A Sister
A Sister
When a little sister is born, everything shifts.
She came with a pop.
That's how Mother described it.
Before the excruciating pain and the ungodly pressure.
Like a balloon, or opening of a soda can.
Pop.
Father lifted her up: "a sister," he'd announced.
She was menacing as a baby. Even Mother could feel it, hastily moving her crib to a separate bedroom than her own.
It started late one night, when Sister was five and I was near nine. Sister crept in to watch me, thinking I was asleep. But no one could sleep with her presence. You could feel it, like a window draft. The room changed. The temperature dropped. I'd shut my eyes as hard as I could until the room shifted back, until I was once again warm under my bed covers.
As time passed, I attempted to lock my bedroom door. This seemed to work until Mother noticed the master key missing, something only our maid ever used. "Who touched the master key?"
The key had hung from the wall by the back door. You'd often forget about it but were quickly reminded when Father came home; the slam of the door causing it to jump from its place against the wall and reminding you once again that there was always a way for someone to come in.
Sister smiled at me. And that night, something shifted.
The visits were promptly traded-in for catastrophes to be found in the morning, all of which somehow pointed to me as the culprit. It started small: spilled paint in Father's office. Smashed dishes in the butler's pantry. Sister's key was an entryway to ruin my life.
The worst: the family dog found dead on the porch, seemingly by a coyote. His insides smeared across the wooden slats. It was me who was blamed for the door left open.
After that one Sister returned once again to watch me in the night. Her key swinging freely from her neck, bellowing despite moving silently, vibrating between her own chest and my soul.
Until one night I could take it no longer. Yet another shift occurred as Sister turned her key, another silent awakening in the dead of night. I reached for the hammer beneath my pillow.
She went with a pop.
Before the excruciating pain and ungodly pressure. A balloon, a soda can.
Pop.
"Who could do this?" They pleaded.
"A sister," was all I could say.
Katie Lilljedahl