On the edge of her bed, my sister speaks to the room's pale pink walls like some Egyptian princess.

I listen to her. Like some Egyptian princess’s servant. And my eyes roll around.

My sister examines her hot pink fingernails. She says, “They say that every woman marries her father.” Her hands pressed against her thighs, she says, “They say that every woman turns into her mother.” Biting her bottom lip, playing with her hair, acting more and more like a high school girl, she says, “I, like, totally wonder when he's going to propose…”

She will never ever turn into our mother. She will probably marry our father. She agrees with me; surprisingly, we see eye-to-eye on most things about her future.

The floor of her bedroom is covered with stuffed animals. The ceiling of her bedroom is star-studded. I have spent most of my life in her bedroom, usually on my knees, among the animals, looking for something new and scary and impossible to understand.

“But what about me? What about brothers? What about them?” I want to know about brothers. I am too embarrassed to ask my sister many questions. My questions are stupid. The words don’t come out right. They are barely words.

My face is dry. My hands are clammy. My nose hurts. My ribs are sore. My sister is powerful.

She’s a strapping blonde goddess with an anger issue. She knows my weaknesses, every single one, and shows no mercy.

Check out her bare hands wrapped around my wimpy throat.

I sleep down the hall. I sleep in the cold living room. I sleep on the hard floor. The floor is in bad shape. The living room is in bad shape. The kitchen is in bad shape; the cabinets are punched in, the refrigerator is overstocked with expired food. Our house—a snake pit, harshly amplified—is in bad shape. I am the warmest person in the house. Many spiders relax around the house. The spiders love me. I am lower than the lowest around, trust me.

I’m a full blown sissy. Things will get worse before they get better. Things will only get worse, things will never get better.

“I don’t know anything about brothers. I only know about you,” my sister responds.

She leaves the room and returns a moment later, dumping a basket of clean laundry on her bed.

My sister has a point: She doesn’t know anything about brothers, she only knows me. She can change the world. She can pause waves.

She should call an ambulance: My heart is stopping on her bedroom floor.

Our mouths are orange in her bedroom. From the Orange Crush we purchased with loose change at Kmart. Our hearts are soaked orange, too. I have it worse than my sister. I don't think I'm going to live much longer. I think I’m at the end of my life. I feel ugly and dirty, underweight and effeminate. This could last a lifetime.

But, this afternoon. We're just talking, folding laundry. This could take forever. It makes no difference to me. I'm floating through heaven right now. I love her in every loving way.

I live with my crush. She needs all the love I have. The spiders love her too.

I’ve always wanted to nickname her. I’ve always wanted her to nickname me.

Our father is probably attending his weekly Cocaine Anonymous meeting right now. He splits his time between Cocaine Anonymous and Sexaholics Anonymous. He splits my sister, too.

He strips her bare. He loves her all up.

He separates my shoulders. He opens my veins. He gouges out my eyes.

I frown. I cry. I have an active fantasy life. I am near age fifteen.

My sister is near age eighteen. My sister is a giant, metaphorically and literally. I’m a midget, emotionally and almost literally. Our father hurts giants. Our father hurts midgets.

He’s the sickest sick in the head I’ve ever seen. But I really can't be talking. I’m sick, too. I woke up with a mean summer cold. I got blisters the shape of Africa all over me. I got human bite marks on my arms and legs. I got dandruff in my hair and sleepy stuff in my eyes and a big-ass pimple on my cheek and hate in my heart and everything sucks.

My knuckles are itchy. My scalp is burning up. My throat is sore. My stomach aches. There are little people inside me. They jump up and down and have fun. They cut me up. It’s a factory.

Our father says he's well within his rights.

He says my sister is “sexy ugly.” He says he’s a gynecologist, but he’s joking. He also jokes about tearing my sister a new asshole.

Now it goes without saying, but we—father and son—have absolutely nothing in common.

My sister—what a dark sense of humor—jokes about homicide followed by suicide.

Our father—a human with a pulse—has a first, middle, and last name.

He thinks we’re trampolines, rag dolls, things he can use—again, again, again. His way is his way. His hate is the quickest hate in the world. He calls me names. He enjoys ethnic slurs. He breaks everything he sees. He walks around the house naked. He shoots cocaine into his bloodstream. He’s a connoisseur who rejects sobriety. He appreciates the community at Cocaine Anonymous and Sexaholics Anonymous. He relishes the anonymity. He’s quick on his feet, chilled to the bone, perfectly cold-blooded. He could run an orphanage. You’ll read about him in the newspaper, eventually.

One look deep into my sister’s eyes—it’s obvious she needs me. Her eyes, greener than green, the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I love looking at her. I give her my everything. There’s nothing else. I have never wanted to pull my sister’s pigtails. She would never let me get away with that. She would finish me—could be worse than yesterday.

And, it’s funny, because our father finished our mother a long time ago. But, don’t worry, my sister will never turn into our mother. And, looking down the barrel of a kitchen knife, just centimeters away from my heavy eyes, I’m wondering what I’m doing tonight.

Our mother is a total whale. She is no Egyptian queen. She lives outside. She sleeps in public gardens. She belongs to the streets. She is surrounded by crime, disease, hookers.

Not to mention gutter drugs. She’s surrounded by gutter drugs. They cover her like a quilt. She also wears spider bites. She doesn't pay taxes. She can’t afford toothpaste. She eats whatever she can get her hands on. And, what does she dream about? But, what, exactly, does she eat? My sister and I enjoy pasta—our comfort food.

Really doesn't matter. Life is rough. Feel like a girl.

When I was younger, I suffered the fiercest stutter. My stutter made horses stop horsing. My stutter made grown men curl up. My stutter turned me into the young man I am today. But there are some good things happening here, inside our house, every day. My sister and I get to know each other better. It is a healthy relationship. Our days are calm, relaxing, and I’m lying. We quit trying to hide from you-know-who a long time ago. We quit screaming, too.

My sister, the biggest liar, says she never screamed—can you believe this? She says I was the only screamer, hider. That's not fair. I was there, Liar. Such an incredible lie, but you know I keep my mouth shut, shut, shut.

She can be as mean as he; if she just screamed for me every once in a while, I would appreciate that. I am the only one who complains. She never complains about him, the house, the state of things. We require a more qualified father, but my sister doesn’t care. This is a grave situation, but my sister says this is an unsituation. My sister says our mother is the biggest loser in this world. She says our mother got what she deserved.

The bitch got what she deserved.

The cunt got what she deserved.

She licks ass for pennies.

She licks ass for nothing.

She’s infested.

She’s finished.

The end.

Need to get ourselves together. Devise a getaway plan that works. Race car the color of candy in the middle of the night.

Why haven’t I contacted Child Protective Services? She would never speak to me again. She’s told me so, and I believe her.

And I don't want to leave her behind. Much harder to leave someone behind than to leave. And I don’t want to relive my old stutter. Much easier not to discuss my old stutter than to relive it.

Our father still talks about my old stutter. He says my stutter is part of our neighborhood’s history—deal with it, bitch. He treats me like a girl. He’s a competitive person. Our relationship is a competition.

What does our neighborhood think? There’s some competition at that house. But what do they think we deserve? We are surrounded by households that reek of kindness, devotion, love.

Our father is insulted by miracles. I need a miracle, badly. Even a piece of a miracle.

I’m massaging my gums with my index finger and thumb. The sun forms shadows outside my sister’s window. From the corner of my eye I see Mr. Hartman, our next-door neighbor, mowing his lawn. With his shirt off. Mr. Hartman is a muscular firefighter. His abs are on fire. His wife, Mrs. Hartman, is a beautiful math teacher. Mr. Hartman is a good person. Mr. Hartman is an honest person. He does heroic things on a daily basis. His sweat must smell sweet. Today must be his day off?

The lawn mower gets louder and quieter, louder and quieter, as he glides across the grass.

I wish the Hartmans would adopt us. They are childless. What are they waiting for?

Adopt us! Been waiting so long! You’re completely childless! Selfish freaks!

We live on a cul-de-sac. The beach is down the street. Pasta is our comfort food. Our mother is a total whale. Our father despises the Hartmans. He wants to bind, torture, kill the Hartmans.

Our father is not a good person. Our father is not an honest person.

He’s not a firefighter. He doesn’t rake leaves. He doesn't do heroic things on a daily basis. Every day is his day off. He has no retirement plan. He stays in the corner of my other eye. His birthday is near. His birthdays are the worst days. He celebrates his birthdays beyond the fullest extent of the law. He treats me like an ugly, sweaty girl.

This is the worst place. I hate it here. I hope my sister doesn’t marry him.

She criticizes my folding method. She smacks my ribs. She knows where it hurts.

I’ll tell you what happened yesterday in just a moment. Mr. Hartman’s lawn mower goes silent.

“That’s wrong, what you're doing is wrong,” she says.

I am handling her favorite tee shirt.

Pink, sparkly, neverending, plus the day I stop breathing?

It’s over there.






Yesterday, the biggest drug bust of the century went down. The authorities seized tons and tons of drugs and drugs at our next door neighbor’s house. Not the Hartmans’ house—Mr. & Mrs. Bresciani’s place, the house on the left.

Mr. Bresciani? A drug dealer? I guess so. Mrs. Bresciani is a professional hairdresser. As far as I know. Our father and Mr. Bresciani are neighborly with each other. I hope he hasn’t ever gifted my sister to Mr. Bresciani.

In all, seven men were arrested, and there was an awful lot of loud commotion. So my sister and I went to the beach. We never go to the beach; yesterday’s trip felt quite experimental. We sat on the sand, wearing many spider bites, watching the young blonde surfers cancel themselves in the waves.

Wish I was a surfer. Wish I was blonde. With blue eyes. With a nice life.

Yesterday, on the beach, my sister was all smiles.

She says she disagrees with sunblock. She says pregnant women shouldn’t sunbathe. She says she doesn’t want to bring children into this world. She says every man has a breaking point.

The tide was rising. The waves edging closer to our toes. She wore that pink, sparkly tee shirt and cutoff jeans and was smiling hard, and I could see every yellow tooth, and I had to look away.

Something was trying to burst through. The soles of my feet burned. My throat closed. My face twisted. The water reached me. I stood up. I felt like I had lost thousands of pounds. And then: I wasn't afraid of our father. I wasn't thinking about how he hits me when he sees me. I wasn't afraid of my sister. I wasn't thinking about how she hits me when I upset her. I wasn't thinking about her almost superhuman strength. I didn’t feel like a girl anymore.

I walked to the receding foam. It cooled my feet. I thought: My sister says actions have consequences.

I walked back to my sister. I asked her, competing with the waves, “Why are you smiling?”

She giggled at the sand. “Because I have you,” she said.

I couldn’t hold it in. My throat unlocked. My face untwisted. I was shaking, shaking.

I went, “What? What do you mean?” I stood still, looking down at her. “He owns us. We have nothing. He makes me watch,” I said. “We need to run. Right now. Straight from the beach. For the good of our health. This is one of those now-or-never situations.”

I went, “I could murder him two or three thousand times. I could keep killing him. I want to drop thousands of little hammers on him. I want to spray aftershave in his eyes. I want to force feed him sacks of dead flowers. I want to make him chug gallons of dish soap.”

I said, “I am going crazy. I can't take it anymore. You’re almost eighteen. Remember when Mom used to take us to the movies?”

I shouted, “An eternity ago!”

I shouted, “Why are you smiling!?”

I lowered my voice and moved my face closer to hers. Then I dropped a hammer on her. I went, “Sometimes, I worry that you love him back.”

She blushed. A helicopter rumbled over the surf. I couldn't believe her blushing. She still wasn’t putting her hands on me. I had never said things like these before.

Maybe things would get a little better? Could change? Maybe I could say more?

She scratched her forehead. Moved her mouth.

She said, “Look, I have you—and, that's all I'm saying, okay? So, take it easy, alright? I promise to not love him back, whatever, but I’ll never run away. That’s not me. You know that’s not me.”

She said, “You're not going anywhere.”

She said, “You’re going nowhere.”

She said, “You're staying here.”

She said, “Right here.”

Her words were soft and busting and final. Heaviness poured back in. I wanted to rip my throat out with my elephant hands. I faceplanted into the sand.

Our father. His mind is also made up.

Yesterday was gorgeous. The sunshine was strong. The ocean was ferocious. Thousands of violent waves. My sister wasn’t pausing them.

Yesterday, on the beach, we talked for hours. You know when everything is just perfect? Look at me enjoying myself? Look at me convincing myself?

She’s my best friend. There's no competition. Things won’t change.

I was giving in. I couldn't sit still. She's beginning to smell like him. I used to love smelling her, when I got the chance.

Is her belly getting bigger? I’m worried she’s pregnant. What happens then? What happens if she becomes extremely pregnant?

A blonde lifeguard climbed down from the top of the world. It was getting late.

I asked, “Why do you think dad got tired of mom?”

My sister said, “He didn’t get tired. He just got bored.”

I scratched my cheek. “Millions of other guys and you pick him?”

She whaled on me with all her weight. She stood up and pulled me down and punched me in the ribs. She twisted my nipples. She force-fed me fistfuls of sand. She banged my head against the sand. She told me to shut the fuck up.

I was sandy and bloody. The back of my throat is still stopped up with sand. It hurts to sneeze. It hurts to stand up. It hurts to fold laundry. Are my ribs broken?

She hasn’t apologized for the assault, but it doesn’t matter. I forgave her immediately. How could I not?

She can do whatever she wants to me. She could force me to stay, and I would forgive her. She could totally finish me, and I would forgive her.

My forgiving her has always been premature, automatic, but I’ll never forgive him.

He will ask her to marry him.

I've never been to a wedding before. What's expected of me? Probably a small ceremony at the house? Probably going to rock my world? Don’t think either of them have ever felt like they've gone too far? They have that in common.

Yesterday, on the beach, I was free for a few minutes.

If I had a different life, I would marry my sister.

We’ll be happy one day: Just the two of us, not invisible anymore, married. We’ll live and work and have fun in Hollywood. We’ll come into a large sum of money. We’ll smile and laugh and fly private planes and drive luxurious cars. Clean clothes and movie stars around. Sunglasses and the best restaurants. The most incredible orange sodas. A beautiful swimming pool, in our backyard, in heaven.

I’ll carry a booklet of Kleenex in my pocket. For when my sister starts to tear up. About our past.

Across the nation, people will adore us. They’ll be tripping over themselves to marry us. We’ll pray for them every day.






He once carried her to a motel on the edge of town. I was left alone. The age of twelve. Looked the same as now.

While they were gone, I ate a bag of potato chips. While they were gone, I drank a liter of orange soda. While they were gone, I jerked myself off.

When she returned on a Thursday morning, I told my sister that I had been bored. She told me to go fuck myself. She told me she deserved a vacation.

When I was five, our father spent hours teaching me to tie my shoes. When I was six, our father cleaned and bandaged my skinned knee. When I was seven, our father put his arms around our mother on the beach. When I was eight, our father still made the best pasta—but was beginning to vibrate with a special restlessness. A certain abruptness. He’d mostly quit sleeping. You might say his sickness was gradual, progressive.

I will never kill him. My arms are loose, almost nothing. I wish we could sleep alongside our mother in the public gardens. One day, after he’s finally finished with us. That would be a dream come true. Our mother escaped, just didn’t get far. Our father often drives past her. I picture her sad, tired, confused face in my head. He screams at her from the car. He reminds her of their marriage. He reminds her of their old bedroom. He reminds her of what he did to her there.

My sister says, “I disagree with Daddy. I don’t think your face is round and shiny. I don’t think your ears are unsightly. I don’t think your nose is too big. I don’t think your hair is too long. I think you’re just fine.”

I am the world’s most beautiful punching bag. There are many ways to attack me. I am thinking of a number between 0 and 1,000,000,000,000. She’s my favorite thing hands down. She’s the sweetest thing. She’s an organic person. I could lift sugar off her face. I could throw her sugar at our father. I could make him sweeter. If I tried my hardest, I know I could.

He deserves the biggest death penalty. He deserves deadly diseases. He deserves an army of snakes and bugs crawling together, with a mission, under his skin. Our mother deserves the hottest pasta, the bluest toothpaste, a private garden, a fourteen thousand dollar bed. My sister deserves the most sophisticated anger management counseling out there. My sister deserves the best life out there. I don’t know what I deserve. I deserve a kiss.

I grab my sister’s face. I kiss her hard. I love kisses. I love everything about them. I hope she doesn't tell him. Every man has a breaking point. She keeps my wet kiss—for a second—in her mouth. Then, she slaps me—hard, until the end of the week, until the end of time, hard—but I know she loves me, and she always pretends to hate my kisses, and I’ve pulled this stunt before.

In a whoosh, he comes home to us; she skips out her bedroom to greet him.

Later, he’ll chase me with a baseball bat, I’ll break through the glass door with a golf club, and I’ll run toward the highway and flag down a police car.

My life will start over, but I’ll get dragged back.