– Jaleasha Ruth

“Ellen Carpenter, you are a bitch. You are the scum of the Earth, and I pray that you burn in hell!” she said, smashing another one of the miniature, crystal figures she’d spent more than half of her 26 years collecting against the cream colored walls, as if they were the ones she was angry with. She threw an angel this time; it kneeled unsuspecting on a clear crystal cloud with its head positioned against pressed-together fingertips, sending a silent message to God. The angel veered to the left and flew straight into the wall, leaving another pile of crystal fragments like several of its figurine brethren had before it.

I stared at the tiny rainbows each one created as the sun coming in from the large living room windows reflected onto their broken bodies sprinkled across the floor. The battlefield between us was littered with pieces of figurines that had taken flight across the room and either landed safely somewhere, their impact cushioned by the carpet, or hit the wall behind me and shattered effortlessly.

I couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty as she screamed at me. But what was I supposed to do? Apologize? I’m not very good with apologies. I usually just buy cards to say most things: “I miss you,” “I love you,” “Congratulations.” But I’m sure there’s no greeting card, no matter how heartfelt the message, how fancy the lettering, or how catchy the tune, to sincerely express just how sorry I want to feel.

I’d never heard Liz scream before. She was fuming; her usually perfectly-placed dark brown hair bun was a nest atop her head, eyeliner left its trail down her cheek, her green eyes, my own green eyes, surrounded by a clashing faint red, reminded me of Christmas.

“Look, Liz. Don’t be upset. It’s okay.”

“How is this okay?” This was the first time she talked to me as if I was in the room, instead of screaming to the heavens.

“Well—” I couldn’t think of anything. So I stood there, cherry-painted lips agate, wishing the right, or any, words would come out.

She just let out a frustrated yell—I was not the only one at a loss for words—and wound up her arm for another shot. This time a dolphin amid clear cresting waves hit me in the nose. I swore I heard something crack before I felt warm blood dripping into my mouth and watched some of it make its way onto the carpet. There must have been a point in our lives where I stopped paying attention; my sister’s previously weak, waifish frame was throwing figures with the force of a body three times her size. I used to be the burly sister; there was a time when I pushed Liz around. But somewhere along the way the dynamic switched, and I was the one cowering behind a shield of my own hands.

“Elizabeth!” I yelled, alarmed at the mess coming from my face. “What is wrong with you?”

“You, Ellen!” I thought she was about to pop. Her face red, plucked eyebrows huddled together, lips tight, pink and pursed, almost to the point of being invisible, she shot another figure as I thought about whether or not I should rip off the bottom of myfavorite AC/DC shirt to cover my face. The shirt went really well with a pair of jeans I had stolen from an ex-boyfriend of mine that were comfortable and worn in all the right places.

The next figure hit the side of my forehead and threw me off my balance, sending me into the wall. Elizabeth stood across the room, holding a figurine in each hand this time, but as my eyes watered, I couldn’t tell which ones they were. She brought her right hand up, and as she threw her arm back, I ducked down and curled into a ball. I heard glass shattering above me and could feel several shards dropping on top of me, poking any piece of skin not shielded by my clothing.

“Oh my God,” I said, not really sure what to do.

“You can get up. I wasn’t aiming for you this time.” I slowly brought my head up, eyes still half closed, and looked above me to see the shattered glass of her 20×24 wedding photo. Standing there in her off-white wedding dress (handed down to her from our mother), smiling with each and every one of her teeth, and clasping the hands of the man she swore she’d love forever, Elizabeth had never looked more natural.

I pushed myself up from the floor and could feel tiny pieces of glass poking my palms. I looked around for Elizabeth, but she was nowhere in sight. I started to walk toward the door, but I could hear her behind me. I turned around quickly—my face covered—to see her standing there with a bottle of alcohol, a box of band-aids, and a handful of tissues.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“For your wounds, now sit down.” I was understandably unsure as to whether or not I could trust her; maybe she’d have another fit of anger and pour the bottle of alcohol down my throat, whilst straining her vocal chords in a seemingly tribal scream. But part of me felt like I deserved as much, so I sat down.

“Are you done hurting me now?”

“Just long enough to stop you from bleeding on my carpet. I should’ve come over to your house.” I laughed, but she still had a very serious, very angry look on her face. She dabbed alcohol on my forehead, and put a tissue to my nose. I flinched feeling ten again, telling Nurse Angela that my knee didn’t hurt anymore, so she wouldn’t hit me with a second round of alcohol. Elizabeth took a deep breath. Slightly more relaxed she said, “Tell me why.

“Why what?”

“Okay. Maybe the dolphin to the head really messed you up.” This time she was the one who laughed; but quicker than her smile came, it was gone again. “Why Matthew? Why not someone, anyone else?” I shrugged my shoulders. She slapped me. The sound of her hand striking my cheek echoed in the empty apartment.

“Fuc—I really don’t know. It just happened.”

“Things like this don’t just happen. Did you plan it?”

“We never had time to plan anything, it really just happened.

The first time was a little awkward, but it got easier.”

“It happened more than once?” She raised her eyebrow and took the hand she was using to keep my head tilted back and my blood from tainting her couch, to grab my hair and yank my face to hers.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I swear, Liz.” I could feel her breathing warm and heavy on my face. “I love you, like a sister.” I smiled weakly. She didn’t smile back.

“I hate you, Ellen.”

“How could you?”

“I could give you a list of reasons—I hate you because you’re selfish, you’re rude, you’re irresponsible—I hate you because for some crazy reason you felt the need to ruin my life. I think you’ve done more than enough to establish yourself as the
“wild child” — you don’t need to prove it to me.” It was hard to believe that the unsturdy, frazzled mess of a woman that sat before me was the same one whose never-ending legs and coma-inducing sweetness unknowingly stole away my prom date just five years ago.

“I’m sorry, Liz.” The words spilled from my lips with a hesitation.

I’d never known before; I had less trouble telling her husband all the things I could for him that Liz wouldn’t. Her eyes started to cloud up with tears again; I knew I had said the right thing.

“Did that make you feel good?” she said. I wasn’t sure about her tone, but that had to be what she wanted to hear. How could she not want an apology? I nodded, moving her hand up and down along with my head. “Great, I’m glad you feel better,” she said letting go of my hair. I could see my own greasy brown strands woven between her shaking fingers as she walked away from me. I folded over, my head against my knees, and sighed. I thought I would cry; but all I could do was breathe. It was during this brief moment of calm that I heard a click, and felt the short barrel of my semi-automatic pistol on the back of my head.