Sunday, September 14, 2003

The story of my sister.
Tori wanted to know about my sister, and how we got seperated.

Ask, and in general, you will receive.

Her name is Monique and she is actually my half-sister - daughter of my step-father, Moses. Just to make a statement, I cannot tell you how many dead sisters or brothers I have- or even how many live ones I have. My mother could have had many abortions, and my biological father I know nothing of- he might have gotten married. More than likely he did, heh- but there is only one that I would sacrifice everything I can own for.

The situation of my household was a dire one. My father was bound to fits of rage due to extreme stress and competition at work- he needed none of that, we were stretched out money wise as is. He turned to alcohol to try to relax, but sometimes the alcohol would affect him negetively, causeing him to suddenly become irritated by the normal imperfection of me and Monique- or even sometimes my mother, or our small house.

My mother was saddened by her husbunds emotions, and veiwed me as the only reason that my biological father did not want to be with her- thus it was somehow my fault she was with this volitile man. In general she, herself, was ok, but at times she lashed at me with words that literally shattered me. Things that have warped my senses of care and love ever since. She was.. 'alright', I guess- I cannot really find myself to hate her, but it always felt like I had no mother because she was so distant from her depression. It is like.. I do not hate her, but I do not love her. Like a person you do not know, you just.. do not think about them, feel nothing twards them.

For religious reasons, we did not celebrate any holidays- includeing birthdays. It pains me, really, to say this- but I cannot remember her exact birthdate. I was taught that the day of our birth pales in comparision to the day we die. But- she is 1 and a half to 2 years younger than me. That makes her around 13/14 today.

Sigh. There is so much crap to tell about that time period, but this is just about me and her- so that is what will be told. The sad, sorrowful story of the carfting of my persona I will never tell in full, only pieces are known to the public for now.

Now, my memory starts at around 3- before that it is just sporadic bits of random 'daily' stuff- like me crawling on the floor into the den, or me stareing at the ceiling at night. Stuff like that.

But as soon as my memory does start, I remember my little sister being an integral part. As a baby, my parents would do nothing to her- she was just a baby. However, I was the thing to let your anger out on- the kid who made so many wrongs, he did not matter. I knew that when the time came, Monique would face the same things.. nightmarish ,really.. and I just could not bear to think that.

So I decided that whenever I could, I would take it for her. It was a mix of the childhood dream of being the knight and shining armor.. and the true feeling of being a bigger sibling, even at that young age it gave you a sense of purpose.. that you were the first, and you were meant to guide this younger one along.

It began right before I entered kindergarden. I was barely 5 and the teachers decided that instead of pre-school, that I was just barely old enough to enter kindergarden for that year. My sister was a good ways into the age of three. She was beaten a few nights before my first day of school because she "back talked".. she did not understand because my step father never tried words. Heh, he thought action was the only way when he was drunk. His words hurt alot too, however- so it was a lose-lose situation.

Just to set the general setting for alot of things, since she had grown out of her crib, my parents had bought a cheap bunk bed and we shared a bedroom together. I the top and she the bottom..

That night, she cryed in a way I had never heard before. It made me feel remourseful, regretful- I did not understand such feelings, but all I knew is that I never wanted to hear her in such pain again, because it was hurting me. So the childhood knight in shining armor routine turned into a burning desire to help her- and to try to avoid that horrible feeling that I got whenever she was hurt.

From then on, whenever I could, I would ask my father to take his anger out on me instead of her. He was somewhat of a sadist, so he would gladly do it- he just wanted to teach one of us a lesson, that is all. Maybe it was a problem with superiority- he was the man of the house and he wanted to show how he ruled. I dunno.. these memories do not pain me at all, I remain rather nuetral to them because it was either her or me. All I can remember sometimes is horrible physical and emotional pain. Bleeding sometimes- definately bruised. I could not always be there to be her shield, however- I had school to do. She received enough punishment to make her somewhat screwed up.

Heh. What I mean by this is.. well, let me tell you about something later on that occured when my grandparents took her and me out to eat at McDonalds. She was in a bad mood, and she threw a tantrum. Heh, she ended up punching me in the nose- made me bleed, lol. [My parents asked me why I would not hit back, and I replied "Because she is my little sister". I like to tell that story to people who think I am just a hurtless bastard.. anyway.]

So, maybe I was failing from the beginning.. but we talked whenever we could at night. About things of fantasy, things inane, things serious or things that just mattered for no reason at all. We used to pray to God together to bless us, and to calm our father down- to ease his pain. Also of our mother, we wished her happiness- she even suggested mid-prayer we get her some candy, "because candy makes anyone happy". lol. Yea, everynight I prayed with her from then on, because I knew that if I had faith in God, he would help me because I am one of his children- and I was serveing him whole-souled. I read to her from the bible what I could- my reading skills were, of course, not all that great.. and most of it we definately could not understand. But we were trying to survive on hope, hope that tomorrow would be better. I eveb read her the same stories I was given to learn how to read, and she thought I was so smart because I could read those basic things, lol. Eventually, when I was 7-8, I taught her how to read from the same books. Even then, I was not that great of a teacher in regards to things I was still learning- but I was much better off than when I was 6, yes? I just gave her a push..

Well.. things began to get worse. My father finally fell into total alcoholism, and drug my mother with him. That was the beginning of the end.. they became irrational, fighting with each other consisitantly- before it had been sporadic, but now it was just hell. My mom could find no way to blame her husbund or herself, so she blamed us for all their hardships. By then I had become mature enough to backtalk, but I lacked alot of control- I got hurt alot for 'defending' myself. She, however, began to get worried about ME, lol. It made me kinda happy to know that she and I were watching out for each other, and that if I had only one good friend in the world, it had to be my sister.

In the last few months, we did everything we could to hold each other up. It was enough to hold up, but Monique and I got alot of scars.. enough to make me worry about her to this day.

Finally, my father totally lost his cool and had physically violent sexual intercourse- [I cannot describe it as rape because they were married, but it was like that.] and beat her. Why? I do not know. My mother cannot talk about it, and I have never talked to my stepfather since I was taken away.

We had been hearing all this from the safety of our rooms- scared that he would storm in and hurt us. But he stomped past and out the door in a fury, clothes barely on and cursing my mother out as he went.

I did not know what to do. I was dumbfounded, really. I decided to just check it out- Monique was still scared, so I told her to stay in our room while I glanced out. It was silent. My mom called out for me, and I ran to the bathroom.

She was half naked and bleeding profusely from her face. Bruises lined either arm, blood was dripping on the floor. She told me to call 911.. of course, I did- I almost hyperventilated tho.. heh..

The State seperated us from our parents, and Moses was sent to jail for, from what I know, either 5 years or 10 years. My sister was sent to live with some of my step-fathers reletives, and I with my biological mothers parents.

I was 8.

So, ever since I have been worried about her. I have made several attempts at finding out exactly which reletive she was sent to, but so far have found nothing. I hope that she, out of depression or anger, did not committ suicide. She had a temper problem sometimes too, but I understood why.

So sometimes, late at night, when I have nothing better to do.. I lament over my past, and bathe in a harsh requiem. I miss her, I worry about her- I just want to know that she made it ok, because I barely have.

And that, my friends, is the story of a young boys concern over his little sister and the time they spent together, weathering out the massive storms of life. Within it, you can see a few seeds of my personality beginning to devolp.. and understand why I speak of her so often.

As time passes, I grow ancy really.

Because the possibility of her being dead.. is real. I attempted suicide, and she expierenced alot of the early pain I did. [Altho, the reasons I attempted suicide were due to things after the seperation.. maybe it is just silly paranoia.]

Oh well.. that is most of the story of my sister. I did not go into details about some things, because really- they do not concern you.

Quid me nutrit me destruit.
Comments (2)