The Dreamer ✓

Letter 04

NO. 4 ;   A LETTER TO YOUR SIBLING

DECEMBER 19th, 2013

Dear Evelyn,

You've always been so perfect. You've always been so loved. Evelyn Jones. The Queen of Burbank School. I've always thought of you as the 'better' version of me.

The older, prettier, funnier and more loved version. Because, come on, with a name as beautiful Evelyn Jones and a face as beautiful yours, who wouldn't fall in love with you? You're only a year older than me and yet you act as if you're in your twenties. You treat me like I'm a three-year-old who doesn't understand anything.

When I first started in Year Seven at Burbank, I was really excited. I was so hyped because I'd finally left primary school and I was in secondary school. I'd heard tales of what happened there. I'd seen the movies, I'd read the books. You grow breasts, make friends, meet boys, fall in love, get a boyfriend, go to parties, etc.  Secondary school is apparently supposed to the best times of your life.

God. I hope that's not true. 

If I'm being honest, secondary school was mediocre at best. Sure, I did friends, I did meet boys but the partying and the dating bit? Didn't happen for me. As you know (you made comments about it to your mates) I spent my evenings and weekends, locked  in my room either reading (The Hunger Games, whoop-whoop), on YouTube, or surfing Tumblr.

Whilst you, oh dear sister, spent your free time going out, either partying, making out with your boyfriends (yes, plural) or bitching about someone who was supposedly your friend. At times you would come back home at one in the morning, dirty and completely wasted and I would hide you, make sure neither Dad nor Jasmin saw you in such a drunken state. Every time, I held your hair as you puked in the toilet. Every time I cleaned you up. Every time I hugged you as cried over whichever boy had broken your heart. And the next day, you would act like you didn't remember or didn't care about it.

From Year Seven to Year Ten, I was referred to as Evelyn's Sister. It was only in Year Eleven when I nearly burnt down one of the Food Tech rooms that I got a new moniker. I was The Girl Who Nearly Burnt the School Down. Which is so much better, much more freeing than being called Evelyn's Sister'. From then on, my connection to you was only by blood and the passing glances we gave each other in the corridors on our way to our next class.

It's another Friday night and I'm in my bedroom as I write this. Guess where you are? That's right, you're at Christine Wellington's Christmas party. Everybody, who is anybody in sixth form is at her party. Good to know that I fit in the 'nobody' category. I swear if you come back at some Godforsaken hour, drunk out of your mind I will not help you. I will just leave you there, and let Jasmin or Dad see what their perfect Evelyn is up to.

You know, you're not as perfect and as collected as everybody thinks you are. Deep down, you are as ugly and twisted as me. You and I, we've had our fair share of fights over these years, show me siblings who don't fight and I'll give you a million pounds.There was this one fight, the fight that started from something trivial, the fight that cut the deepest.

About three months ago, you and I got into argument. I was sitting in the living room, reading an article on the Guardian about the latest Captain America film, when you stormed in, demanding that I give you the money I owed you because you were going out with your latest boyfriend.

"I can't," I told you, "I'm skint."

"It's been two months, Morgana," you frowned, "I want my money, I need it to buy a new top."