Vignettes from My Childhood - "Do I Need to Call an Ambulance?"

    Growing up, my sister Brecken was minorly demonic.  At least that’s what it seemed like. 

    Sure, there were the trivial albeit annoying incidents that were just bothersome enough to irritate but too ridiculous to complain about aloud.  Among these were the numerous Barbie dolls on whose feet she had an inexplicable affinity for chewing, the stupid faces she made behind our parents’ backs, and her habit of locking me out of our shared bathroom on a daily basis.  This is not to say that I did not complain about these habits aloud, only that the complaints sounded ridiculous and petty coming out of my mouth. Even I knew it. 
   
    She kept up her routine of general orneriness on a constant basis to the effect that I was more or less always at an elevated level of annoyance.  I think that I have to thank Brecken in part for the fact that today I am relatively slow to become very angry.  Though I like this about myself, it is a trait that was hard won with years of tears, sweat, and probably even a little bit of blood.

    On those occasions that she did manage to get my blood boiling, those occasions that I threw my passive derision to the wind and attempted to go head to head with her, the outcome was rarely pleasant.  She undoubtedly had the upper hand.  Firstly, she was younger and smaller, which meant that if things ever got physical I was automatically the bully and she the victim no matter what the turn of events leading up to the fighting had been.  Secondly, she used the evil powers that I am sure are imbued to people with huge blue eyes like hers.   

    All people with blue eyes creep me out.  Sorry. 

    Sorry blue eyes are so creepy, that is. 

    I’ll abstain from detailing the events that led up to the middle of this particular fight, primarily because I’ve forgotten them. Even if I hadn’t, they’re irrelevant.  It had gotten to the point where I had taken as much of her hitting, pushing, and pinching as I could without making my own move.  I knew it would be my downfall, but I did it anyway.  I pinched her back. 

    Her only reaction was the sudden devious glimmer in her evil blue eyes.  I stepped back, puzzled. Something was amiss.  What could she be planning?  I knew that something bad was afoot, but I had yet to discover what. 

    I watched with a sinking feeling of cold dread as she stepped back from me.  What was she up to? She slowly lowered herself into a sitting position on the floor, a chillingly creepy smile on her face.  This could not be good. 

    She slowly lowered herself on to her back on the tawny carpet.  Continuing to smile, she arranged her limbs in a splayed formation and settled in.  I watched, utterly confused, as she reached her right hand to her left upper arm and slowly scratched it with all four fingers. 

    Then she started to scream. 

    Oh, hell no.

    My mother came running.

    “What is wrong? What is wrong! Brecken! Brecken talk to me! Brecken, can you talk to me?”

    My mother is completely unhelpful when you’re actually hurt.  You’re writhing on the floor screaming because of whatever tragedy that has befallen you, and she’s screaming in your face for you to explain what’s wrong.  You usually can’t. First, you’re busy screaming. Second, you’re probably not lastingly damaged; we’re all pretty dramatic. To the injured party, it inevitably comes across as my mom being selfish.  This, of course, is not her intention, but when you’re getting screamed at because you’re in intense pain and have not yet been so kind as to describe the situation to her, it seems selfish. 

    “Brecken! Brecken! Do I need to call an ambulance? DO I NEED TO CALL AN AMBULANCE?”

    I see where this is going.  I lower my twelve year old body yo the floor.  I have lost this fight.  She is a cunning devil genius. 

    She makes her move. 

    She raises her tearstained face to my mother and points her shaking index finger towards me. 

    She is the devil. 

    “What did you do to her? What did you do to her! Ashton!? ASHTON.”

    I debate the pros and cons of answering at all.

    “I didn’t do anything to her,” I respond in a dull monotone.

    It sounds ridiculous even to me.

    She is the devil. 

    “Brecken what did she do to you?” My mother’s voice is reaching a fever pitch.  Can she not see that her middle child, who is without a doubt known as the devious, dramatic trickster of the bunch, is fine? All limbs are attached.  No blood is spilling.  The most imminent danger is probably potential hearing loss on my part due to their combined decibel level.

    Incidentally I have a tiny bit of hearing damage.  My mother always complains at my volume preference when I’m watching television or playing music in the car.

    Brecken points slowly to the red fingernail marks on her upper arm.  The self inflicted fingernail marks. 

    She is the devil. 

    “Ashton Christine!” my mother gasps.

    My mother has the ability to gasp like no woman I’ve ever heard.  It is a sound of pure astonishment.  She does it every time we hear a curse word on television, as if pretending that she is utterly shocked that something so despicable is allowed to be broadcast will serve to remind us that she does not approve of such language.

    We know. 

    She trains her wide, astonished, angry eyes on me for ten long seconds. 

    “I cannot believe you would do this. She is eight years old. Go to your room. I will deal with you later.”

    I have lost. I never had a fighting chance. I will no doubt be subjected to one of my mother’s yelling sessions that almost definitely will last until about ten minutes after whenever it is that I finally give in and cry.  This generally takes about an hour.

    It gives me a headache.

    I walk slowly to my room, weighed down by defeat.

    She is the devil. 

-

    Somehow mine and Brecken’s relationship has improved over the past few years.  To be honest, it did not look good for a while.  Such ploys as these did little to encourage sisterly bonding.  Unbelievably, Brecken is about to start college, which is sure to be a good story in and of itself. I wish her the all the best.  When we’re in the same town, which doesn’t happen that often, I try to spend as much time with her as possible, although wrestling her away from her boyfriend is a barely surmountable task. 

    However, I still do not intentionally cross her. 

    She’s still got it. You can see it in her creepy blue eyes.