Wrists

She continued to watch me, even as I drove her to school. I didn’t want to be in that car—I didn’t want to be in that car at all. She was studying me, horror in her eyes, like she knew what had just happened. And she most likely did. The demons were shouting at me, scolding me for being so careless and letting her follow me , but my sane mind was secretly applauding me for making it so obvious; maybe now she’d notice me and try to help. She didn’t even turn on the radio, or play one of her favorite band CDs this time around. She just sat there, fiddling with her backpack, and watching me from the corner of her eyes.

I was a beast; the beast they tried to hide. The beast who was better off left in a cage for all to stop and stare. They prodded, poked, examined, but never dared to open the cage and let me out. They liked me better silenced—inside—so that they wouldn’t have to deal with taming me. The cage tamed me effortlessly. So forever they’d keep me there.

As I had expected, my sister didn’t dare open the cage and ask me the dreaded and oh so yearned for question. Instead, as soon as I drove up to the school’s carpool circle, she opened the car door and jumped out. She didn’t even say “be careful,” like always. She gave me a good, hard look a look of fear; horror; shame for having a brother so fucked up?, and then closed the car door, walking off to catch up with her friends.

I sped out of the school carpool, parked in a vacant parking lot, leaned over the steering wheel.

And I cried.