It arrived on a Wednesday morning, in a small package, labelled with black scrawled writing. Inside was a birthday card with a generic inscription, and a small china piggy bank. It was one of the ones you have to smash to open. I waited until my housemates were out, then dropped it onto the hard kitchen floor. Shards of piggy china flung to every corner of the room. But there, in the middle of the kitchen tiles, was a tiny plastic bag, full of what looked like soft brown sugar. There was also a note. Dissolve in hot water. Drink all at once. Will last 4-6 hours.

I had been researching it for weeks. It was hard to find out about at first. There was barely

anything on the mainstream internet, just a few mentions on Reddit chains and whispers on dodgy looking websites I had to close a million pop-ups to get to. So I downloaded Tor and delved into the dark web. There, I fed myself on everything I could find and licked the plate clean. I read that it was first discovered by the people of Nicoya, Costa Rica, one of the world’s ‘Blue Zones’, where people live some of the longest and illness-free lives in the world. They called it aliento de vida, breath of life. Western explorers learnt about it there and tried to bring it back to the US and UK, but it was blocked by governments who had come to enjoy the trimmings of living in the pockets of private healthcare and big pharma. Three-course dinners and golf weekends. It turns out that sick people make other people rich.

There were risks. You could never be sure you’d get the real deal, or something cut with

something else, something far more dangerous. If I was caught possessing it, I could go to jail. My hand had hovered over the laptop mousepad for what felt like minutes. Then I’d clicked, and spent all my savings on one dose.

After I opened the package, I tucked the substance in my wallet, threw on a coat and scarf

and headed out. The colour had bled from the sky and the air was cold and fresh, filled with memories of rain. It didn’t take me long to get to the home. We’d picked it together, years before, when she’d first got her diagnosis. I’d held onto the flat, where we’d lived my whole life, since Mum and Dad’s accident. After she left, I got in some friends and paid for her care with the rent.

It looked like a Travelodge. Not bad, but pretty soulless. Inside it was oppressively clean

and stank of disinfectant, and was decorated with the kind of nondescript items you find in a hotel — paintings of unidentifiable natural landscapes and bowls of potpourri. It was coming up to Christmas, so there were a few sparse strings of silver tinsel and a sad looking tree in the corner, with fat baubles hung on sagging branches. I walked through the first set of doors and rang the bell. Gracie, the receptionist, buzzed me in and smiled as I walked up to the front desk.

‘Iya love.’

Her sing-song Yorkshire accent put my mind at ease and I felt myself loosen up.

‘Your Gran’s just in her room. She didn’t feel up for her tea today.’

‘Ok,’ I said, ‘thank you.’

I signed in and walked down the corridor to her room, the last on the left before the dining

hall. The rest of the residents were sat down at round tables for dinner. Some of them were chatting to one another, loudly. Others just stared into space, hunched shoulders over soup.

Her door was open and her favourite red fleece hung on the hooks by the entrance. The

familiarity of it made my eyes sting. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went in. She was there, lying in bed, not dressed. She had her eyes closed and her head rested at a funny angle on propped up pillows. She had dark bruises all over her face, the colour of plums. Her body was lopsided, one of her shoulders lower than the other, an injury from a fall that had never healed. Her speckled hands rested on her bloated stomach. She didn’t have any rings on. She never wore them anymore. They didn’t fit over her knuckles, thick with arthritis. She used to wear bohemian rings on every finger, silver and gold with chunky coloured gems.

I pulled up a chair to the side of the bed and stroked the silver tufts of her hair. She stirred.

‘Hi Gran. It’s me, Elsie.’

‘Elsie.’ She repeated my name like she was hearing it for the first time, swilling it around

her mouth, figuring out if she liked the taste. 

‘Yes. Your granddaughter.’

‘Granddaughter.’ She looked at me blankly, but then smiled, revealing her gappy front

teeth. ‘How nice to see you.’

She coughed weakly, and I could hear the phlegm smothering her lungs, trapping her

breath.

‘Can I get you some water?’

She nodded and closed her eyes again.

‘I’ll be right back.’ I said.

I left the room and headed to the kitchen, where I filled up the kettle and found a mug. I

waited for it to boil, drumming my fingers on the side of the cabinets. When I got back to the room, she was asleep again. I put the mug of hot water on the side and got the stuff out of my wallet. I opened it up and sniffed. It smelt like a mixture of liquorice and cinnamon, but with something else in there that I couldn’t put my finger on. It was the consistency of salt crystals. My hands were starting to sweat and I could hear my heart in my ears. I looked back at Gran. The memory of my last visit rose like bile in my throat. I shuddered. Her screams had left deep scars.

I poured in the whole bag and stirred. It dissolved quickly and turned the water murky

brown. I went over to the side of the bed and shook her arm.

‘Drink this, Gran.’

She opened an eye and studied it, then shook her head.

‘You’ll like it. Promise.’

She didn’t have the energy to argue, so she opened her mouth and pushed back her head,

letting me pour it in.

She pushed me away immediately and stuck out her tongue, like a disgusted child.

‘Bloody awful,’ she croaked.

‘Please, Gran,’ I said, panicking, ‘you have to drink it all.’

She looked at me, thunder in her eyes. ‘No.’

My stomach sank. I really didn’t want to force her.

‘Please, Gran. It’s going to make you feel better. Please.’

She hesitated. Then slowly pushed her head back again and opened her thin, cracked lips.

With each swallow she shivered. Brown liquid dribbled down the creases by the sides of her mouth and gathered on her chin before drizzling onto her nightie collar.

The effect was instant. She started convulsing uncontrollably. Her eyes rolled back into her

skull and saliva streamed from her mouth.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to shout for help, but I was locked still. Within seconds,

she stopped shaking and slumped forwards, eyes shut, completely limp. That’s it, I thought, she’s dead.

I shook her. ‘Gran. Wake up, Gran.’

Her eyes flashed open and she looked straight at me.

‘Elsie,’ she said, her voice low and strong.

I couldn’t believe it. I stared at her, as the bruises dissolved from her face and her cheeks

turned pink and flush with life. I watched as her broken shoulder rose and clicked into place. Little diamonds grew in her bright green eyes and her wrinkles were ironed flat. Her hair was still grey, but it shone bright under the harsh lights and bounced down her back.

‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

‘Great,’ she said, flinging off the duvet and setting her feet on the floor. ‘What did you give

me?’

‘It’s a drug.’ I said. ‘From Central America.’

She didn’t waste time asking for an explanation, just asked ‘How long have I got?’

We decided to sneak out and head into town. As she pulled on one of her old favourite silk

blouses, she said she had a plan and would meet me on the main road. Before I left, I positioned pillows under the duvet to look like a body.

‘Remember to turn out the light,’ I said, and left the room.

I logged out of the guest book and walked down the driveway and onto the main street. It

was even colder now and icy wind lashed against my body. I pulled up the collar of my coat and waited.

About five minutes later I saw her, scuttling down the other end of the street, wearing a long

blue coat and a bright pink cashmere scarf.

‘How did you get here?’ I asked, incredulous.

‘I jumped over the wall in the back garden.’ she said. ‘It takes you into a little cul-de-sac and

then you can just walk out. People escape that way all the time, but you have to have the legs for it.’

That night we caught the 343 to London Bridge and headed to one of her old haunts in

Borough Market. We slurped Negronis so strong they tingled our tongues, and lathered thick slabs of cheese on chunks of crusty bread. We listened to a jazz singer with a voice like syrup. We danced in our seats, tapping our toes and clicking our fingers, swinging our necks from side to side. We were the last to leave. We bought kebabs on the way home, dropping mayonnaise-drenched chips like a trail behind us.

I knew I had to get hold of more. I took out an overdraft and started doing extra shifts at the

cinema. The smell of sweet popcorn seeped into my skin and became a permanent fixture. I spent so much time at work or with Gran that my housemates started to worry about me. They commented on my late nights, the dark bags under my eyes, the vacant expression I’d started to wear around the flat like a pair of old slippers. But I didn’t care. Me and Gran went for fancy dinners, went to the pub, went to the Royal Opera House to watch the ballet. We spent Christmas together in the flat, like we had every year before. One Saturday we even caught the train down to Brighton, kicked off our shoes and dipped our toes in the cool water. Ate soggy fish and chips on the pebbled beach.

I stopped paying the bills. The warnings came through, with bold red writing. I stashed them

away in a file under my bed. A few times they arrived when I was out, and the girls would corner me in the kitchen and demand answers.

One day Jenna knocked on my bedroom door. I’d just got home from a long shift and was

scrolling mindlessly on Instagram, stalking the new girlfriend of a boy I used to date.

‘Can I come in?’ The softness of her voice warned me that we were about to have

a chat.

She came and sat on the edge of my bed.

‘Els… what’s going on?’ she asked, placing an envelope in front of me.

‘We know you’re not paying the bills…’ she said, pausing for effect before adding, ‘so I

don’t know what you’re doing with the money we send you.’

I was exhausted from my shift and me and Gran had been out the night before. My brain

couldn’t work fast enough to formulate a smart response. Cogs stuck in a thick layer of grime.

She sighed. ‘And we never see you anymore. I know you’ve been spending a lot of time at

the home but… we just feel like you’ve lost yourself a bit. Is everything ok?’

‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.’ I said, taking the envelope and slotting it into the file under

my bed. ‘I’ll sort the bills, I’ve just been busy with work, sorry.’

I looked back down at my phone, in an attempt to signal that the conversation was over. I

flicked through the girl’s recent posts. Photos from a couple’s holiday with the boy I used to date. Golden-hour cocktails on an empty beach. I could feel Jenna’s eyes on me like lasers.

‘Why won’t you talk to me?’ she asked.

‘I am talking to you.’ I demanded. ‘I’m fine, I’ll pay the bills. End of story.’

They moved out a week later.
I spent all my free time with Gran. But I started to become aware that each time she drank

the breath of life, it worked a little less than before. Like she was becoming immune to the impact. The bruises wouldn’t quite disappear from her face, her movements would become less quick, more laboured. I’d catch her wincing as she walked. She started experiencing side effects, acid reflux, little bumpy rashes around her lips. The care home were worried about her. Too often they had come to check on her and found her bed empty, a pile of pillows arranged to trick them. Once they filed a missing person’s report, and she came back to find that a helicopter had been circling South London trying to find her. They didn’t take their eyes off her for weeks afterwards.

The world hurtled into spring. One morning, we were walking around Peckham Rye park.

Fresh green shoots were pushing out of the trees and little clouds passed like thoughts in the sky. The air was crisp and cold. My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about work and how I wanted to move on from the cinema. How sick I was of sweeping up popcorn, checking tickets, serving buckets of lemonade to rude teenagers. How I needed something that paid better. I could tell Gran wasn’t happy. She was walking slowly, looking at the ground, her left shoulder slumped. We stopped to sit on a bench. She turned to me.

‘Elsie,’ she said, in between pants, ‘I think it’s time you went and lived your life.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, panic rising in my belly. ‘I am living my life.’

She looked out at the park and I followed her gaze. A young family with two young kids

were kicking around a football. The little girl tackled her brother and ran, flinging the ball in-between two backpacks set up as goalposts. She squealed and did a celebratory lap, pulling her t-shirt over her head and sticking her fingers in the air. Gran chuckled, then looked back at me.

‘You’re going to be ok, you know. Without me.’

My eyes filled up with hot tears and a lump developed in my throat, big enough to choke on.

‘I don’t know if I will.’ I said, my voice barely a whisper. I tried to hold them back, but the

tears trickled down my cheeks defiantly.

Gran reached over and wiped them away with her sleeve.

‘I didn’t raise you to be wet, my darling girl.’ she said with a smile.

As we were walking back in the direction of the home, I saw Jenna and Leah on the other

side of the street. They had their arms linked and were laughing. Leah was wearing the top I’d given her for her birthday last year. I felt a pang of jealousy as I saw them together. I hadn’t realised how much I missed them. They saw me and waved and crossed the road towards us.

‘Hey,’ they said, and we hugged.

The tension danced lightly between us. It had been a month since they’d left.

‘You look well,’ they said, even though I didn’t.

‘How are you?’ I asked. ‘This is my Gran by the way.’

Gran lent in and kissed them both on the cheek.

‘It’s so nice to finally meet you.’ Jenna said, with a smile.

We exchanged soft pleasantries, that fell like rain over the last few months and washed all

the bad stuff away. We talked about the weather, what we’d been up to, work, how they were settling into their new flat.

‘We just live round the corner,’ Leah pointed in the direction of the train station. ‘It’s cute.

You need to come over for dinner some time.’

‘That would be nice,’ I said, grateful for the gift of a second chance. ‘Thanks.’

‘We were just heading out for a coffee now, if you’re free?’ Jenna asked.

I hesitated.

‘I should get Gran back,’ I started to say, but she jumped in before I could finish.

‘I was just heading off. You girls go and have fun.’ She smiled at them and squeezed my

shoulder.

‘Go.’ she said to me. ‘I’ll be ok from here.’

By Julia Fausing is a writer from the South West of England. She has a Diploma in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford and in 2022 was shortlisted for the Stockholm Writers Festival First 5 Pages Prize.. This is her first appearance in Litro.

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