A Compelling Motive (h.s.)

three

The rain taps upon the window of my sister's apartment, my sister sitting at the table as I cook dinner for the two of us. Since the event, she's mellowed out and despite my urge to hate her, I can't. She's family and I don't enjoy facing her hatred.

"Where did you go that night?" she asks, sipping her coffee.

"I smoked, like always," I say, her groan heard.

"You drive me nuts with that stupid habit. Do you know how bad that makes me look?" she asks, my eyes rolling. Luckily, with my position, she can't see me.

"You can't tell me what to do, no matter how hard you try," I remark, turning to hand her a plate of food. She accepts, beginning to eat.

"I've been meaning to get that book," she says, taking notice to my book in my bag. I have not been able to put it down since I've bought it. A Compelling Motive– the title insinuating its dark plot. It's by an author with a pen name; anonymous but highly appraised. I've never read anything like it, but there are questions I have written in the margins. I'm always writing questions in my books, majority of them answered. However, there are few always remaining unanswered. They are the questions that can't be answered by the plot itself, but questions only an author can answer.

"I find it exhilarating. I have not been able to put it down," I tell her, her fingers grabbing it. She reads the back and I make sure to note her lack of emotion. She doesn't appreciate literature the way I do.

"I'll have to borrow it," she lets me know, and I shrug. I don't like when other borrow my books, simply because I write my views in it. I connect the words to myself, relating the reality to my own. I take my book back and return it back to my bag.

"Do you have plans to see our father when he returns from his trip?" she asks, and I quickly give her a negative response.

"And why not?" she fires back, and I stand up from my chair. My appetite disappears within a mere mention of my father's name.

"He doesn't need to see me. I'm his disappointment, remember?" I explain, the chilling conversation he and I shared months ago never going to disappear from my mind. My sister is the apple of his eye; I'm just a sheer accident. Literally.

"Doesn't mean you can't be a daughter to him," she remarks, and I just package up my leftovers. There is no point in trying to explain. Majority of my words go through one ear and directly out the other. It's always short-term with her; never processed into long-term.

"I will have to let him know. I'm sure he'll love to know one of his daughters care about him," she snidely remarks. It's just enough to tip me over the edge.

"You try living my life and you'll understand why the fuck I can't do that to myself. You are his prized possession and I am living in your shadow; a shadow that is completely unnecessary!" I yell at her, and I grab my jacket and bag.

"You're being a child!" she yells, and I roll my eyes. I open the door and slam it behind me, physically releasing my stress with her. She knows how to push my buttons. My childhood was experiencing her monstrosity and as an adult I can finally stand up against her. She can't give me any grief without my dispute; her frustration always evident. All it is, is to provoke me into recognizing I'm the least in the family. The least compared to all the best.

I reach for my umbrella and walk towards the door, opening it and walking into the open air filled with rain. My apartment is five blocks down and I rush to get there before the thunder starts, but there is more and more lightning. It startles me when a car slows beside me in the street; the sudden fear of being taken growing. I'm going to be tomorrow's headlines if I don't hurry now.