Sisterly Love

July 23rd, 1990

I’ve become quite accustom to my four year old sister Emily’s cries. Every night around 9pm they never fail to wake me; tonight was no different. By the sound of it I assumed she had wet the bed again.

Her screams were long and torturous, never failing to mellow out in between each shuttering thud of my mother’s fists. Every time her screams lessened, I cringed, for I knew it wasn’t over. But Emily, being the optimistic little four year old girl that she was, didn’t know any better. She mistook each and every pause my mother took to regain strength, as glimpses of hope. She foolishly thought that she might be done with her; that perhaps that punch would be the last. But oh how wrong she was, mother never stops.

I couldn’t blame her though, for I remember thinking the same when I was a child. I remember hoping with every ounce of my heart that my mother had a decent side to her; a nurturing side. But as I grew older I came to realize how ridiculous I was to have hoped for such a thing. Mother was evil, and nothing but evil. Emily would undoubtedly grow to feel the same.
A tear slipped down my cheek as Emily’s screams continued to echo the halls of our two story house. I threw my pillow over my head, as I often did when I could no longer stand her unbearable cries, and tried my best to block it all out. I would wait till it was over.

As I lay there waiting I began to wonder what kind of ungodly punishment Emily would receive this time. Perhaps mother will lock her in the basement, naked; leaving her nothing but the cold cement floor to sleep on. That always seemed to be one of her favorites. Maybe a scolding hot bath would do; for the sores and scares on her body in the morning, would be a sure reminder to Emily of just how naughty wetting the bed really was. Or hell, why not the broomstick? I never understood that one. Mother must think that if she keeps shoving it up her rectum far enough and hard enough that maybe one day she’ll just stop peeing all together. Who knew what sick punishment our insane mother would come up with this time, I sure as hell didn’t. But I knew one thing. I would be there for Emily tonight, as I was every night.

Like always I waited until Mother fell asleep before tip toeing my way across the squeaky hall floor boards and into Emily’s room. I gagged as I approached the door. The smell of human feces was almost unbearable this time, but the love for my baby sister made it impossible for me to turn my back. As I opened the door, and turned on the light, I was surprised to find Emily still in bed.

Usually, if mother was feeling chipper enough to leave her in her own room, Emily would make her way to the floor. She was smart enough to know she shouldn’t sleep in her own urine, and mother never changed her sheets, so the floor was usually what she’d resort to. But for some reason, she hadn’t moved tonight.

She looked horribly uncomfortable this time, and it wasn’t until I took a few steps closer, that I realized why. Mother had bound Emily’s fragile wrists and ankles to each of her four bed posts. She hadn’t secured them with just anything though; she had used barbwire. I could tell it was done prior to the beating, by the grotesque struggle wounds she had on each of her limbs. All of them were bleeding severely, and I couldn’t help but gasp out in fear.

I quickly covered my mouth, and swung around towards the door, shocked that I would allow myself to do something so stupid. My first thought was mother. Had I woke her up? She’d surely KILL me if she found me in here. I paused, and listened quietly for any signs of movement in the house. After I heard nothing, a small chuckle escaped my mouth. Who was I kidding? The JD was sure to have her out by now. Hell, a chain saw to the face couldn’t wake her drunk ass up.

The literal thought of my mother’s face getting ripped open by a chain saw forced another, much louder chuckle out of me, and again my hands flew up over my mouth. Only this time, I wasn’t worried about waking mother up. I was worried about my precious Emily. She had always been such a light sleeper. When I turned around to find that she hadn’t budged an inch my heart sank from my chest. I immediately ran over to her, wrapped my hands behind her head, and lifted her up.
“EMILY! EMILY, WAKE UP!” I shouted, while frantically shaking her body back and forth. She didn’t budge. I checked her mouth and pulse, just like Mr. ‘A’ had taught me in gym class. But still, there was nothing. “EMILY PLEASE” I pleaded. “DON’T LEAVE ME!”

15 years later

My four year old baby sister, Emily died that night. She had apparently taken all that she could from our inhumane mother. Shortly after the realization that she was gone, I took a step back and just looked at her. Despite all the bruises and blood, she still resembled an angel. Her tight golden blonde curls framed her face just right, and the shine from them set her flawless complexion beaming in every direction. She had the smallest of smirks on her face, and if I didn’t know any better I would have thought she was simply sleeping. This is why I never shed a tear.

There was always something I loved about Emily when she slept. Ever since she was born, whenever she slept, I loved to just cuddle up by her and stare. I think it was because sleeping was the only time she was truly happy, even as an infant. She always looked at peace, constantly wearing that little smirk she had on her face the day she died. I knew she was in a better place now, and I was happy for her. I quietly said my good byes, turned around, and crept back to bed.

Not many people knew Emily, but the ones who did weren’t as shocked as you might think one should be when hearing that kind of news. Most of them, particularly the neighbors, had assumptions. They’d see Emily and me running around the area, and when saying hello, they would casually ask about a bruise here and there. Most of them would just shrug it off. I was old enough to realize their suspicions, but Emily probably didn’t even know mother was doing anything wrong. Perhaps that was my fault.

Mother was institutionalized, while I was sent to live with my Grandmother. I’m a grown woman now, and I sometimes think about mom. Believe it or not, I pray for her. I only knew her for 10 years of my life, and don’t get me wrong, I hated her through every second of them. But I think back now and can’t help but wonder what she might have gone through in life to make her the way she was. Maybe she was abused too. Maybe she was even worse off then Emily and me? I’m not sure how to answer these questions, but I do know that I think about her frequently, and I want her to know that I forgive her.

All I can say now is that I hope any of you out there with even the slightest suspicion of child abuse don’t just shrug it off. Don’t try to be your optimistic little selves by turning every bruise and scratch into a ‘boo boo’. Know that these children you see could very well be Emily. They might think that what their parents are doing to them is okay, or maybe even think it’s their fault. Or say they know it’s wrong, like me. But are just too afraid of what peoples reactions might be to speak up. Reach out to these kids, and save them before it’s too late.

DEDICATED TO EMILY BANKS
April 2nd, 1986 – July 23rd, 1990