"It was cold out. I remember that. He grabbed me... and shook me like a man shakes a woman in those old movies. He just kept screaming and that's what I wanted. I wanted him to scream, I wanted him to strike me and when I asked why he would say "because I'm damn mad at you!" When you grow up Sam you will understand that that is passion." I was stunned almost moved by the performance my sister created in my head. I wanted to stand and applaud the presentation, but I just nodded and she smoked, her maverick cigarette nearly burning her hand. My sister had a sugared glaze in her eyes starring in thought.
"Isn't life a trip Sam?" I didn't answer her. I couldn't get this episode out of my head. All I asked her was if I could have some of her cheesy balls and she gave me a chapter from a smut novel. Christine was obsessed with her new boyfriend Ted, he was thirty six and dating a teenager. Any sort of question addressed to my sister would trigger a mound of Ted filled verbal diarrhea. I never liked Ted. I think it was his name. TED, where is the romance, I wanted a man named Blaine or Christian. My life would be forever filled with boring names. After her story I retreated to my room. My quarters was decorated in true adolescent fag motif. Trinkets to captivate the eye, shells, glittery trolls, a million bedazzled horses of varying breed ,and young adult novels about lust filled youths adorn my shelves. Out of mothers old dish rags, like some fucked up Fräulein Maria, I patched together curtains and dyed them my favorite color of the time periwinkle. The curtains went quite well with my aubergine comforter; it was a grape blanket.
It was there I reenacted Christine's story with my dolls. I just kept shaking Barbie. "Fuck you Christine! Fuck you! I'm goin' to fuck you!" Shaking the doll imagining the rapture, agony, sex, my sister experienced. Barbie was dull, stiff, and blank. She could never flail the way my sister did. What a cheap imitation I had created. I grew bored, chucked the doll and when to get some more intelligence on the situation. My preteen mind needed more ammunition for my fantasy. Like a teenager looking thru a panty catalogue, I needed some raw materials.
My head peaked around the door way to our mud-room. Christine was dead. Some say her heart just stopped working. She went out with grace. Face down in a bowl of cheese balls. I hope to go that way my self when the time comes. She was in the living room in Mom's recliner watching her prerecorded day time television. She passed without a sound, not a peep! I was 12 and I found her. A look of ecstasy smeared her face.
Christine was my sister and she's dead now. I miss her... I guess. But I don't know what life would be like with her.