Anatomy of a Sisterhood

“Leave me the hell alone,” Vanessa clamored as I pummeled her with the cushion which was carefully assorted on the colorfully decorated couch. She had worked my last nerve and I was ready to do some damage; a kind of damage that would leave a garden flower and some loose fabrics imprinted on my sisters’ unusually inflated face. “Prostitute,” I raised, this was not going to go any further. Earlier I had let hoe slide, then bitch, and now this. Oh, it was on. In an instant my eye brows raised almost meeting my hair line which signaled all the blood which I possessed to rush towards my head. My eyes, inflamed with anger, took a peripheral view of the family room which in its fragile arrangement could not be disrupted in a noticeable method. I carefully marked my target and chose my weapon. I conveniently clawed a helpless pillow and marched toward the now frightened swine. I swung with a great rupture of animosity. The thrashing would not stop until her whimpers grew into audible cries for help. Rearing from her, she moaned in utter desperation, “I’m calling the police,” my sister cried, “she tried to kill me,” she explicated to the dial tone on the other end of the phone. I could not help but to find the situation amusing as I sauntered away in hopes to collect the last ounce of my tranquility.Was this natural sibling rivalry or do I possess pure abhorrence for my sister? Maybe it was her slapdash exterior which triggered me to sense her awkward vulnerability. This wasn’t new to me. She was obviously obese which added emphasis to her totally similar attitude problem. Her features loudly radiate unadulterated annoyance. Her valiant eyes peer as if to obliterate my diminutive existence. She has a stature designed to hover my coordinates which disable me to function as I would with any other acquaintance.
Was it the flesh that seeped from her waist line spilling onto her ashy thighs? That couldn’t be the reason. I have plenty of “FAT” friends. None were at her level of obnoxiousness. Clearly she was not fully aware of the extent of her enormity. She would roll over one day and say, “I’m going to be a gymnast,” knowing entirely of the observable, plain as day qualifications that it required. Was she obsolete to contrasts between her and a four foot, one hundred pound, fourteen year old? What would happen when she stuck out like a bolt would to a hammer? Her reaction would be blaming the imaginary persons who in which put her in her colossal state. Till to this day are left unidentified.
Never would she blame her eating habits in which over the year she has grown accustomed to. “I’m on a diet,” she would say while masticating on a Big Mac, “so I can join the dance team.” Vanessa’s face was of the exact replication of a boars’, nostrils open wide enough to see her snot covered nasal hairs. With every grind of her olive yellow molars her nostrils flared with excitement and released the stench of satisfaction. Her posture was vast and swallowed any presence of food that was pin-pointed on her radar. Her shadow was like an extremely large shrimp hunched over in its rolled up trend.
I find myself wondering if she’s even human. Of course she was human her anatomy was that of mine and others, just a lot bigger. How did my parents spawn this creature? Why did they give her the great gratification and benefit of being my one and only sibling? Questioning the fact of her subsistence was beginning to make me feel appalling. Maybe she wasn’t the problem. I am not the perfect sibling to live with either. I had my defects. Yes, sometimes I could have stopped and thought about the consequences of some of my actions. The terminologies I would use on her were just pure filth. I didn’t want to be treated like that by my older sister, but then it wasn’t my fault; she stirred up a way to drive me nuts. The end results never favored her; she always was the on left in desperation and relentlessness. Why hasn’t she learned? Wasn’t it natures’ obligation to allow her to adapt to the environment she was given?
As the oldest I was presume to be the inspiring figure to Vanessa. Being the younger sibling, she was supposed to admire me from a distance that would not reflect any sign of attachment. In a perfect world, we would help one another; console one another, and most importantly, share thoughts and conversation to reassure one another. “Your mother abandoned you on our door step,” I shouted with immense fury, “we’re going to eat your fat ass on Thanksgiving,” I would say, “I told mama to wait till you got big enough,” I explained, with much expectation of the statements actual validity. This is not a perfect world and we most definitely are not the perfect family.
The fighting and emotional abuse began before I could even remember. She was always fat and when ever we would fight it would be the topic of our conflict. We would bicker back and forth like two hyenas cubs fighting about who was going to play the mighty lion in their pretend game. When she finally gets the part her inconsistency allows her to look more like the cowardly lion. “I ah, ah I’m telling mommy you called me an asshole,” she mumbles, after her aggressive attempt has failed. The hyena retreats to her prairie bush to regroup. She thinks but lacks the mental capacity to compose a logical plan. She decides she is left with nothing but her dignity and wanders off to her bedroom.
Walking briskly past me she bobs her head to illustrate that she has surrendered to the rules of natural selection. Relentlessness lingered through her veins during her swift journey towards her single dog pack. She decides in her last attempt to glory to get her last word in. The encryption is not quite transmitted through her brain where it is filtered. Instead it is transported to her hands; it is absorbed and triggers her last attempt for redemption. As queen of the jungle my guard is never in intermission. I quickly catch the air born claw and bring it to an abrupt stop. Of course she will not surrender to my attentiveness. She wrestles to break free from my wrath with no hope of succeeding. I penetrate five right hooks to her stretch mark tattooed side and the wrestling match is over. Over the course of the match the word in which she tried to murmur finds its way out her tangled maze of a brain. “Bitch,” she bellows out in fear and proceeds in her final retreat to her cave.
This was a recurring episode which concluded in every occasion in that similar way. After many years of this nonsense I still don’t comprehend the willingness to continuously challenge my authority over her. She is in a constant search for victory over my superiority. In doing this she is denying herself the pleasures of peace and happiness. Vanessa will never in this life time wake up and find herself four years older than me.
Now with more experience in this dysfunctional relationship I identify as a sisterhood; I find that I don’t exactly hate Vanessa. Hate is a powerful declaration. Sibling rivalry was natural in every household, not exactly as mine, but to some extent. I have never let this war reach dangerous heights of no return. Similarly, we both know when the battle has ended. Vanessa, in a bizarre way, has built my restraints that will assist me in other crucial battles in my life. Hopefully as bad as it gets our maturity will one day kick in and we will unrepentantly fly from our parents nest equipped with the defenses that life has reserved.

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