Sister Wake-Up-Call______________________________
Knock. Knock.
Clatter.
Knock. Knock.
KNOCK.
Grunt.
Jiggling.
Click.
Creak.
Urg.
I barely muster the energy to roll over in bed, my body sinking deeper into the mattress like it's part of me now. When I finally turn my head, I spot Lilly standing in the doorway, pajama-clad, holding a pair of metal rods—crutches? Hair an unkempt mess, eyes burning with irritation. She's got that look, the one that says she'd rather be anywhere else than dealing with this mess. And that mess is me, still in bed at—whatever time it is.
"Are you seriously still in bed?" she snaps, her voice jolting like a defibrillator to my brain. "It's twelve. In the afternoon."
Twelve already? I glance around, no clock in sight. This isn't one of those Japanese dramas where the protagonist looks cute while being late. Instead, my world has drawn the drapes on reality, and I'm too lazy to open them. Groaning, I fumble for my phone, my fingers wandering aimlessly on the bed until the warmth of it swallows me back into sleep.
"Hey!"
Her voice slices through my fading consciousness like a knife.
I pry one eye open, just enough to meet her glare. "Yo…" Yawn. "Still in your cute pajamas?"
She crosses her arms, scowling. "Don't call me cute, brother. I see right through your sarcasm. You're mocking me." She stalks closer, a little predator pretending not to care, "Let's not talk about why I just woke up five minutes ago before you."
You're right, Lilly. Let's talk about how oversized your pajama is instead.
She continues, relentless, "let's discuss how an adult man is still in bed at noon."
"You already said that," I mumble.
"And I could say it thrice."
A delightful little threat. Three's worse than one.
But not enough to move me. I'm an adult. I've earned the right to sleep how long I want, by age, capability, and the glorious fact that it's a Saturday, goddammit.
I roll over, pulling the blanket over my head.
It's not like I don't want to get up. Spending time with my little sister, pretending everything is normal, is the best distraction from… well, everything else. But as authors love to say in those cliché light novels, the gravitational pull of a bed is heavier than that of any black hole (not like I have ever seen one... I think.)
Of course, that's not quite it. It's a little off. If you ask me, gravity has nothing to do with it. It's simpler—more existential. The bed isn't heavy. I am. Sometimes the thought of rising feels like the effort of crawling out of a grave. Maybe that's it. Maybe we're all just pretending to die, one nap at a time.
Lilly shakes me again, her small hands digging into my back with an almost frantic urgency, as if she's clawing her way out of her own grave.
The blanket slides off, and I am zombified. "Five more minutes?" I offer.
"WAKE UP!" she yells, shaking me harder.
I underestimated her strength. Small body, Pikachu-level voltage. She's a karate master, and I suddenly remember why underestimating her is a bad idea. She yanks me off the bed with a strength disproportionate to her size. My face meets the cold, unforgiving floor.
"What's wrong with you?" Lilly huffs, glaring down at me. "You've been like this for days. Sleeping in, depending on me to wake you up like you're the one younger. I thought you'd changed."
I scratch my head hard enough to scalp myself, trying to shake off the mental fog.
"Keep doing that, and you'll go bald," she warns, crossing her arms. "Is that your plan? Changing your whole appearance?"
"No, no," I wave her off. "I didn't change." A lie.
"Since when are you into all this 'I wanna rest forever' or 'close-to-dying' talk, huh?" she studies me, eyes narrowing like she's trying to solve a puzzle.
I finally manage to sit up, rising to my full height—what little it amounts to above her. "Joke," I mutter, unconvincingly.
"Whatever."
Normally, 'whatever' signals her exit. But today, she stays, arms folded tight, sleeves hanging limply, her small frame wrapped in an oversized pajama that practically swallows her.
Something's off. Does she need something?
"Don't give me that look."
I blink, confused. "It's Saturday," I mutter. "What can I do? No lessons today. I'm as useless as a kid waiting for food."
"The trash still exists on Saturdays," she says, flatly.
Trash. Oh yeah, the one thing that always escapes my mind.
"I was thinking of taking a shower first," I suggest, half-heartedly.
"Great idea. Why don't you wash the dishes too, then take out the trash?"
"Shower."
"You don't need that," she deadpans.
Well, that's debatable.
"Wait, dishes and trash?" I give her a look of disbelief.
"Yeah. Who else is gonna do it?"
"You?" I offer, almost innocently.
She punches my shoulder. Her tiny fist packs an unreasonable amount of force for someone her size. "I'm running late for karate. The least you could do is pull your weight."
Not my ideal wake-up call, but fair enough. Learning to punch the crap out of people takes precedence over mundane chores, apparently.
"Alright," I groan, dragging myself off the floor. I pull off my shirt, thinking maybe this would end the conversation sooner if I just act like I'm about to shower.
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever." Her eyes flick over my skin, unimpressed.
She exits the room, leaving me to my own devices.
I grab my towel and head for the bathroom. But when I reach the door, the sound of running water stops me.
Lilly's already inside.
That was quick.
________________________________________
"What are you doing?" she asks as she emerges, wrapped in a white towel, her freshly washed hair dripping lavender-scented water down her back.
What am I doing?
Did I… blank out?
Lilly's still standing there, expecting an answer. I shrug, pulling out the weakest excuse, "Waiting."
"Couldn't you have washed the dishes first?"
"Shower," I insist.
With an exasperated groan, she brushes past me. "Make sure you do them after."
I step into the shower, letting the cold water wash away whatever remains of my thoughts. I try to ignore the bad ones that trickle down the drain with the soap. Thoughts of Lilly's wet toothbrush. The gleam of the scissors hanging by the sink. The fogged-up mirror, distorted reflections staring back at me.
Showers are dangerous.
So I cut it short.