Otherbound Read Online Free Page A
Author: Corinne Duyvis
up?â He sounded pathetic. If itâd been Mom out there, heâd have cleared his throat and aimed for a laugh, but he didnât need to with Patâ
âMaart was kissing Amara, slick lips on her neck, the dip of her collarboneâ
ââtexted me to check on you.â Nolan could almost hear Pat frown. âBut if I can help â¦â
âProbably not.â He crawled upright. His legs tingled withnumbness from the knees down. He barely kept his balance as he leaned in to flush, then half stumbled, half hopped to the sink, using a single, sleeping foot and no crutches. They were still downstairs. Idiot. At least the bathroom was small. He ended up crash-landing on the sink with both elbows. Stuck between dry-heaving and panting, he stared at the mirror. He looked pale. Not pale-pale, like Mom, but paler than his normal, even brown, which made those bags under his eyes stand out even more.
Another surge of nausea hit. He pressed a fist to his sternum to quell it. The movement reminded him of before, in the Walgreens back room, and a phantom burn flared in his hands and faded straightaway. He ought to just shut his eyes until the nausea passed. If he had to deal with Amaraâs pain, shouldnât he be allowed the good parts, as well, no matter the guiltâ
âAmaraâs hand ran down Maartâs side, heat spreading across his skin and hers, and she hardly felt the wall patterns pressing into her back orâ
âPat shoved open the door. Probably a good thing. Whenever Nolan
wanted
to get sucked into Amaraâs world, it took forever to wake up.
âI heard you flush,â Pat said by way of justification.
âI hate these pills.â Nolan stuck his head under the tap. Cold water. For more reasons than just cleaning up. Puking and sexâtwo surefire ways of feeling awkward around your thirteen-year-old sister. Not that she looked thirteen. Pat tookafter Dad, tall and unapologetic and dark, and with Nolan bent over like this, they were almost the same height.
âWerenât you feeling better?â she said. âI thought you got used to those pills weeks ago.â She fiddled with her gloves. Summer in Arizona, and she wore
gloves
. Leather ones, with cut-off fingers and metal spikes across the back. Nolan didnât know how she managed.
âI messed up the timing. Took two doses too close together.â The taste of acid coated the back of his throat. He rinsed his mouth again.
âAre these pills better than the old ones, at least?â
âWhich old ones? Thereâs plenty to choose from.â Nolan managed a laughâa little-sister laugh, a big-brother laughâbut not much of one, and apparently he wasnât the only one feeling awkward, since Pat was still twisting the spikes on her gloves one by one. Pat didnât hesitate often. Then again, they didnât talk about his condition often, either. Nolan preferred it that way. She shouldnât have to worry about her screwed-up brotherâs supposed epilepsy.
That was the diagnosis: epilepsy. To be specific, a rare type of photosensitive epilepsy that triggered absence seizures on blinking. Seizures that came with hallucinations. The EEGs were works of art, the symptoms didnât add up, and the so-called seizures never responded to medicationâbut it explained everything, from the overstimulation to the flares of pain and the worthless attention span. It had also explainedwhy a five-year-old Nolan would mention flashes of noise, people who didnât exist, visuals he couldnât explain. He claimed those had gone away years ago, but the pain was harder to hide.
The numbness from kneeling so long had now shifted into full-on pins and needles, assaulting his leg with every twitch of movement.
Eyes open
, he told himself. He was almost relieved when Pat pointed at the inside of his arm. âWhatâs that?â
He glanced at the faded ballpoint
âMaart was kissing Amara, slick lips on her neck, the dip of her collarboneâ
ââtexted me to check on you.â Nolan could almost hear Pat frown. âBut if I can help â¦â
âProbably not.â He crawled upright. His legs tingled withnumbness from the knees down. He barely kept his balance as he leaned in to flush, then half stumbled, half hopped to the sink, using a single, sleeping foot and no crutches. They were still downstairs. Idiot. At least the bathroom was small. He ended up crash-landing on the sink with both elbows. Stuck between dry-heaving and panting, he stared at the mirror. He looked pale. Not pale-pale, like Mom, but paler than his normal, even brown, which made those bags under his eyes stand out even more.
Another surge of nausea hit. He pressed a fist to his sternum to quell it. The movement reminded him of before, in the Walgreens back room, and a phantom burn flared in his hands and faded straightaway. He ought to just shut his eyes until the nausea passed. If he had to deal with Amaraâs pain, shouldnât he be allowed the good parts, as well, no matter the guiltâ
âAmaraâs hand ran down Maartâs side, heat spreading across his skin and hers, and she hardly felt the wall patterns pressing into her back orâ
âPat shoved open the door. Probably a good thing. Whenever Nolan
wanted
to get sucked into Amaraâs world, it took forever to wake up.
âI heard you flush,â Pat said by way of justification.
âI hate these pills.â Nolan stuck his head under the tap. Cold water. For more reasons than just cleaning up. Puking and sexâtwo surefire ways of feeling awkward around your thirteen-year-old sister. Not that she looked thirteen. Pat tookafter Dad, tall and unapologetic and dark, and with Nolan bent over like this, they were almost the same height.
âWerenât you feeling better?â she said. âI thought you got used to those pills weeks ago.â She fiddled with her gloves. Summer in Arizona, and she wore
gloves
. Leather ones, with cut-off fingers and metal spikes across the back. Nolan didnât know how she managed.
âI messed up the timing. Took two doses too close together.â The taste of acid coated the back of his throat. He rinsed his mouth again.
âAre these pills better than the old ones, at least?â
âWhich old ones? Thereâs plenty to choose from.â Nolan managed a laughâa little-sister laugh, a big-brother laughâbut not much of one, and apparently he wasnât the only one feeling awkward, since Pat was still twisting the spikes on her gloves one by one. Pat didnât hesitate often. Then again, they didnât talk about his condition often, either. Nolan preferred it that way. She shouldnât have to worry about her screwed-up brotherâs supposed epilepsy.
That was the diagnosis: epilepsy. To be specific, a rare type of photosensitive epilepsy that triggered absence seizures on blinking. Seizures that came with hallucinations. The EEGs were works of art, the symptoms didnât add up, and the so-called seizures never responded to medicationâbut it explained everything, from the overstimulation to the flares of pain and the worthless attention span. It had also explainedwhy a five-year-old Nolan would mention flashes of noise, people who didnât exist, visuals he couldnât explain. He claimed those had gone away years ago, but the pain was harder to hide.
The numbness from kneeling so long had now shifted into full-on pins and needles, assaulting his leg with every twitch of movement.
Eyes open
, he told himself. He was almost relieved when Pat pointed at the inside of his arm. âWhatâs that?â
He glanced at the faded ballpoint