The Sister by Max China

notes. It's as if he is watching a film. "What do you see, Bruce?" he prompted gently.
    Confusion furrowed his brow as he continued, "It was as if I was standing outside myself. I watched my mouth as it shaped the word . . . Nooo! But nothing came out. I might have shouted it afterwards . . . I can't be sure. None of us could quite believe it. I stared down at where he'd lost his footing. Sticking out from the long grass, were the remains of an old boot lying on its side, the leather upper had cracked and blackened with age. The sole, wet and shiny, could have been new.
    "In those few moments, the part of me that was observing, latched on to every detail, as if my life depended on it. The deep, double splosh Jones made falling in, showed how deep the water was . . . and the stench that came up was worse than rotten eggs. The others were laughing and shouting. 'That will teach you, you crazy son of a bitch!' 'You can keep away from me when you get out of there, Jones!' Brookes cried, clapping his hands together with glee at the thought of this particular campfire tale. It all seemed to occur in slow motion, Brookes saw it first; the smile disappeared from his face, the same with Watson. Jones' chickweed covered face was a mask of horror; the light in his eyes disappeared—" Milowski snapped his fingers. "Switched off just like that."
    "He stopped moving - just stopped, and then he slid below the black waters. Watson jumped in first, and a second later, Brookes plunged in too. The strongest swimmer in the whole school, he turned to me, and he never said a word, but the look . . . the burning eyes . . . the jerky left-right-left movements of his head . . . each carried a warning. He seemed to say. Whatever you do . . . don't jump in!
    "Something was very, very badly wrong down there. I became even more detached than before, and I saw myself struggling with the urge to jump in after them, moving this way and that, two or three paces left, two, three paces right. In my head, I knew I couldn't swim. That day, my fear of water saved my life. The scene was now a deadly play, and I - not knowing what else to do - stood watching, as the fight for life took centre stage. I watched myself, as in desperation, I threw my magic seashell to Brookes, and he caught it!
    "For a split second, our eyes locked onto each other, united by the power of the shell. I saw myself as I punched the air and exclaimed. Yes! One millisecond . . . and then he slipped under, silently, a look of disappointment on his face. He looked as if he wanted to ask me something. The black water swallowed him and three large bubbles of air broke the surface, before the carpet of weed covered it over again. Apart from the smell, there was no sign anyone had been in the water at all. I watched myself as I sank to my knees; a shrill, unearthly wail cut through the silence . . . I wondered who was screaming and then I realised. It was me."
     
     
    When Mrs Milowski returned just under two hours later, she walked into the reception, and sorted through the magazines on the side table, selecting the most recent, a five-year-old National Geographic magazine. She was much more comfortable leafing through it here than she would have been at the doctor's or even the dentist's. She was paranoid about germs and infections; she thought it less likely she would pick up anything in a psychiatrist's waiting room.
    There was an article about the plight of Native American Indians, and the reported high incidence of alcoholism among them. She began reading it, quickly becoming engrossed. Over the page, someone had written in light pencil, 'low self-esteem'. A short electronic buzz snapped her attention back into the room. She saw the red indicator light outside the door change to green. The receptionist was just returning with a small plastic watering can. She started watering all the plants that decorated the waiting area.
    "Excuse me," Mrs Milowski pointed at the green light. "Does that