PANCAKES AND DAYDREAMS

The soft buzzing from his phone woke him. His feeble, passive attempt to sleep in by disabling the sound on the alarm was a failure. Ayon deplored being a light sleeper. A slight chill had settled in overnight and he found himself shivering as he moved the blanket aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Marsha was already up, sitting on top of his desk, swinging her legs back and forth and humming cheerfully while she fumbled with her Rubik's Cube. She still hasn't managed to solve it even once.

Mom. Dad. Shiro the cat.

The sparrow flying around. The construction noises. The baby crying.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he pushed himself off the bed and motioned for Marsha to follow him downstairs. Lethargy weighed him down as he lumbered across his room and out the door, trying to ignore the jackhammer outside. The dull throbbing in his head suggested it was his skull the jackhammer was drilling into, not the pavement.

“I hope we get to have last night's cake for breakfast, Mum promised she'd let us,” Marsha mused, apparently to herself, as she skipped down the stairs, the cube in her hands. Amazingly, she is actually farther from completion than when she started. “Look where you're going Marsha, you don't wanna get hurt again, do you?” warned Ayon. The sweet smell of maple syrup wafted towards them as they waddled over to the dining table. “Mom, is it raining outside?” Ayon asked. Apprehension crept into his mother's eyes as she hesitated before replying, “No dear, it's completely dry outside.”

He shrugged and waited for Mum to place the plate in front of him. It was pancakes, or at least he thought so. It looked like pancakes, it smelled like pancakes, but he could never be sure. It'd been 3 years since he'd been diagnosed with schizophrenia. He hadn't gotten any worse for the past year, but again, he couldn't be sure. His parents had been incredibly supportive, choosing to keep him at home with bi-weekly visits from the psychiatrist rather than getting him admitted. They worked themselves to the bone labouring over their jobs and watching over him at all times so that he didn't hurt himself or anyone around him. It was thanks to them that he did not sink deeper into the alluring world his deviant mind had created for him. In a desperate, defiant attempt to maintain his grip on reality, he came up with a mental exercise that had now turned into a ritual. Every now and then, he would list three things that he knew to be real and three things that are not. 

He dowsed the pancakes in syrup and scarfed them down as quickly as he could. He didn't want to be late for the school field trip. When his parents had objected to him going alone and suggested they accompany him, he had vehemently refused to comply. He wanted to leave before they changed their minds.

Uncle Jafor. The pretty new girl next door. The wacky bookshelf Dad bought.

The beggar on the roof. The rain. The bees.

Marsha.

As his mind drifted between his delusions and reality, he forgot which world his sweet sister belonged to. She lived and breathed in front of him, and his cheeks ached every time she pinched them during her tantrums, but then again, the beggar seemed very real for the first six months too.

He had thought about asking Mum. But she always got worried whenever she found out about him having another delusion. And more importantly, he was worried about the answer. Marsha is his sister, his anchor when the illness grew overwhelming. Wherever his thoughts wandered, it would always come back to her. 

She was home. And he could not lose her.

He gulped down a glass of water and ran upstairs to get ready. He grabbed his bag and headed towards the door. “Have fun!” yelled Marsha before diving back into the pancakes she was so fervently devouring.

His lips curled into a smile as he closed the door behind him.