whisper of a siren [parsnip]

Loud noises were a sign of bad luck. A black cat, a broken mirror, a stroll underneath a ladder's prism. You couldn't think of a time where bad things hadn't happened after a sudden loud noise. It was the epitome of dread - a fear you had clung onto ever since Mom had gotten sick. Your brother once dropped a textbook and it sent you into panic instantly - fight or flight was the biological term for it, they say. They make your skin crawl, your muscles tense and cramp and your heart pound with every second that passed anticipating the inevitability of something bad happening next. And it always did.

You didn't like the idea of superstition - not knowing things wasn't a strong suit of yours, facts and evidence were. That's why you liked human biology so much. There wasn't many lesser explored theories left in the world about the behaviour of the human body left, especially in District Six. Superstition was unexplainable, and it irked you. It irked you knowing that loud noises brought misfortune, and not knowing how.

That's probably why you hated Alzheimer's so much. A disease which even you could identify the cause, yet couldn't come up with a solution.

Cause. Solution. Cause. Solution.

That's all medicine really was, anyway. Identifying causes, creating solutions. Just like the Capital could create a solution to death, of all things. Yet they couldn't figure out how to create a cure to a neurodegenerative disorder in almost a century. 

They could. They just didn't want to.

As the ambulance's sirens dreadfully obnoxious squeal came into hearing range, you begin to tense. You wrapped your cardigan tightly over your frame as you shiver - you felt freezing and exposed in the chill of January, despite the drops of sweat slowly forming down the small of your back. You were left alone with your mom, a rare occasion  that allowed you to embrace the quiet while she slumbered, leaving you to piles of new research you had taken out at the library.

The words on paper were beginning to make more sense when you heard it. A bang, coming from the bathroom where you found your mother lying half-dressed on the cold tile, babbling nonsense to herself. You were no caretaker - that was your dad and brother, the ones who had the empathy (and stomach) to do so. You felt bad - being the baby of the house, all of her care lay in their hands, often leaving you to your own devices, drowning in books, reading, research... 

"An escape. A distraction," your therapist likes to call it. An excuse is the word you prefer.

"Alzheimer's Disease is a genetic disease that is caused by the buildup of amyloid-beta peptides derived from transmembrane protein amyloid precursor protein," you recited to yourself, your feet shuffling against the snow-dusted pavement. The lights of the ambulance are now in sight.

"This buildup causes chronic stress in the endoplasmic reticulum," the words come out in a choking whisper. The ambulance parks, a stretcher and a driver exit the vehicle. Your shuffling increases as the driver approaches you, and you feel the carpet being pulled from underneath you. You choke at your breath, fighting the urge to let your disappointment in yourself be known, "which leads to a stress response called the unfolded protein response."

You look up at the driver as you finish mumbling your words, an incoherent conglomeration of everything you had read leading up to his arrival. 

"I think she fell," your fingers shakily point towards the interior of your house where you had propped your mother into the recovery position. Your eyes follow the trail of your finger before returning to the paramedic, and you make a small attempt at eye contact before narrowing your gaze back towards his feet, the fear of judgement consuming every ounce of confidence you may have had in you. "I tried making her comfortable but..." you stammer, "I'm no good at this kind of thing."