She had been dropped off the year before.
I had been 4. She was 6.
She had been gone since before I was born.
Being abused.
Now she was back.
Instructions for her were – keep me away from other kids.
The safety of the secrets was more important than life.
She hated me.
She focused on her task and found me a wonderful solution for her need to act out.
Daytime was hard, in different ways than night time.
Hard, hard.
At night when we were sold we had to perform. Then we were chosen. All of us knew that if we were one of the first ones picked, it would be an easier night. So among all the little girls it was cutthroat to be sold first.

I guess the ones that paid more took extra care.
I remember one night. It was me. I was picked first.
My sister, that night, was one of the last ones picked.
Abuse. I just shut down. More abuse. I grew so hollow I got cold. More abuse. I became blank.
And the night was over.
But back home, my sister was mad.
Really mad.
Because of me, she said.
That night and her pain was because of me. It was me that made her get picked last. She was furious.
7 year old fury.
Demon amplified rage.
I had gone from one bad to another and I wasn’t prepared.
She was so mad.
She seethed. She told me she was going to show me what it was like for her.
She took some sticks and broke them in half.
She shoved them in my rear and twisted. It felt like they were side ways and it hurt so bad I couldn’t breathe.
She kept saying it was my fault and she kept hurt me with sticks.
She said the splinters would infect me and I would die. She prayed I would die.
I finally managed to shut down again.
The pain receded to waves that came forward every so often.
I don’t want a sister.
The idea formed like an inception. It grew and gained hold.
It became a litany that I used when the pain came.
I don’t want a sister, I don’t want a sister.
The next day I told mom. I told her I didn’t want a sister.
I also told her I hurt.
She gave me an enema. It hurt more. Days. it hurt.
She said my sister didn’t have any choice, how she was. It wasn’t her fault.
I didn’t want a sister.
She said I had to make do.
Looking back I see I assumed she knew about the selling and the sticks. She always said I knew her thoughts and I assumed she knew mine.
It became my magical prayer.
I prayed it alot.
God please take away my sister.
I don’t want a sister.
Holding the hate in place. And enabling me to keep shutting down.