Sis
by Wai Mei Wong
It was supposed to be a good afternoon. Sis and I planned to play dolls, pretending to sip fancy tea while gossiping. Instead, I’m on the floor, clutching my doll and trying to distract myself.
The commotion behind me is growing louder. Mama’s been yelling at Sis over some homework. She calls Sis “Miss Slow”, which at first I thought was “Miss Snow”. Each time she shouts, Sis’s cry intensifies. Sis might throw up, but Mama could drag her out of the house before that. Does Sis have her slippers on? I remember the time Sis had to stand outside barefoot until nightfall. I’d stared at the mail slot in the door, thinking about slipping her a pair of socks but was too afraid, even when Mama wasn't looking.
Bang! The ruler hits the desk.
I begin to think about the dusty gap under the bed where only my small body fits. Waiting there, I would watch Mama’s chicken chase unfold. Once Sis had nowhere to run she’d curl herself into a ball, shielding herself from the bamboo stick. She might be told to eat dinner alone on the balcony, in the dark nook piled with old boxes. I hope my courage would be a whole lot greater at that moment, enough for me to pick up my plate and join Sis. Though again, I may remain seated with Mama, rather than risking my skin to be Sis’s companion.
The ordeal will finish soon, I hope.
Just then comes Sis’s loud shrieks. I spin around, then freeze. Pieces of homework lay scattered all over the floor. Sis is sprawled over the table, motionless. Mama’s hand is in the air, the pencil grasped tightly. Mama finally killed her.
Screaming, I rush to shield Sis with my small body. I should’ve said yes to the neighbour the last time she asked if I needed help. I should’ve told the teacher when she asked me about Sis’s bruises. I felt disgusted with myself for choosing silence all these times. Tears rolled down my face.
After Mama slams her bedroom door shut, Sis slowly rises. Swollen dots cover her back. On our bed in the dim light, I help her remove the bits of graphite. I count the days before I can leave this home, bringing Sis with me.
But tonight we’ll stay, fill our stomach with leftovers, and cuddle each other to sleep.
The commotion behind me is growing louder. Mama’s been yelling at Sis over some homework. She calls Sis “Miss Slow”, which at first I thought was “Miss Snow”. Each time she shouts, Sis’s cry intensifies. Sis might throw up, but Mama could drag her out of the house before that. Does Sis have her slippers on? I remember the time Sis had to stand outside barefoot until nightfall. I’d stared at the mail slot in the door, thinking about slipping her a pair of socks but was too afraid, even when Mama wasn't looking.
Bang! The ruler hits the desk.
I begin to think about the dusty gap under the bed where only my small body fits. Waiting there, I would watch Mama’s chicken chase unfold. Once Sis had nowhere to run she’d curl herself into a ball, shielding herself from the bamboo stick. She might be told to eat dinner alone on the balcony, in the dark nook piled with old boxes. I hope my courage would be a whole lot greater at that moment, enough for me to pick up my plate and join Sis. Though again, I may remain seated with Mama, rather than risking my skin to be Sis’s companion.
The ordeal will finish soon, I hope.
Just then comes Sis’s loud shrieks. I spin around, then freeze. Pieces of homework lay scattered all over the floor. Sis is sprawled over the table, motionless. Mama’s hand is in the air, the pencil grasped tightly. Mama finally killed her.
Screaming, I rush to shield Sis with my small body. I should’ve said yes to the neighbour the last time she asked if I needed help. I should’ve told the teacher when she asked me about Sis’s bruises. I felt disgusted with myself for choosing silence all these times. Tears rolled down my face.
After Mama slams her bedroom door shut, Sis slowly rises. Swollen dots cover her back. On our bed in the dim light, I help her remove the bits of graphite. I count the days before I can leave this home, bringing Sis with me.
But tonight we’ll stay, fill our stomach with leftovers, and cuddle each other to sleep.
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Wai Mei Wong is from Hong Kong and now lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband and son. She is a picture book author and enjoys writing flash fiction. When she isn’t writing, you will find her buried behind horror books with her feline, or out for a walk finding wild edibles.
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