

Arshia drags her gaze back to her sister. There is an urgency in her voice as she speaks. "Dani, I... I have something to tell you. I got accepted into the Glasgow School of Art. I need you to know."

A slow smile blooms across Danika's pale lips. Arshia's heart clenches.

"I knew it wasn't just a passing hobby." A weak laugh. "You were always so good at it." Arshia carefully takes her sister's weak hand in her own. She tries and fails to laugh. "Go." Danika's voice is quiet, barely a whisper. Arshia stares at her.

"You want to, so go. Don't make my mistake. You deserve to do what makes you happy."

Arshia discovers that is all she needed to hear, in all these years, struggling to sleep, to eat, to feel an emotion other than despair. She clings to a bottle of pills to mask her need for validation, for a gentle reminder that her desires matter, simply because they are hers. Her emotions bubble up inside her as she squeezes her sister's hand and allows her mind to wander. The possibilities.

She might even find peace.

Arshia gets up from her chair beside the hospital bed, her legs feeling rusty and unused. She becomes aware of the nurse who's still in the room with them, an outsider who witnessed such a private exchange. She bends to plant a delicate kiss on her sister's forehead.

"Thank you, Dani." Arshia feels her mouth stretch into a smile—the first real one in a very long time.