Trigger warning: child abuse

My sister was always my favorite person.

She was a beam of light in my life. Lying underneath the covers, she would hug me and tell me stories of a better world. She’d laugh and smile her infectious grin while we hid in the closet. Winking, she’d cover my ears so I wouldn’t hear the horror of my mother’s pain. As the piercing sound of shattering glass filled the apartment, she would point out how the fragments looked like fairy dust. As I looked closer at the iridescent glow of the glass, mixed with a burgundy red, I thought she was right.

As we grew older, she could no longer hide me from the truth. Side by side, we would sit leaning against the door and whisper jokes to each other. We’d share our favorite songs of the week and blast them as loud as we could in our cheap earbuds. Drowning in the thrumming beat and the airy melody, we would stare at the time-worn plaster and dare to dream.

Eventually, my sister hit 18 years old. I still remember the heart-rending pain as she told me she’d be moving out. ‘I’ll save up money and I’ll buy us a great apartment’, she promised. ‘I’ll visit often,’ she swore. I didn’t believe a single word.

She’d be leaving me behind, getting a chance at a brighter life. Without me.

In that moment I hated her more than I did anyone else. Not my mother, who was too weak to protect us. Not my father, who’d made my life a living hell. It was my sister, bright as fairy dust, as ethereal and vibrant as the world’s greatest song. It was my sister, who’d given me hope.

It was my sister, who’d taken it all away.

Before she left, she’d pressed something into my hand. Her eyes filled with tears and she hugged me tight, but I stood still as stone. I couldn’t be happy for her. As she looked back I’m sure she saw me standing there, our parents behind me. She was leaving me there, in the darkness and the grime and the misery.

All alone.

Later, in my room, I sat leaning against the door. The only music I could hear was a rhythmic thumping, and the shrill voice of my mom screaming her misery. My father couldn’t even be heard over the racket. Unclenching my fist, I saw the crumpled little booklet my sister gave me.

I flipped through it and saw hand-drawn picture of both of us. Dozens of memories of us together, always together, smiling and crying and hugging each other tight. A couple Polaroids were stuck at the back, of us sticking our tongues out and grinning in joy.

I felt an overwhelming desire to rip it all apart. A deluge of despair almost washed me away, but I couldn’t do it. I clutched the booklet to my chest, and sobbed and sobbed. The tears fell like tiny crystals, staining the low-quality paper, and I turned my face away and cried into my elbow instead.

I carried the booklet with me everywhere, hiding it from my father’s snooping and keeping it close when kids sneered and picked apart my bag. I whispered words of affection to it and sometimes, screamed and cried while holding it tight. Years passed and yet here I was, still a scared little girl with only one treasured belonging.

Those years flew past me and I never saw my sister again. I saw her once, in a newspaper, looking better than she’d ever had.

And here I was, 18 years old. Still broken and shattered, brittle and fragile as shattered glass. I couldn’t see the fairy dust anymore. Just the alcohol and the blood, the instrument of hurt. The music played too loud to drown out the misery.

Here I was.

All alone.