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A sick child.
That was what I was, A child worth giving up on, because I wouldn’t amount to anything in the near future other than a casket, mourning and grief. I often overheard others giving my parents advice, to let me rot in bed without any love, instead feed me handfuls of medicine, and if they were bold they would say poison, so their suffering could end faster. They would whisper in their ears to not get attached to me, all that would do is ruin them further when the inevitable comes. I would listen to everything from the thin walls of my enclosure. Nothing escapes, not a single detail. I hear it, the slight quiver of my mother’s voice, that eventually turns into enraged yells, but when the door closes it simmers down into nothing. She’s always contemplating their advice, I see it on her face, I see the mixture of hatred and love in her eyes when she stares at me, her hugs are hesitant, loose, and she doesn’t come around anymore nor does the family doctor.
She’s always contemplating their advice, I think the difference this time is she’s actually taking up the offer.
It’s a couple days before my fourth birthday. My mother had tried feeding me unknown liquid medicine. I saw the bottle, the bottle had no prescription label. I didn’t like the churning feeling in my stomach, watching as it crumpled in itself. I didn’t like how I couldn’t trust my mother anymore. I love her, I still love her dearly. I love my mother. She’s the nicest person, she was the nicest person, so why is she giving me this? I don’t know. I’m taking a toll on her, that’s all, she’ll be back to normal when I’m gone right?
I didn’t take the liquid from her. I watched as her face morphed into bitter disappointment before leaving.
I often would stare at the ceiling with hopelessness and jealousy. Jealousy on how my brother could go outside, how I’m being punished for whatever crime I committed unknowingly to be put in this cage of misery. To watch an exact replica living the life I deserve. The life I’ve wanted and should’ve had. I hate it. I hate how envy swirls in my stomach, I hate how inviting it is, whispering sweet nothings that seem too true, tempting me to hate him further, opening its curtains to let me walk deeper into this rabbit hole. Deeper and deeper, until I can’t get out.
I’m afraid that by the time I’ve fully rotted into my bed, decay and maggots swarming and infecting my already weakened organs, with a few blinks of my eyes left, I’d still hate my brother. I’d die knowing I hated him not just to the extent of sibling hatred but further. To the extent of hating a stranger. It may seem unreasonable, but there are just so many unnecessary reasons to hate him. Too many that it becomes easy to hate him, to not hold any love for him. Because he’s a stranger.
Sometimes he feels like a stranger more than other times, that’s when this feeling of hatred hits the hardest, but when he comes in my room with a book for me to read to him, it all melts pitifully into shame and anger directed at myself. How could I even hate the person who's been by my side ever since I was born? I was sick. A sick child. And I’m not talking just about physically.
“I’ll fulfill your wish!”
I’m sorry for hating you, I’m sorry but this feeling won't go away for some reason. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Sometimes I wish he didn’t fulfill my wish. Because my wish didn’t change anything, it still feels lonely, and I still hate my brother.
Sometimes I wish I could’ve died at the age of four.
I wish I could’ve died having love to spare in my used up, ragged, and sick body.