He Slipped Sleeping Pills Into My Tea Every Night — Until I Discovered the Truth

He Slipped Sleeping Pills Into My Tea Every Night — Until One Evening I Pretended to Drink It

I never used to fear silence.
Now, even the sound of boiling water makes my hands tremble.

Since our mother passed away, it had been just my brother Aarav and me in the old ancestral house on the outskirts of Jaipur—a vast, echoing place that felt far too large for two grieving souls.

Aarav had always been the careful one. Precise. Protective. Calm to the point of coldness.
I was the opposite—restless, curious, always asking questions.

“Curiosity keeps you from healing,” he used to say.

Every night, without fail, he brought me a cup of tea at exactly nine o’clock.

“It will help you sleep,” he said gently.
“It’s the least I can do for my little sister.”

For a long time, I believed him.

THE TASTE OF TRUST

At first, the ritual felt comforting.
The warmth of the cup.
The familiar aroma of herbs and chamomile.

It became our fragile routine after everything else had fallen apart.

But after a few weeks, the tea tasted different.
Metallic. Bitter.

Then came the gaps in my memory.

I would wake up in my room, lights off, door closed, my head heavy and clouded. Sometimes my clothes were creased, as though I had never changed before sleeping.

I blamed grief. Stress. Exhaustion.

Anything—except the growing fear that something was terribly wrong.

Until the night I found the bottle.

THE BOTTLE IN THE CABINET

Aarav was in the courtyard watering plants when I went into the kitchen to make coffee.

While looking for sugar, I noticed a small brown bottle hidden behind the tea tins.

Diazepam — 10 mg.

My hands froze.

I wasn’t prescribed any medication.
Neither was Aarav.

For a moment, I wondered if I was losing my mind—just as he sometimes joked.

But something deeper than fear—an instinct he called danger and I called curiosity—told me I needed the truth.

So I made a plan.

THE NIGHT I PRETENDED TO SLEEP

That evening, I accepted the tea as usual.
I smiled. I thanked him.

When he left the room, I quietly poured it into the potted plant beside my bed.

Then I lay down and closed my eyes.

Minutes passed.

I heard the floorboards creak outside my door—his footsteps. Familiar. Measured.

They stopped beside my bed.

His breathing was calm. Observing.

Then he whispered,
“Good girl.”

His hand rested briefly on my forehead—not lovingly, but clinically. As if measuring.

Then he left.

I waited.

And followed.

THE ROOM I WAS NEVER ALLOWED TO ENTER

For months, Aarav had forbidden me from entering our mother’s old study at the end of the hallway.

“It’s too painful,” he said.
“I’ll take care of her things.”

That night, light spilled from beneath the door.

The key was already in the lock.

Inside, nothing made sense.

A chair in the center.
An IV stand.
Empty medical vials.

On the desk lay a thick file folder—with my name written across it.

THE FILE

The pages were filled with notes.
All in Aarav’s handwriting.

Medical charts.
Heart-rate logs.
Blood test results.

They weren’t my mother’s.

They were mine.

Words leapt from the page:

“Stabilization incomplete.”
“Memory resistance increasing.”

Then I saw the photographs.

Me.
Asleep. Pale.
Tubes in my arms.

My chest tightened.

That’s when the floor creaked behind me.

THE CONFRONTATION

“Why are you in here?”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Aarav stood in the doorway, holding the same cup of tea I hadn’t drunk.

“You weren’t supposed to see this,” he said quietly.

“What have you been doing to me?” I asked.

“You were falling apart after Ma died,” he said.
“You stopped eating. You stopped sleeping. I had to help you.”

“By drugging me?”

He didn’t deny it.

“You don’t remember the accident,” he said.
“You were in the car with her. You hit your head. Every time you remember… it destroys you.”

“You’re lying,” I whispered.

He looked at me with pity.

“You begged me to help you forget.”

THE RECORDING

He pressed play on an old recorder.

And I heard my own voice.

“Aarav… if you’re hearing this, it means I remembered again. Please help me forget. I can’t survive this.”

I collapsed.

I didn’t remember saying it.

THE TRUTH

He wasn’t hurting me.

He was erasing me.

THE ESCAPE

When he reached for me, I ran.

Out of the house.
Into the cold streets of Jaipur.
Barefoot. Shaking.

I didn’t stop until headlights blinded me on the main road.

ONE YEAR LATER

I live alone now, far from that house.

Therapy. Medication. Friends who know me as I am now.

I keep the file locked away.

Because forgetting, I’ve learned, is its own kind of death.

EPILOGUE — THE LAST CUP OF TEA

I can’t drink tea anymore.

Every sip feels like a memory trying to vanish.

And every night at nine, I still hear water boiling in my mind.

Because not all monsters hide in the dark.

Some bring you tea.
And call it love.