Give it to Me

Give it to Me

“Miguel, are you going to bring me my goddam medicine, or should I just wait to slip into a coma while I wait on your lazy ass?”
I cringed at the shrieking voice coming from upstairs, and took a deep breath.
Gramma had never been known for her warmth or loving character. She’d smoked two packs of unfiltered Camels since she was fourteen years old, and there was never less than half a bottle of whiskey sitting on the kitchen counter, with another full backup bottle above the fridge. She’d married and buried three husbands, all of them a bigger loser than the previous. My mother’s father was husband number two, which I suppose means she could have drawn at least a somewhat worse hand than she did, though it was very difficult to think that, knowing what a drug-addicted, alcoholic, sexually abusive thug he was.
“I’m coming,” I yelled, and hoisted myself up from the sofa, and walked to the fridge. “It’s not even time yet. It’s still fifteen minutes before you’re supposed to take it.”
“I think I know when my body needs its medicine,” she coughed out through what sounded like a mouthful of phlegm. “I can feel my body decaying, and I need the goddam insulin.”
When she was diagnosed with diabetes a year earlier, no one was expecting one of those miraculous metamorphosis stories where the nasty Scrooge turned into the loving and melancholy town grandparent who wanted to spend every last minute with their caring and doting family members. But we also didn’t expect that Gramma would become even nastier; honestly, we didn’t think it was possible. Or at least I didn’t. I can’t really speak for my aunts and uncles, though, since they make every effort to avoid me. When they happen to not find a way to stay away from me, they make it known that they despise me.
I grabbed a bottle of insulin from the fridge and then went to the kitchen drawer where we kept her needles, and pulled one out, mentally taking note that there were only half a dozen left. I’d need to run by the pharmacy and pick some more up later that night. Sitting right next to the sink was a bottle of Drain Doctor, which meant that Uncle Efrain had stopped by earlier. He was obsessed with how slowly the kitchen sink drained, and never stopped by for a visit without pouring a quarter of a bottle of the cheap unclogger down the pipes. For just a brief moment I entertained emptying the vial of its contents and replacing it with the thick acid. But I was certain it’d leave a trail of evidence in Gramma’s veins, and I doubted I could convince a jury that it was Uncle Stan who’d put it there.
“Goddam it, Miguel,” she shrieked again, and I heard the thud of a glass knock against the wall. “Am I gonna have to get up and my goddam medicine myself? You want me to fall down the goddam stairs and break my fuckin’ neck, don’t you?”

From GIVE IT TO ME. Copyright © 2012 by Sean Wolfe. Reprinted by permission of Kensington Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.