Page 4 of Hidden Heir

“I know sweetie, I know,” I say quickly, smoothing her wild curls. “But Uncle Ant is sick, so I need to go and clean him up. We’ll get pizza right after that, okay?”

“No Mommy!” Tiff screeches. “It’s not bedtime!”

I kiss her head and she immediately pushes me away, bursting into fully fledged tears before flinging herself face first onto the bed. I ache to stay with her but I need to check on Ant. With a final glance at my crying daughter, I sprint back into the living room and drop to my knees in front of my unconscious brother.

“Ant?” Fear grips me with razor-sharp claws as I reach out for his hand with trembling fingers. Expecting coldness, there’s a rush of relief when warmth radiates from Ant’s skin.

Not dead, just fucked up. I hang my head for a moment while my heart pounds wildly beneath my ribs. Then I force myself into action.

I remove the needle from Ant’s arm and set it aside. Then I grab him by his sweat-soaked t-shirt and pull him upward. Despite being older and taller, he’s rather light due to his sickly thin build, so hauling him across the room isn’t much different than hauling heavy bags of compost. Ant grunts when his arm knocks against the coffee table, and there’s some semblance of awareness when his head rolls, but it’s still not enough to wake up. Throwing one limp arm around my shoulders, we half-stumble, half-fall toward the bathroom. I’m able to carry him as far as the door, then he flops forward and I lose my grip on his body. As he begins to fall, I throw myself forward to catch his head before it bounces off the tiles.

Ant groans, then his body convulses and he starts to gag. Gritting my teeth, I drag him onto his knees, supporting him with my own body as I pull him over to the toilet just as a stream of acidic bile pours from his mouth.

I look away, fighting the urge to gag and wait until the vomit stops. Ant coughs weakly and then groans again. From there, getting him over the bath’s edge and into the tub is exhausting. By the time I manage it, I’m panting heavily, and he’s drooled vomit into my hair, but at least he’s finally in. I turn on the cold water and wipe my brow, watching the droplets from the shower batter his face, finally drawing an intelligible noise from him.

“Brooke?”

“You fucking asshole,” I hiss, rising to my feet. “You weak, selfish bastard.”

Ant’s eyes flutter closed once more and he sighs, turning his face away from the stream of water.

How many times have I been in this position? When I was younger, I tried to understand my brother’s drug use. Life was difficult and our parents often forgot we existed. Ant would tell me that the only way he could feel something was if he was high. But once my schooling was going well and my future was looking bright, I realized Ant was just as terrible as our parents.

So I tried to save him.

By the time I turned twenty-one, I had dragged him to countless rehab centers and drug rehabilitation courses and not one of them stuck. I could count on one hand how many years my brother had stayed sober in his twenty-seven years of living.

No matter what I said or did, no matter how many sober chips he earned, the drugs always won out. With each passing year, coming home multiple times to find another nest of needles embedded in his arm, the more heartbroken I became.

Things changed when I became pregnant with Tiff. My entire perspective on Ant changed. No longer was he my suffering older brother, but a man making self-destructive choices that shouldn’t be my responsibility to fix. Tiff became my priority but Ant remained in my heart as the only other family I had.

But it wasn’t until he turned up on my doorstep, homeless, that I realized how bad things were. I knew that turning him to the streets would’ve killed him. So I took him in.

And this is how he repays me. I shouldn’t have to keep Narcan in my cabinet along with all the other medications.

I keep reassuring myself that once my business is successful I’ll be able to drag him out of this hole and we’ll all live happily ever after. Though deep down, I’m not sure he wants to be dragged out.

“Hey sis,” Ant slurs over the noise of the shower and Tiff wailing her confused heart out. “Didn’t hear you come home.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I snap, using Tiff’s mouse cup to get him some water from the sink. “You’re high again, Ant.”

“No I’m not,” he replies, snickering.

They say you shouldn’t yell at someone who is high because it could trigger an adrenaline spike resulting in a heart attack but keeping myself calm is a losing battle when I’m this tired. “Yes, you fucking are! And in my home! Ant, I made it clear you weren’t to do that shit here. I don’t want your disgusting habit around my daughter, you hear me?”

He gazes up at me with pupils the size of saucers. “What?”

“You promised me you were going to get better.”

“What are you talking about?” he says slowly.

“You…” I know it’s like talking to a brick wall right now and there’s no real point in me trying. Leaning over the bath, I support the back of his greasy head and tilt him up just enough so he can take a few sips. “Drink.”

“Nah.” Ant turns his head away but I force it back.

“Drink.”

He obliges, taking a few sips then I let his head fall back.

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