The Sacrifice for Sisterhood

Author's note: this was such an amazing experience for me to write. I got so into it, I just couldn't stop. I think the finished piece turned out great, but I loved the process of writing it. Even though my entire blog is about being happy, I enjoyed writing a darker piece. The idea behind it was real, but I exagerrated the ending. The defense mechinism I used was rationalization and it was really really harmful.

“YOU WERE NEVER A SISTER TO ME!” were the last words I shrieked as I slammed my bedroom door with rage, but then with fear, as though I would smash her fingers in the door. Those hurtful but real words ended the 47 minute fight I had just had with my sister, Grace. Shaking in terrible anger, with tears streaming down my face, I gulped for air. My breaths, slight yet heavy, were the only sounds I could make out; my brain numb. With blood and snot streaming from my nose, I struggled to care about the mess it would make, worried instead about the mess I had just made of things with Grace. 

    I felt strange.

 I closed my eyes, fell back onto the floor with a thump, and stopped everything I was doing, unable to think or even breathe. Wilted on my bedroom floor, I was empty. Swallowed up in my emptiness, I stayed like that for a moment longer, which felt like a lifetime, until finally my lungs sprung free and gasped for air. I sat up, got a garbage can, and let my nose drip blood; each movement completed without thought, like a programmed zombie. Every little drop landing on the bottom of the trash can mesmerized me; the bright red metallic blood rhythmically dripping enthralled me as if I’d never seen blood in my life. Tipping my head back, I let the blood drain into my throat. I rubbed the blood around my mouth, over my teeth, swishing it around like mouthwash. The taste of a copper penny I used to despise, now tasted strangely good to me. Weakly, limb by limb, I worked my way onto my hands and knees and crawled over to the mirror. I looked at myself, not as myself, but as a shell of a girl I once knew. I marveled at my gruesome complexion: my puffy eyes, red mouth, glossy eyes, runny nose; they made me feel strong, a feeling I had never felt with Grace. Even though my body and mind were dead, some part of me was filled with power, a part I couldn’t quite put my finger on. 

After I cleaned myself up I sat on my bed, drifted into a state of oblivion, and let my mind run free. I sat there and thought… and thought… and thought… I must have thought the entire night. The whole time I pondered one thing: my relationship with my sister, if I could even call it that. All the little things I’d been doing my whole life went unseen to her. Nothing I could do was right because somewhere along the way her mind was programmed to believe that I was all bad. I was just an annoying mosquito buzzing around her head that she couldn’t seem to kill. To her I’m too happy, too perfect. The one word I hate; the one word I’m not; the one word she uses against me the most. For a whole hour I prayed to God that He would make me miserable, angry, bitter, hate my family, drink, have sex, get an F, gain weight, and fall during a cross country race; all the things Grace wished upon me that would supposedly repair our relationship. She made me truly believe that if I did those things we’d be close. And I’d do anything for us to be sisters; sisters that doubled as best friends; best friends that didn’t need anyone else because we had each other.

With my mind set I snuck downstairs and smuggled a kitchen knife up to my bedroom. Once I was hidden from the eyes of my parents I stared at the knife for a while, eying it up, judging it. I was scared of it, but I knew what I had to do. I closed my eyes in order to fix my last thoughts upon my sister and parents. For the first time in my life I let go and lashed out with all of the bottled up fury that festered under the surface. Exploding with wrath I plunged the knife into my wrist, slicing through my skin, diving deep into my vein. My entire body screamed out in pain, begging me to stop. But I couldn’t; my need for sisterhood was greater than my instinct for relief from pain. The knife, sticking out of my wrist, would not slide up my arm easily. With all of the might that I could muster, I tentatively twisted the knife further into the inky abyss I had carved into the pulp of my flesh. 

Twist and dig, twist and dig. 

The tears streaming down my face dripped from my chin, landing in the rushing stream of blood that saturated my arm. My muscles, pulling & tearing, pulsated string by string as the knife was torn from the deep pit of my elbow. I could only mutter a whimper as my mind focused on the burning tissue seeping out of my arm and the heaving breaths coming through my clenched teeth. At that moment I became livid at God and life itself. My heart was so full of hatred for everything living I no longer wanted to live at all. But I knew I had to, for Grace. I had just given up my happiness, for Grace. As the realization of what I had done occurred to me, a smile creeped onto my face and laughter arose from the darkest part of my soul. Grace would have no choice but to love me and treat me like I deserved. 

I had finally won. 

Until, all at once, I felt it… the life draining out of me. Gradually I felt myself floating up and up – rising like a balloon. 

I was bleeding to death for my only sister and no one would ever know. The sacrifice I had made was all for nothing.

I wasn’t suicidal; I was just trying to fix it.