I was foruteen, and an unusual child myself. I was hyperrational at that stage; I accepted nothing without ample, or often, unreasonable, justification. And I did not understand Peter in the slightest.

I panicked when I first heard him declare his death wish. I told him that I'd hear none of it; I alternately feigned anger and boredom with his declarations, and ordered him out of my room. In truth I was terrified - not angry or bored - but I could not tell him, or my parents, that I was terrified.

I could afford to act bored or angry; I was just his sister. My parents were forced to face this head on. My father became a more impatient version of myself, perpetually impatient, and he would react with anger at all of Peter's threats and disparaging comments. In retrospect I wonder if Peter respected him more for doing so; our mother would comfort him and try to speak to him, and he would only lash out at her. Soon he would insult her at every turn; he had vicious insults for her parents, sisters, and brother; and he declared that everything about her was silly and useless.

Our mother collapsed. I would arrive home from school and she would be crying; soon, she would retreat to rest immediately after dinner, afraid of what her son would do next.

His behaviour, however, only grew more frightening. He was so calm as he did it; he would say in a normal voice, "I'm thirsty," and it would only be when we saw him wander with a drinking glass into the laundry room that he was filling it with bleach. Soon every hazardous cleaning product in the house was moved to a high shelf; within days, the medicine cabinet housed only tissue and eye drops - the painkillers were transferred to a locked box in my room.

Peter was a bright child, though; there were ways around all of this.
posted by Adelaide at 8/4/2000 8:31:16 PM