Twain

A late night attempt at some flash fiction.

 

Pitch dark. A small night lamp glows. In a couple of hours, it will be morning. Thinking back, she usually asked me to meet her during the day. She never came over at night no matter how much pain she was in. She always said night time was her time. I never asked her to do anything she didn't want to. She never insisted on anything, either. Never the type to coerce. She knew I was stronger than her. Strong enough to block her out completely.

Still, I did not deny her conversations everyday. I knew she would be lost without me, and the least I could do for her was listen. Just the other day, we shared little detailed memories about our Mom. We figured we missed her even though all she had ever done all our lives was sit in front of the telly, smoke in hand.
She often told me how our short chats provided her with some comfort, she said she felt like I was her unofficial shrink. Her official one never listened, she complained. And I too, found comfort in her. It felt like she was part of me.

On the days she thought she was slipping back into depression, I agreed to run errands for her. And when her cat died (even though I loathed the blasted creature), I arranged for a proper burial. I got her to rediscover life and love after her short, dysfunctional marriage. I read stories to her unborn child, and continued to do so even after it slipped into a mere memory.

I cared for her. I was alway there to tend to her wounds. I loved her too much to let her drown in her abysmal tragedy. But that does not change the fact that on one dark, drizzly Sunday morning, I swallowed my sister whole.

The End

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