When Saving Is Killing
The day my little brother had his asthma attack, I poured every drop of his nebulizer medication down the bathroom sink.
When Mom burst into the bathroom, the empty bottle was still dripping in my hand.
Cradling my gasping brother in her arms, she slapped me across the face so hard that my ears rang.
"You're only eight years old! How can you be this evil? Would you finally be happy if he died?"
I wanted to tell her that the medicine was not the right one.
The bottle smelled like harsh, burning bleach.
The new nanny, Sophia, had grabbed the wrong bottle from the cleaning closet.
But Mom didn't let me finish.
She grabbed my arm, dragged me into the unfinished walk-in closet and locked the door from the outside.
"You can come out when you realize your brother's life is more important than your petty jealousy."
Outside, Dad was screaming while rushing my brother to the ER.
Inside, I mistakenly knocked my foot over a plastic construction bucket and a thick, toxic white liquid began to puddle over my bare feet.
I clawed at the door gap with my fingernails, sobbing, begging for Mom.
The next morning, the hospital called.
They confirmed that my brother's medication was laced with industrial cleaner.
That was the exact moment Mom finally remembered that the key to the closet I was locked in was still sitting in her purse…