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My sister and I were always fighting. She's still got a large chunk of pencil lead embedded in her hand from where I stabbed her once. What's the worst you've done to your siblings?

(, Thu 18 Aug 2005, 12:46)
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I confess...
When I was seven years of age, I used to beg my mother for a little brother or sister. My main reason, at the time, was that I desperately, desperately wanted bunk beds. Mother always said, "No," although sometimes, when I was feeling especially persistent, I would get as far as a "We'll see". And that, as every child knows, is as good as a "Yes".

I waited and waited and every day I asked my mother if there was a little brother or sister on the way. For the longest time the answer was always a stern "No!" Then one day when I asked, Mother gave a cheeky, knowing smile and her beautiul green eyes sparkled. She leaned forward so her face was inches from mine and, looking deep into my eyes she whispered, "Maybe." My heart skipped a beat. I came over all unnecessary and ran up and down the street, bleating like an asthmatic lamb. Time swiftly moved on and, after some weeks, my mother and father became certain that they were indeed expecting their second child. As a family we were as strong as ever in our mutual joy and anticipation. In his excitement, Father decided to put his well-honed DIY skills to the greatest use possible: he agreed to build bunk beds for me. "This will come in useful in a few years, son!" he gleefully told me as he set to work. I was at the peak of my happiness. I felt that life simply could not get any better. How right I was.

A few months in, Mother and Father began spending more and more time in the spare room, painting the walls in soft, pastel hues. I did all I could to gain their undivided attention, so much so that they went out and bought me a Stretch Armstrong to keep me occupied. And it did. For a while. But the novelty soon wore off and the jealousy set in again. Raging, unbridled jealousy over my womb-bound sibling. This unborn child of Hades, the progeny of selfish, unloving parents, was already beginning to ruin my life.

That evening, while my father was out buying some more paint, I was following Mother downstairs after she had given me a bath. I was in a foul mood and I was carrying a handful of toys, which meant that I was unable to wipe away an irritating bead of water that had trickled from my wet hair and onto my soft, pink cheek. The water crept further and further down my face, tickling my skin with every fractional movement until the sense of irritation turned to anger, compunding the rage that already burned inside of me like some kind of infernal, steaming hell-dog wolf-python. I exploded, throwing my toys down and striking my mother square in the back with the full force of my body weight. She tumbled awkwardly and landed with a thud at the foot of the stairs.

And that was the end of it.

Mother and Father were quiet for a long time after that. My father left us eventually. Mother started drinking a lot. I stayed in my room and played with Stretch Armstrong.

Now, almost twenty years later, my father still hasn't returned. Mother doesn't leave the house much so I go out and buy brandy every day. It keeps her from crying. I'm alright, though. I've still got my bunk beds. I sleep on the top. Stretch Armstrong goes on the bottom.
(, Thu 18 Aug 2005, 15:24, closed)

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