CONFLICT
It always seems to end this way. Me, inside my own room,
thinking to myself about how unjust this is. She never has to go through what I
do. Sometimes I see myself as being stronger and more resilient than her, but
it never matters in the end. She never gets the punishment. Just me. I don’t
want people to think I’m being unfair, or unkind. I love my sister. She means
everything in the world to me. I think her behaviour is disgraceful, bordering
on evil; I would never be that bad. What she does is unforgivable, but it’s not
her I blame. It’s them.
The old people.
They look at me like I’m some dirty piece of mud that has
become stuck to the bottom of their shoes. The shoes of the righteous. The
shoes of the dictators, more like. While she just carries on behaving as though
she couldn’t set a foot wrong. The second coming perhaps. She could walk on
water in their eyes, complete feats of impossibility. Me, I barely put one step
forward, a great accomplishment in my state if you ask me, and I get told off.
It’s not YOUR turn to walk, it’s your sister's…
She even has more drama than me. Her tears works are second
to none, she would do well to invest in waterproof mascara, but I think that
just adds to the effect.
They’re fools. They fall for it every time.
Wait, what is she doing in my room? Mum? Dad? Why are you
putting her in here with me?
Play nice. PLAY?
NICE? With her? No, I don’t want her in my room. Please don’t leave me with
her. You’re my mum, my dad! How can you do this? How can you turn a blind eye to
the bruises, the marks? Don’t go.
Please.
But they do. And I roll in my cot, begin to wail, and wait
for the pain.
