Twisted Sister here — Sometimes the monsters are real, and crappy things happen to good people. Here’s a story about one of them.
Tonight is a beautiful night with a slight chill in the air.
I’ve just finished painting my toenails. As they dry, I have a vision of red. I wonder: is it blood or madness? Maybe both. Right now I have the chills. What could it be? What does it mean?
She made me bleed. What happened? That I’m unsure of; my mind is a landmine of memories. All memories of her hurt so bad! I need peace. I need to find some way to get over being this scared little girl. She’s put me through so much.
Sharon is my older sister. She’s naturally a brunette, but dyes her hair to whatever. She has a face full of freckles, and is taller than me. She’s also not on the light side, to put it nicely. She used to be real thin with huge tits. Now she’s very fat with huge tits. Unfortunately, I look like her. All but the fat part. There’s no mistaking we’re sisters, sad to say.
I got it! I know now. I remember Sharon hit me so hard, so many times in my rib cage, I spat up blood for almost a week. I was so scared of her, I never told anyone. I still went to school and Mom never knew a thing. That wasn’t the first time Sharon physically abused me.
Back when I was seven years old, she forced me to do things to her. These very bad things, I knew were wrong. First she’d say, “Do me a favor?’’ When I’d say no, she’d say, “Then I’ll tell Mom what you did.’’ Sharon would smile. “Then you’ll be in trouble.’’ Like all kids, I was afraid of getting into trouble.
Out of pure fear, I reluctantly did what she demanded. As time went on, she’d go into these fits of rage and beat the shit out of me. She would! You’d think she was some crazy monster or something.
After a while of her beating me, my body stopped bruising so easily. She bruised even with the slightest touch. Then she’d say I hit her. The size difference between us was too insane. No one should’ve believed that nut job was beaten up by little me!
One night, though, I started planning ways to end it all. I didn’t care if I ended my life or hers. I just wanted it all to stop. I needed it to stop!
I almost never slept. So, in the middle of the night, I tried to plot my escape from this crazy bitch. I tried downing pills or cutting my throat wide open. Then, I thought: That should be her. It should be her life that is cut short!
That night was a clear winter wonderland. It had just finished snowing. The ground looked so clean, so fresh. No one had walked on it yet. It was just after 3am, and I was still awake.
I listened to all the night sounds in my house: my parents snoring in the next room, my middle sister just beyond them, and then, all the way down the hall, Evil sleeping . . .
And, I thought to myself, that fucking bitch will get what’s coming to her!
One night I remember my dad ramming a huge kitchen knife into Big Sis’s headboard. He’d wanted to borrow $20, but she was being her usual bitchy self. She wouldn’t give it to him. And the numbers he wanted to play would have made him a lot of money.
Still, what a great idea he’d had! It was there for the taking, and boy did I!
This night, I walked into the kitchen and quietly took out the sharpest and biggest knife Mom owned.
Sharon’s room was right off the kitchen. Just a couple of steps, and I was there. I should’ve been shaking more than after any beating I ever endured from her. At least, that’s what you’d think when you plan to kill your abuser. I only thought: Jail would be so much easier to face than her kind of torture.
In her mirror, I glimpsed myself. And, even in the partial light from the other room, I noticed my eyes. Before tonight I hadn’t seen it. My innocence had been stolen by my own sister. She’d killed me each time, every time!
I was so damned young! No child deserves to go through this pain. Tonight I took a stand for all children.
I tiptoed toward her bed. I couldn’t help but watch her breathe. She was a sound sleeper. I watched, as her chest caved in and out. I looked into that fucking freckled face of hers. I knew she never thought of what she did to me. I knew she didn’t think of all the pain she caused me. And I knew she’d never care if I told her she’d stolen my innocence.
That’s when I raised the knife. I held it with both hands to keep steady and not miss my mark. In my mind, I saw it even before it was done.
First, I stabbed her in the heart one . . . two . . . seven, eight times! Then I dragged the knife up to her throat. I tried to cut her head completely off. I needed to know she was dead and would never hurt me again! I needed that, but couldn’t quite get her fat head off that massive body. I never made a sound. She didn’t, either.
Just as well let ignorance sleep all cozy tonight.
Until daybreak, I stayed in her room, holding that bloody knife. I wanted to confess my sins to Mom.
Then I realized: I didn’t have any sins to confess! I’d made the world safe from one evil piece of shit. If not for the greater good, than at least for my world, my good!
And that’s enough, isn’t it? I felt like Dorothy from that movie. I wanted to shout, “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”
And dead she is!
This reprint of INNOCENT by Mandi Rose, was originally published on Yellow Mama, be sure to drop by and check them out. Cindy Rosmus is a cool kind of gal.
Another Jersey girl, Mandi Rose is a single mother mom who does good things for lots of people, and has a soft spot for kids. Her work has appeared in Yellow Mama and around Twisted Sister. Mandi lives to write and have her voice heard.