Of Sickness and Pseudo-Siblings
“Can’t you at least do it quietly?” Tom hissed.
“I’m trying,” Billy whimpered miserably. A sheen of sweat covered his face, which had a sickly pallor.
Tom rolled his eyes and turned his back on the boy. Another round of retching and a sickening splattering followed, which Tom did his best to ignore.
The door creaked open, and the man behind it clucked sympathetically. “No better, Billy?” He asked kindly.
Billy blushed scarlet and turned away from the door. Tom knew that he was embarrassed because he didn’t want to be a burden on this man, and being up all night with sick down your chin is a surefire way to ruin a foster placement.
“Come on, now. Let’s get you out of those pyjamas and change the bed. That bucket wants emptying too.”
Billy retched piteously. “It’s okay,” he managed, shaking his head. “I don’t want to get you sick too, I can do it once - once -” He turned away to vomit again.
“I think you’ll feel better for it,” Ethan said. “Come on, it’s my job to look after you.”
“I don’t need -”
“Yes, you do,” Tom interrupted, sneering. “The state of you, honestly.”
Ethan glanced at Tom, discomfited. “And you still feel all right, do you, my boy?”
“Yes,” Tom said petulantly. “Fine.”
“Well, that’s good. It would be nice if you could be a bit more sympathetic to your brother,” Ethan said cautiously.
“He’s not my brother.”
“You have grown up together, though.”
“So?” Tom said coldly.
“Right, well. Come on, Billy. Let’s get you cleaned up. What about a bath? Do you think that would help?”
Billy shuffled off his bed and past Tom’s, studying his toes. A glob of vomit dropped from his cotton pyjama shirt and splattered onto the wooden floor. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, ears reddening.
Hours later, Tom woke to the blush of early sunrise. The bed next to his was empty; Ethan had stripped it, and Billy hadn’t come back to it. The floor was clean, and there was a strong smell of detergent in the air.
Tom rolled over, intending to go back to sleep; Ethan had provided, if nothing else, much more comfortable mattresses than the orphanage. That said, at the orphanage, he didn’t have to share a room with Billy Stubbs.
But his stomach continued to roll long after he had stopped moving.
He sat up abruptly, frowning. The sunrise wavered. His head ached dully. Nothing… hurt. But something was wrong.
His mouth watered. He threw his legs out of bed, cursing the sheets that tangled around them, and ran for the bathroom, yanking up the toilet lid just in time.
Afterwards, he rested his sweaty forehead on the cool seat and took a few deep breaths. He felt marginally better, but not enough to risk moving away from the bathroom.
A shadow fell over him, and he glanced up at Billy, who was lounging against the doorframe looking much more human and very pleased with himself. Tom felt, suddenly, very small and powerless.
His mouth filled with water again and dread clenched his stomach. Billy watched as he vomited.
“You made me sick,” Tom choked, aiming for menacing and missing by a wide margin.
“Can’t you at least do it quietly?” Billy asked, grinning.