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Embittered

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I hate you. I hate you with all my heart. Your name boils my blood, twists knots in my stomach, and sends me into a chaotic frenzy unlike any I've ever felt. To you, I am inferior, one not fit to breath your air, share the same room, or live under the same roof. You humiliate me with slaps and you laugh. You snap photos of me naked in the shower and you laugh. You snatch off my bra in public at the beach and yet you still laugh. You look at me with those treacherous blue eyes and feel you can just talk down to me as if I won't say anything back. Well I have news for you: I have a backbone. No longer will I let you push me around or bring me grief like you have in the past.

It's because of you why father didn't love me. It's because of you why father ignored me. It's because of you why father wanted to disown me. You are the cause of my pain, the aches in my head, the bloodstains on my dress, and the mocking voices in my mind. To daddy, I was many things: second best, imperfect, inadequate, and an embarrassment to the family name. But you, you were his joy, his princess, his light in the gloom of darkness.

To you, I am always the villain, the annoying bitch who always stands in your way. If that is truly how you feel about me--then I'm glad. That's right. I want to annoy you, piss you off, make you feel like shit in the same way you did me, if not worse. When I laugh, I'm laughing at you, because when you die, it'll satisfy me, like a river of crystal clear water quenching my thirst. The gasps and gurgles I'll hear from your demise will seem like music to my ears, like the soothing melody of violins playing in symphony at the opera theater.

Outside, I hear the graveyard calling your name--and with every howl it beckons me to send you there. For hours on end, I yearn for the day I pick up what's left of your bloody and bruised body and throw it in a ditch. As soon as I begin to scoop the dirt over your mangled corpse with my shovel, I know I'll love every minute of it; your burial will mark the end of my troubles, the end of my pain, but most of all, it'll mark the end of you. One day your comeuppance will come. I'll spill your blood like you've spilled mine, I'll cut you like you've cut me, and I'll do it until I payback every ounce of what you've done to me over the years tenfold.

Yet, looking back on it, maybe your death won't satisfy me. The fact of the matter is that daddy's dead. He's just a name, a memory. Competition for his affection is pointless now. Even in death, he'll never love me over you, nor will he ever love us equally. Nevertheless, ever since I've known you, I've always realized something: I have my insecurities, my contradictions, and my flaws. What do you have? You're not flawed. You're not insecure. You're perfect, just like daddy said. You show no emotion, you have no heart, and that makes you special, right? You're quiet, mean, secluded, but everybody has to love you. Why? Why can't they treat me the same? Maybe it's a trend, or maybe people are just stupid. Why am I the slut? Why am I the bad guy? Why am I even related to you? You don't care how I feel. You never did, you arrogant bitch. Nobody cares how I feel because I'm not you. Daddy didn't love me because I'm not you. God, if only I was you, people would appreciate me. If only I was you, daddy would love me. I'd have no reason to cry, no reason to shout, no reason to feel the way I do. Why do you have things so easy? Was I put on this earth just to feel tormented, bitter, and alone? Why did God have to create you, you ungrateful piece of shit? Why can't you just not exist? I don't want you in my life. I want you to disappear, want your name, your very existence banished from peoples' memories. Don't you understand? Just keel over and die, all ready. Have an anvil drop on your head, let a truck run you over. I don't care.

Just. Go. Away.

Anger clouds my mind like fog encasing a sweltering jungle. It happens in the bathtub, at work, at home when I'm making breakfast or watching television. The fact that you have that great of a psychological edge over me makes my emotions swell. I want to cripple you, stab you, and kill you, but wait—why am I having second thoughts now? You're the bitch. You deserve to die.

It's strange, but for some reason, I can't help but think that I care about you. I shouldn't feel that way, but I do. Sometimes, I was just looking out for you in the ways you never looked out for me. You're supposed to love me, have my back, offer me your guidance, support, and concern, but all you've ever done was have a gun pressed against my throat. Tell me, sister, after the many years we've fought, what am I supposed to feel? You should know, but I have a feeling not even you know the answer. Every night, I feel torn between how I should feel and how I shouldn't.

Now I see and understand the inner conflict that resides within me. Apart of me cares about you and the other part is too damn proud to admit it. Sometimes, I wish I never cared, never showed concern when you were hurt or confused. Yet, I can't stop caring, can't change who I am for it differentiates me from you.

I would hope that one day we could put our differences aside, but it'll never happen, sad to say. We're both too proud, too stubborn to make or accept a truce. Our fights will carry on until the day we die and maybe that's something you want, but I find it pathetic. In reality, I want us to live. I want us to greet each other with smiles and laughs, with hugs and admiration, not blood and bullets.

It may never happen, but it is nice to dream. I'll keep dreaming, I'll keep hoping, and I'll keep praying. As much as I claim to hate you, realize that I'll always love you, sister. I'll always love you with all my heart.

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Author's note: My first M-rated fic, although it may not be as adult-oriented as I expected it to be. I wrote this story days ago after seeing an inspirational piece done by one of my friends. It just took me a while to post it. I'm trying hard to update my other stories, so for those awaiting the inevitable update, I ask that you please be patient with me.