Understandably, I am my Mom’s favorite* daughter. Naturally, my sister, Michelle, is terribly jealous of this fact and, to this day, refuses to acknowledge the truth of it. She can be a bit short-sighted in this area, so I have to remind her of my superiority whenever we meet. That’s what keeps us close – our open communication.
Sadly, when we were children, she could be cruel. This is one of the reasons I am superior. I was never cruel.
She will say that I hit her with a chalkboard once. This is true. But, I did this thing, not out of cruelty, but as a warning that chalkboards can hurt your head. I wanted her to avoid walking into a chalkboard on her own someday and suffering irreparable damage. I contest that she never bled or needed emergency care that day, and that she has been wary of chalkboards ever since. A bump is a small price for such a valuable lesson.
Does she appreciate it? Probably not. She can be an ingrate, but I am forgiving of her faults.
As I was saying before, she was an evil child who probably needed an exorcism. I never stuck a cross to her face. I’m sure, if I had, it would have left a big burning scar. But, I can’t change the past , and there is no sense trying it now as she has probably developed an immunity to such things.
The traumatic incident I will relate now is true. No names were changed to protect the innocent. I was the only victim, and no public scrutiny of the matter could be any worse than the horror I have already suffered at their hands. I was about 13 years old at the time:
My cousin Bridget and Michelle locked me out of the house. I was banging on the door trying to get them to see reason with words like, “I’m going to tell. You are both going to be in big trouble when Mom finds out about this.” My sister, apparently in response, popped her head out of the window that was positioned just over the door and promptly poured a gallon of chocolate milk all over me.
I’m pretty sure this happened before the film Carrie was made. I wonder if Stephen King saw my shame and just substituted pig blood for chocolate milk. I guess, to give King credit, the blood looked creepier. What I am certain of is that the chocolate milk was stickier, and it only got worse as it was drying in the sun.
Naturally, I yelled threats and curses. This afforded me no mercy. They retrieved a pitcher of water and doused me with that too. They thought it was hilarious.
So, if you ever doubt man’s inhumanity to man, refer back to this post. I can forgive this now, because I know that Michelle must have felt, not only envious, but somewhat in awe of me.
But, I am concerned that the younger or, shall we say, “tattletale” sibling got away with such atrocities through lies and deceit while the older, more respectable sibling got punished for every little incident in which the younger one suffered head trauma of some sort.
But, I guess this is of no importance when we consider that I am still the favorite.
*My Mother’s “favorite daughter” has always been the one she happens to be with at the time that the “favorite daughter” statement is made. If both my sister and I are visiting her at the same time, she will tell us both alternately that we are the favorite. Mom does not have Alzheimer’s; she is simply dangerously insane.