Sister Story

I remember my sister being odd. In fact, I can’t recall her inspiring any other real memories. Even when I lived at home, she somehow seemed incredibly insubstantial; her presence was only half there, like she wasn’t wholly connected. It sounds dumb, I know, but that’s how it was, or seemed. I never knew what to say to her; she sort of numbed your mind, deflected words, shattered sentences. Sometimes single syllables escaped my tentative lips, but even then I was left with this oppressive – no, that’s not quite it, she was far too flimsy to oppress – I dunno, this sad little feeling of pointlessness, I guess. She wasn’t interested in us, in people. I never once made eye contact with her. She had an unnerving way of gazing always into an elusive middle distance. Now that I’m trying to recall her, I can’t get her in focus – but I don’t think it’s just a memory thing – she was just, well, blurry.

So as you can probably imagine, she existed (in her own half hearted fashion) within the house, amongst us, but not actually with us. Yeah, she was a very floaty sort of girl, waif, ghoul; whatever. As far I as could tell, this didn’t seem to bother our parents, and I, predictably, was far too involved in my own trite teenage misadventures to concern myself with a younger and somewhat wimpy sibling. Bear in mind that these were those magical, agonising, tender years of stolen cider, shy girls with sweet secrets and soft sweaters, and videotapes of trashy horror flicks, passed around like porno. Ah yes, those furtive glances, that tentative graze of a budding breast, the way that girl with the oddly beguiling birthmark slyly – and oh so suggestively – let her little finger teasingly, torturously, flicker along my own. You remember the first one? Of course you do. My heart has never beaten so fast as the first time my fingers slowly; so, so slowly, crept along a faux-leather sofa towards the trembling hand (how soft it was!) of the first girl I dared to touch one fateful evening. I even remember her name - Beth - ah yes. Those awkward yet delicious moments before we explored each other’s lips (more trembling on her part, I loved her for that, the way it made me feel). I’ve never felt as achingly aroused with any other girl. The first is something to be savoured; it slips away so heartlessly, that feeling. Every girl I’ve ever fucked has wilted in the shadow of that first, childish kiss; the anticipation; her finger stroking mine, testing me.

Again, I’ve lost track. What can I do? The past is so much more compelling. That sweetly sorrowful throb of all that is lost; it beats below everything. But yes, the child, the sibling. Let’s talk some more about her.

This sister of mine, she did have friends, of sorts. Kids would run around the house, making the noise she couldn’t be bothered to make herself. Perhaps she was never impassioned, or maybe she deigned herself to be above it all. I still know nothing about her. Sometimes she ran with them, immersed in strange games with rules and strategies I couldn’t decipher.

The sight of those kids, their solemn little faces during these games; it really was quite chilling when they got into the zone. Other times my sister could be found elsewhere, lost in quiet detachment, reading a book, or scribbling on paving stones (she loved crayons, assuming she loved at all). As she aged, her friends became quieter, and once at an age deemed suitably independent, their games took them outside. God only knows what they did with themselves. Once she came back with what looked like frogspawn mashed into her hair. Later, during one of my infrequent raids, I discovered a baby vole wrapped in cling film, eyes glazed and bulging. She loved (that assumption, again) dead things. Birds especially. I think it was their wings, those tiny bones. When she and her disciples came across one such unfortunate creature they often held elaborate funeral proceedings, very formal, my sister poised and perfect.

As adolescence approached, these little games and rituals either faded into shameful obscurity or took place out of sight. Dear sister took her tentative first steps into a world more familiar to me, but of course, being the way she was, her own path was likely to have been twisted into something beyond, below, or just to one side of the territory in which my own adventures subsisted. Even now, I cannot fathom, cannot even begin – was she really a child of the odd, held captive by unseen spectres? Or was she simply, embarrassingly, afraid of normality, of the banal existence the rest of us drones subscribed to, unthinking, unquestioning. Truth be told, I didn’t pay much attention to her, she didn’t demand it.

There were boys. Girls too, but sadly, from my skewed perspective, their visits were far too infrequent. She showed no sign of enjoying these girly interludes. They’d giggle, paint their faces in ludicrous rainbows of eye shadow, glitter, lipstick. Sister remained decidedly unimpressed by the whole spectacle. The girls, vapid as they are at such an undemanding age, were impressively oblivious to her indifference. Male guests were a very sedate affair. They shuffled along hallways, glaring at the floor, at a lampshade; always uncertain, forever ashamed. I think they were scared of her, and yet unwittingly enchanted. Weird chicks often have this effect; I speak from experience, of course. I like to think I’ve outgrown them, but they skulk about, waiting oh so patiently to entice me. That girl from the gallery is evidence enough (did I tell you about her? Not remotely comfortable in her skin, so damn fidgety, but I put that nervous energy to good use). I wonder if I’ll wonder about her, after, like with some of the others I try to feel nostalgic about when I fancy a romantic wank.

But yes, the sibling; is it creepy that I keep getting sidetracked by amorous misdeeds? There really aren’t any grounds for such associations. Ah yes, the boys; that’s why. I almost wondered what the parents thought of those sheepish suitors, each gracing our house never more than once or twice. Our parents weren’t the type to get themselves all invested in their kids (I’ve always assumed we were both accidents), but I do remember occasionally being struck by my own little curious questions. Was she a slut? Fickle? Were they all just friends? Or failed romances? Because I didn’t know her, I had no way of discerning whether she remained unmoved by this sad turnover, or if her heart broke just a little bit more with every dismissal. And who dismissed who? Were words even spoken? The idea of asking her was so preposterous it never even entered my mind. It was so much easier to bask (or in fleeting moments of gloom, I might have been moved to wallow) in my own self-obsession. I was fifteen, don’t forget that.

There was one chap I took a shine to, in my own way. He carried himself with an almost convincing air of assured confidence, understated, maybe even verging on zen. Like me, but with a less masterful array of would-be stubble. I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, but his trainers were cooler than mine; just the right amount of scuff, like they were something he’d always worn and were just an extension of his façade, following on beautifully from the not-too-frayed hems of his jeans. One morning, I found him alone in the kitchen. God only knows where the sibling was. In the shower, soaping away her shame? Out to fetch some milk, return a library book? I’d never had one of her suitors caught captive like this before; surely this was an opportunity to glean some scraps of insight about the girl. Ah, so many questions scuttled around in the front of my mind, but for his sake I decided to keep it simple.

‘Hungry?’, I inquired, nodding in the direction of the toaster, as if to offer my bread heating services. I had no intention of making him some, but felt weird about offering a kid coffee.

‘No, thanks.’ He replied, respecting my two syllable approach. I set about preparing coffee; mother didn’t touch the stuff, and father only ever made enough to fill his peppy little flask he nursed on the 6:18 intercity. I turned my back to the kid whilst I ambled around in a productive but nonchalant manner, gathering filters, ground goodness, my mug of choice, and depositing them in the vicinity of the coffee maker. Once everything was in place and the right combination of buttons had been depressed, I turned around and found him still sat at the table, gazing at an empty glass, an expression on his face that suggested semi-intriguing thoughts may lurk beneath; possibly about the latest piece of deviant tape-joy and how best to obtain a copy.

I was on my way outside, as per my coffee making ritual, my left hand already reaching into my pocket. The kid follows me, eyes locked on my fingers as I fashioned two glorious cylinders of tar; morning makes them extra tasty. We settled on the back step, looking out into the tangle of weeds and assorted ornamental critters mother had installed by way of adding to the negligible ambience of the place. I lit one my mini masterworks, then took a moment to suck in something delicious and dirty before making reference to his acquaintance with my sibling.

‘Yeah’, he sighed. ‘She’s…’ - and then he did what everyone else did when trying to talk about her, just trailed off, gave up. I told you no one really got her. After that we pretty much just sat in silence, drinking in more of the delightful garden scenery and waiting for our roll-ups to whittle down to discardable stubs. I stepped back into the kitchen to pour myself some coffee, leaving him to muse away at leisure.

A couple of days later it was a new guy, but I don’t remember much about him other than he didn’t inspire me to offer him anything in the way of morning chit chat. At the time I think I was making decent headway with Beth (oh yes, that Beth, the only Beth) and so was even more caught up in my own scheming than usual. My sister carried on as usual (or unusual, depending on your interpretation) and I guess I didn’t spare any thought for my young sibling, or the future.

And then, just like Kaiser Söze – poof – she was gone.

Okay, so that was perhaps a tad insensitive, but hey, it was a long time ago, and (maybe this is worse) it wasn’t a big drama. Like I said, she was only a spectral presence at best. It was difficult to care about her; I didn’t think of her as a real person. Harsh, but that’s how it was. Same for my parents – in fact, I think it was a relief for them. Not many people go for ghosts. Especially ones you have to feed and all that. I don’t think she was taken, murdered or anything dramatic. I think she just left. God knows where to or what she could have done with herself. In my mind, she’s very much past tense, but I dunno if I reckon she’s actually dead. Suicide was a definite possibility though, I guess. She never struck me as being remotely happy, but who am I to guess? She could have been basking in her own notion of nirvana. Or choking on maddening despair; either was possible.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling lonely and sorry for myself, I kind of wish I’d found a way to have gotten to know her better (well, at all). Or at least have tried. Maybe we shared some common psychological glitch - hell, she could have offered insight, hinted at meaning, thrown out cryptic clues about life and death. I like to think she had all sorts of answers buzzing around that impenetrable mind. She was either incredibly deep or incredibly vacant, that much I can fathom. Which, I’ll admit, is just a fancy way of saying nothing.

Other times I like to imagine little scenarios as found in wholesome book fare. Like maybe I’ll be sitting in some dank bar in Bangkok, watching mosquitoes drown in tepid beer, when I look up – or maybe down – and see some familiar trainers. Not the same ones that used to tread around my childhood house, but worn with the same understated flair. At this point I’ll look up, old, jaded, and stunningly sexy, and behold the slightly less careworn face of kitchen boy. We will acknowledge each other’s presence with a manly nod, and then return to our respective gloom. Later, one of us shall discover that our tab has already been paid. Probably whichever one of us leaves last. Probably me.

So yeah, on those rare occasions when a girl starts to get that bored look in her eyes, and when our intoxicant of choice is running low, I tell her about my sister. It’s a pretty clichéd sort of tale, I know, but it sure as hell does the trick. I also have a good one about a dead girlfriend. That one’s for special occasions.