May 10, 2011

My first and last Creative Writing Circle meeting

Diabolical: having the qualities of a devil; devilish; fiendish
(a play on perspectives.)

Satan's Spawn

"Mine? You're no daughter of mine," my mum used to tell the girl who wasn't my sister. "You're so filthy. Dirty. Don't pretend you know me."
"Dear God, why'd you give me a child so ugly?"

I used to watch in curious fear as my mother beat her until she could no longer walk, hot iron in one hand, tinted glass bottle in the other. I never liked alcohol. My mother says it's her medicine, but I think it far from heals her.

I watched as my mother dragged the girl by her hair to the bedroom. The poor girl, screaming, writhing as my mother overturned the frying pan - hot oil on her pale, frail body.

I blamed it on that poison.

As a child, I was allowed to play with my mother's nail polish and help her with the dishes, but she turned into a monster every time she saw the girl. My mother always told me never to go near the ugly child, Satan's spawn, an offspring of the devil.

The devil?

Now, I come home to the shouts of my mother and the cries of another. "You can't even clean the toilet, what is the devil's child good for!" A cry and a knock; head meets ceramic. Then the sound of continuous flushing.
"Drown, you ugly child, drown."

I stand in the corridor, not wanting to add to my mother's fury. Understanding the ways of, yet not fully understanding, the perpetual fury she has towards the stranger who sleeps a wall away from me. My mother lets go of the girl and storms out. "Lunch's on the table," she calls out to me.

Curious, I peer at the girl who isn't my sister. I can't see her face clearly, but I see a mess of hair, some blood and a broken nose.
Her cry is almost melodic, a desperate plea in song.

Without thinking, I help her into a sitting position and attempt to wipe the blood off her face. For the first time, I see that she has triple eyelids, just like me.

I realise, today, that the girl is my sister, and the woman isn't my mother.

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