Tales of Treachery and Tortures Past II
I don’t know why my oldest sister hated me.
Okay, yeah, I do now, but at the time, I didn’t know why she hated me. Actually, I didn’t even realize the right word for everything she did to me was hate; I just knew it was mean, unfair, and sometimes pretty painful. It wasn’t until I was older and learned to properly identify emotions with actions that hate entered into the equation.
Kinda like when a baby cries for milk. The baby doesn’t know the word for what she’s feeling is “hungry;” she just knows that her tummy doesn’t feel right, and nothing will ever feel right, again, until that white, creamy stuff Mommy gives her makes its way down her throat into aforementioned tummy. And life will be good until the next time her tummy starts to not feel right. “Hungry” has no place in that scenario—just the white stuff.
So, my oldest sister was mean to me, and I didn’t know why.
I can’t even tell you when it started. To be honest, it was probably the moment my head popped out of my mother’s womb. She was probably standing at the foot of the delivery table, pelting me with Pez candy until the nurses bum rushed her and knocked her into the hallway. But if I had to go off of actual memory, the earliest one I have is…stairs. Lots of stairs and me falling down them.
I’m in a hallway. I’m crawling. There’s brown everywhere: brown Berber carpet under my chubby hands, brown wall hangings framing the walls that tower above me, a brown bannister that seems miles ahead of me. I’m crawling, listening to the mumbling of the television on the bottom floor, drawn to my parents’ laughter. The hall light is shining on my head, casting a shadow across the strip of world in front of me.
And suddenly, with a blink and a cry, I’m tumbling down the stairs, watching the world spin through a brown kaleidoscope until everything goes black. But in the darkness, close to my head, I hear my sister’s voice: “Uh-oh. Brat fell, again.”
Accident? You tell me.
Stairs have never been my friend, but I would say that moment was the start to our hate/hate relationship. And in the spinning free fall that was my childhood, Cara was always conveniently nearby, announcing it to the world:
“Brat missed a step!”
“Brat hit her head on the floor!”
“Did you see how fast Brat cartwheeled down that bad boy?!”
Coincidence? I’m thinking NOT.
But the funny thing is no matter how many times I fell down those stairs, it never occurred to me, back then, that she might’ve actually been the one giving me the push. Just like no matter how many times she ate my animal crackers, called me names, or stole my Shrinkie Dinks, I still thought she liked me. She was my big sister, so she was supposed to like me; Momma and Daddy said so. Or maybe I just had a short memory, so I kept forgetting she didn’t.
Now, I know a lot of you think your brother or sister is the meanest, most horrible creature to ever curse the face of the earth. But until they try to put you in an oven, don’t talk to me about sibling rivalry.
My folks had left me alone in the house with my two sisters, probably on one of their 7-Eleven or Commissary runs. You’d think the traumatized, near-comatose state they’d find me in every time they got home would’ve fed them a clue that maybe they should start taking me with them, but parents are notoriously oblivious. I think it happens when they pop out their first kid—amnesia and self-induced blindness set in.
The sound of the closing door and keys turning in the lock signaled that it was time for the torture to begin. Since it would take our parents about ten minutes to get to the store, another ten minutes to walk around and pick up supplies, and a final ten minutes to get back home, that left Cara and Veronica about twenty-five minutes to come up with new, creative torments to inflict upon me. The remaining five minutes were set aside for cleanup and establishing alibis.
I was, as always, lost in my own little world, playing with my Barbies. Ken had just stood up Malibu Barbie to go cruising with Skipper. My Cabbage Patch dolls were huddled in the corner, gossiping. I didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, and Strawberry Shortcake was too busy trying to find her way out of Big Apple City to warn me.
A hand rested on each of my shoulders. Startled, I looked up into two smiling faces.
“Hey, Brat,” Cara said. Her eyes twinkled. “We made brownies. You want some?”
Oh, food, why must you always be my downfall? “Uh-huh,” I answered.
Veronica snickered.
“Well, come get it yourself,” Cara said. “We’re not your slaves.”
I handed the Corvette remote to Xavier Cabbage and headed toward the kitchen. Cara and Veronica followed me down the hallway. I kept hearing giggling, but every time I turned around to look at them, they looked innocently back at me.
When I walked into the kitchen, it took only a few seconds for my nose to recognize the absence of fudge. No walnuts. Not even the muted, chalky scent of flour. I did, however, feel heat pouring out of the open oven door.
I looked around. Where was the mixing bowl? The open box of baking mix, always spilled haphazardly across the counter?
Something definitely was not right.
I backed up, bumping against a solid body only inches behind me.
Cara.
In what seemed like a flash, my brain zoned in on the one fact I had been too preoccupied—and too greedy—to remember: Momma and Daddy weren’t home. I should’ve kept my butt in my bedroom.
I turned to flee, but Cara’s hand whipped out to grab my arm. Veronica loomed in the doorway, her body seeming to fill every inch of its open space.
“You don’t want any brownies?” Cara asked, her voice saccharine-sweet.
“There aren’t any,” I said in accusation. I twisted my wrist, trying in vain to break her hold.
“Yeah, there are.” She smirked. “They’re in the oven.”
The heat drenching my body no longer came from the oven. I squirmed.
Veronica appeared on my other side. Her body pressed into me, pushing me toward the demonic door. It gaped open, welcoming me inside. Waves of heat writhed out of its mouth, dancing up to the ceiling.
“Stop,” I whined.
“Stop what?” Cara’s hands pulled at my arm, while Veronica nudged me closer to the stove.
“Stop!”
And then the laughter started. And the pushing.
I fought. I writhed, kicked, screamed, cried to God to help me, and swore vengeance on my sisters when our parents got home. But the laughing only got louder and the stove nearer.
When I could feel its breath blazing against my face, the shoving stopped. Hands released me.
Cara snorted. “You’re such a baby.” She turned around and marched out of the kitchen.
Veronica stepped forward to turn the oven off. She closed the door. We looked at each other, tears streaming down my face, an almost undetectable hint of concern in hers.
She handed me a napkin. “Don’t tell, okay?”
She didn’t even need to ask. I knew better.
When my parents came home, I was back in my bedroom, dolls in hand and imaginary Barbie scandals replacing the fear in my head. My world was back to the way it should be. I was safe.
For now.
I don’t know why my oldest sister hated me.
Okay, yeah, I do now, but at the time, I didn’t know why she hated me. Actually, I didn’t even realize the right word for everything she did to me was hate; I just knew it was mean, unfair, and sometimes pretty painful. It wasn’t until I was older and learned to properly identify emotions with actions that hate entered into the equation.
Kinda like when a baby cries for milk. The baby doesn’t know the word for what she’s feeling is “hungry;” she just knows that her tummy doesn’t feel right, and nothing will ever feel right, again, until that white, creamy stuff Mommy gives her makes its way down her throat into aforementioned tummy. And life will be good until the next time her tummy starts to not feel right. “Hungry” has no place in that scenario—just the white stuff.
So, my oldest sister was mean to me, and I didn’t know why.
I can’t even tell you when it started. To be honest, it was probably the moment my head popped out of my mother’s womb. She was probably standing at the foot of the delivery table, pelting me with Pez candy until the nurses bum rushed her and knocked her into the hallway. But if I had to go off of actual memory, the earliest one I have is…stairs. Lots of stairs and me falling down them.
I’m in a hallway. I’m crawling. There’s brown everywhere: brown Berber carpet under my chubby hands, brown wall hangings framing the walls that tower above me, a brown bannister that seems miles ahead of me. I’m crawling, listening to the mumbling of the television on the bottom floor, drawn to my parents’ laughter. The hall light is shining on my head, casting a shadow across the strip of world in front of me.
And suddenly, with a blink and a cry, I’m tumbling down the stairs, watching the world spin through a brown kaleidoscope until everything goes black. But in the darkness, close to my head, I hear my sister’s voice: “Uh-oh. Brat fell, again.”
Accident? You tell me.
Stairs have never been my friend, but I would say that moment was the start to our hate/hate relationship. And in the spinning free fall that was my childhood, Cara was always conveniently nearby, announcing it to the world:
“Brat missed a step!”
“Brat hit her head on the floor!”
“Did you see how fast Brat cartwheeled down that bad boy?!”
Coincidence? I’m thinking NOT.
But the funny thing is no matter how many times I fell down those stairs, it never occurred to me, back then, that she might’ve actually been the one giving me the push. Just like no matter how many times she ate my animal crackers, called me names, or stole my Shrinkie Dinks, I still thought she liked me. She was my big sister, so she was supposed to like me; Momma and Daddy said so. Or maybe I just had a short memory, so I kept forgetting she didn’t.
Now, I know a lot of you think your brother or sister is the meanest, most horrible creature to ever curse the face of the earth. But until they try to put you in an oven, don’t talk to me about sibling rivalry.
My folks had left me alone in the house with my two sisters, probably on one of their 7-Eleven or Commissary runs. You’d think the traumatized, near-comatose state they’d find me in every time they got home would’ve fed them a clue that maybe they should start taking me with them, but parents are notoriously oblivious. I think it happens when they pop out their first kid—amnesia and self-induced blindness set in.
The sound of the closing door and keys turning in the lock signaled that it was time for the torture to begin. Since it would take our parents about ten minutes to get to the store, another ten minutes to walk around and pick up supplies, and a final ten minutes to get back home, that left Cara and Veronica about twenty-five minutes to come up with new, creative torments to inflict upon me. The remaining five minutes were set aside for cleanup and establishing alibis.
I was, as always, lost in my own little world, playing with my Barbies. Ken had just stood up Malibu Barbie to go cruising with Skipper. My Cabbage Patch dolls were huddled in the corner, gossiping. I didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, and Strawberry Shortcake was too busy trying to find her way out of Big Apple City to warn me.
A hand rested on each of my shoulders. Startled, I looked up into two smiling faces.
“Hey, Brat,” Cara said. Her eyes twinkled. “We made brownies. You want some?”
Oh, food, why must you always be my downfall? “Uh-huh,” I answered.
Veronica snickered.
“Well, come get it yourself,” Cara said. “We’re not your slaves.”
I handed the Corvette remote to Xavier Cabbage and headed toward the kitchen. Cara and Veronica followed me down the hallway. I kept hearing giggling, but every time I turned around to look at them, they looked innocently back at me.
When I walked into the kitchen, it took only a few seconds for my nose to recognize the absence of fudge. No walnuts. Not even the muted, chalky scent of flour. I did, however, feel heat pouring out of the open oven door.
I looked around. Where was the mixing bowl? The open box of baking mix, always spilled haphazardly across the counter?
Something definitely was not right.
I backed up, bumping against a solid body only inches behind me.
Cara.
In what seemed like a flash, my brain zoned in on the one fact I had been too preoccupied—and too greedy—to remember: Momma and Daddy weren’t home. I should’ve kept my butt in my bedroom.
I turned to flee, but Cara’s hand whipped out to grab my arm. Veronica loomed in the doorway, her body seeming to fill every inch of its open space.
“You don’t want any brownies?” Cara asked, her voice saccharine-sweet.
“There aren’t any,” I said in accusation. I twisted my wrist, trying in vain to break her hold.
“Yeah, there are.” She smirked. “They’re in the oven.”
The heat drenching my body no longer came from the oven. I squirmed.
Veronica appeared on my other side. Her body pressed into me, pushing me toward the demonic door. It gaped open, welcoming me inside. Waves of heat writhed out of its mouth, dancing up to the ceiling.
“Stop,” I whined.
“Stop what?” Cara’s hands pulled at my arm, while Veronica nudged me closer to the stove.
“Stop!”
And then the laughter started. And the pushing.
I fought. I writhed, kicked, screamed, cried to God to help me, and swore vengeance on my sisters when our parents got home. But the laughing only got louder and the stove nearer.
When I could feel its breath blazing against my face, the shoving stopped. Hands released me.
Cara snorted. “You’re such a baby.” She turned around and marched out of the kitchen.
Veronica stepped forward to turn the oven off. She closed the door. We looked at each other, tears streaming down my face, an almost undetectable hint of concern in hers.
She handed me a napkin. “Don’t tell, okay?”
She didn’t even need to ask. I knew better.
When my parents came home, I was back in my bedroom, dolls in hand and imaginary Barbie scandals replacing the fear in my head. My world was back to the way it should be. I was safe.
For now.
I don’t know why my oldest sister hated me.
Okay, yeah, I do now, but at the time, I didn’t know why she hated me. Actually, I didn’t even realize the right word for everything she did to me was hate; I just knew it was mean, unfair, and sometimes pretty painful. It wasn’t until I was older and learned to properly identify emotions with actions that hate entered into the equation.
Kinda like when a baby cries for milk. The baby doesn’t know the word for what she’s feeling is “hungry;” she just knows that her tummy doesn’t feel right, and nothing will ever feel right, again, until that white, creamy stuff Mommy gives her makes its way down her throat into aforementioned tummy. And life will be good until the next time her tummy starts to not feel right. “Hungry” has no place in that scenario—just the white stuff.
So, my oldest sister was mean to me, and I didn’t know why.
I can’t even tell you when it started. To be honest, it was probably the moment my head popped out of my mother’s womb. She was probably standing at the foot of the delivery table, pelting me with Pez candy until the nurses bum rushed her and knocked her into the hallway. But if I had to go off of actual memory, the earliest one I have is…stairs. Lots of stairs and me falling down them.
I’m in a hallway. I’m crawling. There’s brown everywhere: brown Berber carpet under my chubby hands, brown wall hangings framing the walls that tower above me, a brown bannister that seems miles ahead of me. I’m crawling, listening to the mumbling of the television on the bottom floor, drawn to my parents’ laughter. The hall light is shining on my head, casting a shadow across the strip of world in front of me.
And suddenly, with a blink and a cry, I’m tumbling down the stairs, watching the world spin through a brown kaleidoscope until everything goes black. But in the darkness, close to my head, I hear my sister’s voice: “Uh-oh. Brat fell, again.”
Accident? You tell me.
Stairs have never been my friend, but I would say that moment was the start to our hate/hate relationship. And in the spinning free fall that was my childhood, Cara was always conveniently nearby, announcing it to the world:
“Brat missed a step!”
“Brat hit her head on the floor!”
“Did you see how fast Brat cartwheeled down that bad boy?!”
Coincidence? I’m thinking NOT.
But the funny thing is no matter how many times I fell down those stairs, it never occurred to me, back then, that she might’ve actually been the one giving me the push. Just like no matter how many times she ate my animal crackers, called me names, or stole my Shrinkie Dinks, I still thought she liked me. She was my big sister, so she was supposed to like me; Momma and Daddy said so. Or maybe I just had a short memory, so I kept forgetting she didn’t.
Now, I know a lot of you think your brother or sister is the meanest, most horrible creature to ever curse the face of the earth. But until they try to put you in an oven, don’t talk to me about sibling rivalry.
My folks had left me alone in the house with my two sisters, probably on one of their 7-Eleven or Commissary runs. You’d think the traumatized, near-comatose state they’d find me in every time they got home would’ve fed them a clue that maybe they should start taking me with them, but parents are notoriously oblivious. I think it happens when they pop out their first kid—amnesia and self-induced blindness set in.
The sound of the closing door and keys turning in the lock signaled that it was time for the torture to begin. Since it would take our parents about ten minutes to get to the store, another ten minutes to walk around and pick up supplies, and a final ten minutes to get back home, that left Cara and Veronica about twenty-five minutes to come up with new, creative torments to inflict upon me. The remaining five minutes were set aside for cleanup and establishing alibis.
I was, as always, lost in my own little world, playing with my Barbies. Ken had just stood up Malibu Barbie to go cruising with Skipper. My Cabbage Patch dolls were huddled in the corner, gossiping. I didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, and Strawberry Shortcake was too busy trying to find her way out of Big Apple City to warn me.
A hand rested on each of my shoulders. Startled, I looked up into two smiling faces.
“Hey, Brat,” Cara said. Her eyes twinkled. “We made brownies. You want some?”
Oh, food, why must you always be my downfall? “Uh-huh,” I answered.
Veronica snickered.
“Well, come get it yourself,” Cara said. “We’re not your slaves.”
I handed the Corvette remote to Xavier Cabbage and headed toward the kitchen. Cara and Veronica followed me down the hallway. I kept hearing giggling, but every time I turned around to look at them, they looked innocently back at me.
When I walked into the kitchen, it took only a few seconds for my nose to recognize the absence of fudge. No walnuts. Not even the muted, chalky scent of flour. I did, however, feel heat pouring out of the open oven door.
I looked around. Where was the mixing bowl? The open box of baking mix, always spilled haphazardly across the counter?
Something definitely was not right.
I backed up, bumping against a solid body only inches behind me.
Cara.
In what seemed like a flash, my brain zoned in on the one fact I had been too preoccupied—and too greedy—to remember: Momma and Daddy weren’t home. I should’ve kept my butt in my bedroom.
I turned to flee, but Cara’s hand whipped out to grab my arm. Veronica loomed in the doorway, her body seeming to fill every inch of its open space.
“You don’t want any brownies?” Cara asked, her voice saccharine-sweet.
“There aren’t any,” I said in accusation. I twisted my wrist, trying in vain to break her hold.
“Yeah, there are.” She smirked. “They’re in the oven.”
The heat drenching my body no longer came from the oven. I squirmed.
Veronica appeared on my other side. Her body pressed into me, pushing me toward the demonic door. It gaped open, welcoming me inside. Waves of heat writhed out of its mouth, dancing up to the ceiling.
“Stop,” I whined.
“Stop what?” Cara’s hands pulled at my arm, while Veronica nudged me closer to the stove.
“Stop!”
And then the laughter started. And the pushing.
I fought. I writhed, kicked, screamed, cried to God to help me, and swore vengeance on my sisters when our parents got home. But the laughing only got louder and the stove nearer.
When I could feel its breath blazing against my face, the shoving stopped. Hands released me.
Cara snorted. “You’re such a baby.” She turned around and marched out of the kitchen.
Veronica stepped forward to turn the oven off. She closed the door. We looked at each other, tears streaming down my face, an almost undetectable hint of concern in hers.
She handed me a napkin. “Don’t tell, okay?”
She didn’t even need to ask. I knew better.
When my parents came home, I was back in my bedroom, dolls in hand and imaginary Barbie scandals replacing the fear in my head. My world was back to the way it should be. I was safe.
For now.
