I was at work when my Mom called. I was mopping the floors in the produce department, realizing the futility of the task, and my existence too, as every potential customer, of which there were many, left footprints on the white tiles. It was an endless job. I suspected they had assigned it to me just to keep me occupied, so I wouldn't sit idle. As if they were trying to squeeze out every dollar they paid me. Therefore, I slowly, monotonously scrubbed with the mop, glad that it was cool here and I wasn't sweating like the last fat pig.

Useless work for a useless person.

"Yeah, ma, what is it? I'm at work," I sighed into the phone, pausing my futile task for a moment. My sigh sounded as if I was busy with something truly important.

But within five minutes, after having asked for permission, I was gathering my things and calculating how quickly I could get to the hospital. My hand involuntarily reached for the cross, and the fastest prayer I knew was racing through my mind, hoping that this time everything would be okay.

I thought... The seventh route should have been the shortest. This bus was always packed to capacity, and I preferred not to use it, but that day it didn't matter. I practically ran to squeeze into it, using my weight and ignoring people's protests. I was as interested in them as in the dirt on the ground.

What my Mom told me over the phone was not news, but every such event I met with fear.

My sister was having another attack.

And if she was taken to the hospital again, it only meant that she couldn't survive it on her own. At the age of sixteen, I had a clear understanding of what was happening. So, every time I went to the already familiar hospital, I feared that the sight of my sister in a hospital gown would be the last memory I had of her.

With an unpleasant pang in my soul, I felt that I was tired of this, tired of waiting for news that someone dear to me would end up in the hospital for good this time. I hated myself for these thoughts flooding my head, for the weakness of my own body, but I couldn't do anything about it. I was tired of being afraid and waiting for it all to be over.

I think my whole family was tired of it, although with tears in our eyes we rushed to the hospital to see my sister every time. We simply couldn't do otherwise - she was part of us, and we were part of her.

Our family was originally considered large. Dad and Mom managed to have four children, although here we have to thank the sisters - they are twins. An older brother, two twin sisters, and me, the youngest. Mom - a literature teacher who instilled in me a love for books so much that I preferred them to hanging out with my peers. Dad - a cop who was always planning to become a detective. He taught me... to be such a realist that I started to look like a pessimist. But thanks to him, as Mom used to say, I was much more mature than my classmates.

A bit earlier, I mentioned we could have been called a large family. That's because we no longer were such.

My brother was killed by a car.

Just a random accident at a crosswalk - dozens, if not hundreds, of such cases occur in our country alone. Someone was driving too fast, didn't manage to stop in time, hit him, a brief flight, and my brother smashed his head on the curb, landing on it awkwardly. He was fourteen when he died, and I was six.

There were three of us left.

It seemed to me that my sisters suffered psychological trauma at that moment. Otherwise, I couldn't explain their obsessive care. They practically replaced my mother: cooked, washed, helped with homework, cared for me as others could only dream of. Perhaps having lost their beloved older brother, they now feared losing their younger one.

At first, this annoyed me. I resisted it in every possible way, argued with them, drove them to tears and tantrums, but then I came to terms with it. I loved them, and you could say this was my way of showing them my feelings. They were four years older than me.

Eight years ago, both of my sisters were diagnosed with impulse. A nonsense that was now finishing off our family, as if my brother's death wasn't enough for us.

In short, impulse is a human's ability to influence the surrounding matter through brain activity. Unlike ordinary people, these impulse carriers' brains can generate waves, impulses, or fields, with which they can affect the environment on a molecular level. They can't turn iron into gold, but they can easily heat up the water in a cup. And this isn't the limit of their abilities.

Impulse, like many other genetic features such as birthmarks or hair color, is inherited: the more relatives possess it, and the stronger the parents are in impulse, the stronger their child generates these waves. However, it's not entirely known why this very impulse sometimes manifests in ordinary people who don't have such relatives.

I learned all this from the books, but I can't say it helped me understand the problem that arises for almost thirty percent of these impulse carriers. Why, over time, this ability sometimes kills its owner.

At seventeen, one of the twins had her first attack - the first sign that it's time for a person to start counting down to their death or to start saving money for medicine. Or for surgery.

It happened right before my eyes. We were sitting at the dining table; the girls were playing with their ability and annoying my father when one of them suddenly froze. She looked as if time had stopped. Her skin turned pale, her eyes became empty, after which my sister abruptly dropped her head right into her plate of food.

It looked horrifying, unnatural, abnormal. I would witness these episodes later on, and each time, I was chilled to the bone by the sight of this unnatural reaction. As if she was drained of all her strength in an instant.

Her ability was killing her. You could say it was sapping all of her energy, making her look more and more sickly, fragile, and tired each time. Ultimately, it would end with her heart not even having the strength to beat. I understood this. Everyone did. Underneath the smiles and encouragements, I only saw fear and desperation.

Could it be treated?

Yes, it could. Medication or brain surgery. But both options cost such an amount of money that a regular family simply couldn't afford. The question wasn't even about stabilizing her - curing the attacks while preserving her abilities. That kind of treatment cost an astronomical amount of money and was usually only available to wealthy people who wanted to keep their child's impulse. The question was about destroying the impulse itself, which was the cause of the attacks. This was cheaper, but not cheap enough for an ordinary family like ours to afford.

And this smoothly leads me to why I took a part-time job, why my father and mother worked their fingers to the bone, and why my sister gave up university to work in some shabby company. We were earning money however we could - to pay for the treatment and medicine while also trying not to starve to death.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Nataliel had a severe case. We urgently needed money so she wouldn't die within weeks of the first attack. My family sold our house, we sold everything that could be sold, sold the cars, both ours and those of our deceased grandparents. We probably would have sold our deceased grandparents themselves if there was any value in that. My mother personally sold her family ring, and I remember how she cried over it for a long time, thinking no one saw her.

Even though the danger of Nataliel not surviving even the initial episodes had passed, she didn't get better. Most of the money was spent right away in the beginning when they stabilized her. The remaining money wasn't enough for therapy or medicine, which, by the way, didn't help her. My sister was then prescribed new, stronger, more expensive medicines that could have helped if she had taken them right away, but they were now powerless. It was like we were trying to bail water out of a sinking boat while more water rushed in than we could handle.

But we didn't give up - she was our family, and we were ready to fight for her till our last breath. I was taught from childhood that family is above everything, even your own interests. It was practically in our blood, it couldn't be any other way. That's why I did everything I could to contribute as much as possible to our struggle. I worked whenever I could and never turned down an extra cent when the opportunity arose.

We lived this life for three years. Three long years.

Maybe that's why my insides churned every time I thought of how tired I was of this struggle. Tired of fighting for the life of a loved one. Tired of spending every last coin on her treatment, even though no one asked me to, tired of living with the thought that tomorrow I would receive a call bringing the final news about my sister.

Honestly, I would rather have been the one dying in that hospital bed than her - at least then I would have stopped worrying.

The hospital greeted me with the usual hustle and bustle. An endless stream of people, scattering down the corridors like ants, each hurrying somewhere on their own business. The dimly lit signs overhead indicated where each department was located. The speakers echoed with voices, calling a certain doctor to a particular ward or department. The city hospital lived its own life, oblivious or simply not noticing those who were dying there. We were not exceptional in our grief - there were thousands of others just as tired and yet resisting the inevitable.

I'm sure this thought wasn't only visiting me.

The route to the department where my sister was staying has been memorized long ago. I quickly and seamlessly merged into the stream that led me to the elevators. I wouldn't have waited for them and climbed the stairs, but I was lucky this time - one opened, letting people out, so I got a ride up.

I stepped into corridors much emptier than those below, then turned right and moved on. Here, I took several turns, left and right, before stopping in front of doors marked "Impulse Care Unit." I might as well have been standing at the gates of hell.

Inside was the most standard corridor, leading to the patients' rooms. Almost at the entrance, a meeting with a nurse was waiting for me. The woman, with a disgruntled face, seemingly offended not only by life but by all of humanity, was clearly attempting to incinerate me with her gaze for disturbing her peace.

"I'm here for Lapier," I said quietly.

I generally speak calmly; I don't like to raise my voice, which makes me seem too quiet, as if trying to blend in with the surroundings. However, for some reason, some people perceive this as shyness, timidity, or excessive modesty. And some as weakness, because of which they tried to ride on my coattails or mess with my mind. I doubt I could explain to them that calmness is not weakness, and that I don't have to be energetic to put them in their place.

"Which Lapier?" If I was trying not to disturb the silence, then her displeased voice literally tore it apart.

"Nataliel Lapier."

"And the middle name?" The corners of her lips lifted slightly, as if I was causing her disgust. I really wanted to know how many Nataliel Lapiers they had here, but I didn't want to waste time on it. I preferred to handle things quietly and quickly, even if it was getting on my nerves.

"To Nataliel Yerofeyevna Lapier."

"She's in ward six," she said to me, quite disgruntled. Then, as I walked away, she yelled for the whole department to hear, "And don't make noise here!"

Sometimes, I wondered why people like her chose to work in medicine if they found others so repugnant. Was it a desire to make people's lives miserable, even when they were dying?

My entire family was already waiting for me in the ward, gathered around the patient and chatting about something. They only noticed me when I got close enough for my steps to be heard.

"Oh, you finally came," my Mom smiled. Her red, albeit already dry, eyes hinted indiscreetly at what she had been doing ten minutes ago. "Sorry that we pulled you away from work."

"Don't be silly, Mom," I replied, immediately shifting my gaze to the girl lying in the bed. "Hello, Nataliel."

Everyone had to squeeze a bit to let me approach her, lean towards the girl reaching out to me, and plant a kiss on her cheek.

"Baby's here," she smiled despite being paler than the sheets. For a moment, her arms wrapped around my neck - a sisterly embrace.

"This 'baby' weighs as much as you and your sister combined," Dad grumbled.

"But that doesn't stop him from being our baby," Mom jumped in right away.

"This 'baby' needs to eat less."

"I'm just storing up for lean times," I replied quietly. "Besides, I'm soft, and my sisters like that. Everything for them, and I don't care about the rest."

"Ah, like a teddy bear," Nataliel nodded, finally letting me go. "Who needs skinny guys when there are such soft ones?"

"Fat ones," Dad instantly retorted.

"We don't need a skinny one!" My other sister chimed in to defend me. Her name was, of course, Natali. That's why I never shorten Nataliel's name. Such was the imagination of my parents. Not only were they twins, but their names were similar - one Nataliel, the other Natali.

And both of them loved me, which was quite pleasing. If only they knew how much I loved them, they'd probably smother me. All because I'm big and soft.

"You're mean, Dad," Nataliel grumbled, trying to hide a smile.

"So, how are you? How are you feeling?" I cut off Dad, ending this pointless argument about how fat I was. I'd hear plenty more of it later.

"I'm fine," she shrugged. "Same as always, weakness, dizziness. But I'll be home by evening," she winked at me.

"Maybe you should stay here a little longer, honey?" Mom asked gently. "After all, it's a hospital."

"So what? They'll put me on a drip, give me some vitamins, and insert another suppository," she said, causing our entire family to wince in unison. We all imagined this extraterrestrial pleasure at once. "But you know it won't help."

"Still, there are doctors here..." Mom began.

"Who can't do anything," Nataliel finished for her.

"At least without money," Natali added.

"Which they suck out of the patients."

"And make them even paler than the disease does."

"So you sometimes get confused."

"Whether they are sick."

"Or our noble medicine has cured them to such an extent."

Then they smiled at each other and high-fived. Natali and Nataliel loved to pull this trick, leaving the sentence unfinished and allowing the other to finish it, annoying Mom and Dad. It was amazing how harmoniously they did it; I could never do it with them. It just goes to show how inseparable they are from each other.

"Anyway, Mom, don't worry, I'll be here till evening. They'll have enough time to shove a suppository in me," she winked at Mom but clearly failed to convince her.

"I sure hope so. Otherwise, I'll insert the suppository myself," but even through her serious tone, playful notes could be heard.

You could guess who the sisters took after - vibrant, cheerful, and caring. And, of course, you could guess who I took after, by process of elimination.

I glanced at Dad, who silently sank into his own thoughts. He also preferred to be quiet rather than talk, to spend his leisure time in silence and tranquility, unlike Mom, who was always dragging him somewhere. We probably even have similar faces when we think.

Mom and sisters continued to joke with each other, laughing and teasing, mostly at Nataliel, who, even lying in bed all pale, came to life. For three years, the impulse had been wearing her down, draining all her strength from her body, but it couldn't break her. I'll be honest, I was proud of her, proud that she was resisting this disease - that's the only way I can call it - and even now, she was lively.

Also, realizing that we dodged the bullet this time and I could breathe a sigh of relief, I began to feel disgusted with myself for thinking about exhaustion. After all, if I'm tired, how tired are my parents? How tired are Natali and Nataliel herself, who had to stay lively so as not to upset us? How much does each of us go through to maintain at least some happiness in the family?

I know the answer, looking at my pale sister, who was now laughing at Mom's joke. Everyone put in as much effort as they could, sparing no expense for the family. Because for us, the family was everything.

Absolutely everything.