The Switch

There is a light switch in our living room that doesn’t control any light or outlet. It doesn’t match any of the other switches in the house with its round iron frame, faded scratches on the surrounding wallpaper, or the high pitch ringing it emits whenever I come close. Mum says that’s because of disconnected wires inside the walls of this old house, and that I shouldn’t play with it. 

Mum doesn’t understand. 

Every morning, I turn it “on and off” exactly ten times. It has to be ten, there’s no way around it. Mum waits by the door not looking at me before sending me off to school. When I get back, I do it again. Then again before dinner. And again before bed. 

The doctors say my compulsive behaviour is expected, considering everything we’ve been through, and that the new medicine should fix me up. As we leave the clinic, Mum forces a smile and promises to buy me any toy I want. I tell her toys are for kids, and her smile widens. We settle for the new spider-verse video game on our way home. 

Ten times. On and off, on and off, until the ringing in my ear stops. Mum fumbles with the tap of the medicine bottle, some pills falling on the floor. As I help her gather them, she asks what I think would happen if I didn’t do that. I shrug, eyes on the ground. I don’t want her to be sad, but she insists on it, and when she holds my wrist, I cry because it hurts but she doesn’t let me go. Grabbing my shoulders, she shakes me until I blurt out the truth — she will die and I’ll be alone!

Her voice cracks when she asks why I would say such a thing, and her face gets pale and weird when I say that’s the truth. She has died before, and I can’t let that happen again. 

Mum pulls me into her arms and I hold her as she cries. I tell her not to worry, that I will protect her, that I am not letting anything bad happen. I got this. 

We will be together forever.

The pills are bitter and too big for my mouth, but I swallow them to make her happy, even though I don’t like how I feel after that. My head gets all sluggish and my arms too clumsy — but I made Mum a promise and I won’t let her down. I drag myself to the switch, one, two, three, five…six, eight…ten? I’m sure it was ten. 

When Dad comes home I hug him, burying my face in his jacket. He smells of cigarettes and beer, just like I remember. He pulls away, his eyes landing on everything but me, before dragging himself to the couch and ordering pizza. 

We sit in front of the TV and eat, but I barely taste the food or notice what show is on. A man with a thick moustache ramps about alternative realities as the flat screen flicks with static noise. I keep glancing at Dad, at his loose stained shirt, the greying stubbles on his jaw, the dark circles around his eyes. I’m so glad he’s here. I hadn’t seen him in… in… Dang pills, I can’t think straight. 

I ask if we should save Mum a slice and Dad chokes on his beer. Coughing, he says I am too old for this nonsense, that he has put up with my weird behaviour for too long, and if I insist on not taking my medicine, he will have to check me into the hospital again. My stomach turns inside my belly — I don’t want to go back there. I shiver at the memory of those blinding white corridors with rolls of empty beds that always reek of bleach, burning my eyes and throat. The doctors and the nurses with that weird look on their faces, that whispered tone in their voices, shutting you up like they know better. And if you complain, they bring the syringes. I run my hands over my arms, remembering the blue bruises around my wrists and legs, and bite my tongue so I don’t upset Dad further. 

He fidgets with his wedding ring as I take my night pills, opening my mouth afterwards so he can see I have swallowed them. 

When he passes out on the couch, I sneak to my bedroom, but not before turning the switch ten times. Was it ten? I’m sure it was.

Mum wakes me up with a smile and kiss. She says that because I’ve been a good kid, we are going to the beach today, and spend time with my cousins. I jump out of bed, running around my bedroom gathering my stuff; my trunk, my bodyboard, my spiderman towel. When I find my football, I ask if Dad will join us, and Mum freezes on the spot. She touches her necklace and the two gold rings hanging there, and says Dad’s in our hearts and watching over us, as always. I say of course he is, we had pizza together last night and her voice cracks when she says I should cherish dreams like those. She gives me my pills and rushes me into the car.

The beach is amazing and the summer has just begun. I play and laugh, and bury my cousin Matt in the sand. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. When we get home, Mum carries me to bed because I’m already asleep, lulled by the ocean’s movements imprinted on my body…

Waves come and go, washing over me. Quietly. Gently. Gradually growing in size and strength, crashing on my chest, raising water to my neck and face, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I thrash and turn as cold water burns my lungs, but it’s not water that drowns me, it’s bleach, and from the depths of the ocean, a high pitch ringing calls and morphs into words: the switch, the switch, the switch.

I jump awake — the switch! Running downstairs, my pyjamas damp with cold sweat, I almost trip over the last step but reach the living room in one piece. Ten times. Then ten more for forgetting about it in the morning. Another ten as a way of apologising. That should be enough. 

Mum’s not there to kiss me when I wake up in the morning. Dad sits at the kitchen table, reading his newspaper. He says I should eat something before we go. I ask where, and the corners of the newspaper crumple in his fists.

Through clenched teeth, he says we will go to the beach to see my cousins, and I can’t believe how lucky I am — going to the beach two days in a row? I tell him all about yesterday’s trip, how Matt’s trunks filled with sand, how we tried to surf and got our asses kicked by the ocean, how the seagulls stole our sandwiches, and I’m still babbling about all the fun we had and how I wish he had been there when he grabs my arm and drags me to the car. 

He doesn’t say a word as we drive off. His face is red and he ignores me as I ask where we’re going and why we haven’t brought any beach things with us. I ask about Mum, and why he’s being so mean and driving so fast, throwing me from my seat whenever the car makes a turn. When he parks, I breathe out relieved that I didn’t throw up — but then I see it. 

The rusty iron gate covered in poison ivy. The broken stone gargoyles perched on the top. The naked garden and dead trees around the crumbling building.

I can’t breathe but I can smell the bleach. I try to open the door and get away, but my hands are sticky, and the safe lock is on. Tears blur my vision, sickness getting hold of me. I beg Dad to drive away, I say that I’m sorry, that I won’t ask about Mum again, that I’ll take my medicines — I’ll be a good kid! Dad lowers his head on the steering wheel, his body shaking, as two men dressed in white drag me out of the car. 

I call Dad, over and over again, and when he doesn’t answer, I call Mum and beg her to save me. I cry at the top of my lungs, but nobody listens. They twist my arm and I cry. I thrash and scratch a nurse’s cheek — he strikes my face and I plunge to the ground. 

The world comes in and out of focus, my ears ringing. The nurse pins me down and shoots something up my arm. I fall asleep immediately. 

Days are long in the hospital. The medicine makes me dizzy and slow. Dad comes sometimes, but he barely looks at me. He says he’s sold the house because the memories were too painful. I beg him to take me home, but he says this is my home now. 

I forget about the switch eventually. 

I never see Mum again.