Why Won't They Love Me?

My younger sister watches the television without a care in the world. This was a part of our daily routine. The shouts of my raging mother were held in her room and thrown through the cracks in the wall of our empty house. This time it was about the police. They were going to take Dad away. I hear Mum’s crying and instinct makes my hand shoot out for the volume. As the numbers increase, my mind travels elsewhere, until a monotone buzz numbs my body. At one point, Emmy turns her head and draws her attention to my crimson cheeks as tears burn lines down my face. Around my parents, I was invisible. They never read me stories or tucked me into bed. They’ve never even said “I love you”. Maybe it was because I couldn’t teach Emmy to use the toilet or not to cry every morning. I thought I was doing well.
A rush of adrenaline pulses through my bloodstream as I switch off the television and rush out of the room. A strong urge to escape to live in the park arises, but, the duty of Emmy binds me here. My bewildered sister stumbles after me, seeking comfort that I cannot provide. Still, I surround her with my thin arms and rub her back soothingly. Brown eyes search my face, confused and unfocused. Soon after, we are covered in our unwashed, but reassuring blanket. Worse than shouting, the walls sound as if they are sobbing, never-ending, until the scrape of leather shoes on concrete accompanied by hasty scuffling lingers through the glass. Somnus drains the energy that I thought I had. Throughout the night, Emmy’s hand searches for mine.
At the break of dawn, Emmy’s shrieks pry my eyes open. They reduce to whimpers as my nose leads my stare to my now soiled sheets. It’s all my fault, Mum was right. I should have trained her properly.
In the shower, Emmy’s mood brightens at the sight of the floating soap suds soaring the air, oblivious to the unusual silence that I conflictingly welcome.
When I carry my sister to the kitchen, I try not to drown in the current of the familiar packages filled with powder that is flooding the hallway. The emptiness stands out in the kitchen, as I walk, my steps echo off the empty shelves and countertop. I look closer and see a paper on the table. Against Emmy’s protests, I place her on the floor and climb up onto the stool and reach for the note. My fingers frantically unfold it, tearing the side in the process.
“We really love you”.
This lie will never fool me. The words sound too foreign, too new for me to fathom. Imagining them writing this is impossible. This is the first and last time we’ll ever hear those words from them. A new experience I will make normal in my sister’s life.

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