The Dash-All Chronicles: Sister Dearest


It took me a few hours to dare sticking a finger into the sunlight again, my face wound up in a mask of pain-anticipation; but the pain didn’t come and I wrapped a scarf around my neck, grabbed my cell-phone and left my apartment. Ten steps out on the sidewalk I wondered if I’d locked my door, but then I thought To Hell With It and tapped my way into my phonebook, finding my sister’s number under the label M for Maryann.

The thing with my sister is we’ve never been all that close to begin with and a few years ago she started acting a little funny. Not in a good, hah-hah kind of way, but rather a Cower for Doomsday is Upon Us All kind of way and I’ve had a hard time being around her because of it. It’s not all that much fun having a sister who insists on eating her meat raw as she quote-unquote “Has to prepare for the coming of death.”

Yeah.

I wouldn’t call her a goth or a moth or whatever the hell the terminology is these days, but she’s become very pale because she refuses to stay out in the sun for very long – though she still can, I’ve seen her in direct sunlight with my own eyes. She tends to favor blue and not black and she doesn’t wear loads of makeup; in fact, she doesn’t wear any makeup. She works the nightshift at the hospital and hangs out with a strange crowd on the weekends where I could only imagine they had to be role playing scenarios about impending destruction and despair. Had only imagined, that is, until now, this very day, when I was waiting for her to pick up her phone and listen to me telling her that I thought I might have an idea of why she was acting the way she was.

She didn’t pick up. I left her a surly message on her answering machine and hung up, deciding without hesitation to march the twelve blocks over to her place and knock on her door until I got a reaction out of her. As far as I knew she was, as I should have been, sound asleep, but I had adrenaline gushing through my veins like a drug and I couldn’t slow down for anything. I had to speak to someone that I suddenly knew wouldn’t laugh at me or have me committed.

My sister is petite, black-haired (natural) and brown-eyed with a small smile that makes her eyes sparkle. She would be beautiful if she didn’t look so miserable all the time. I’d seen her smile wither and die and her eyes didn’t sparkle anymore. They barely seemed to have the urge to take their surroundings in, actually, and her mind was always somewhere else – another thing that made it hard for me to want to see her: it’s no fun telling a story to Eyes Glazed Over Girl.

She opened her door on the fourth knock. Alright, the knock was more like a bang. She looked miserable. This time I deduced it was probably due to sleep-depravation.

“Hey, sis,” I said brightly, stepping passed her into her small hall.

She followed me into the living room and I turned to her, smiling. I think it must’ve been a bit too wide because she took me in with a wrinkle between her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What’s wrong with you?” she inquired.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” I answered tentatively,” so…”

I reached up and pulled on the scarf. It unwound itself from around my neck like a green-colored snake of silk, dangling from my fingers as I watched my sister’s face flush with an excitement that went straight into her eyes and made them come truly alive at long last.

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~ by mescribe on November 9, 2011.

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