March 2007

DEAR SISTER
By Staci Kearns

Click.

The gun clicked. Clicking louder, it seemed, each time I pulled back on the hammer.

Click. Pop.

The gun popped. Popping dry, empty blanks. Just wait until I load it.

A smile came easily, despite the devious plan I had devised. It didn’t take very long to conceive, and even less time to decide to obey. This was more than a plan, more than a simple strategy I mapped out the way a child would. It was law...and my duty to uphold and enforce it.

My breath fogged up the window. "Oh, Pamela."

She sat all alone out in our old tree house, clutching the phone tight in her palm. Small tears rolled down her cheek, hitting the wood below. She had just received the news, and was acting as if her world had ended. Most of the time, one can be open about losing someone they cared for. Her pain had to be kept secret. She didn’t know I knew; no one did. They thought they were so sneaky. But I still found out.

She rocked back and forth, wavering inside despair. I smiled again, despite what she had done to me... and what I was about to do to her. I’d been in love once, too. She took it away from me.

I gave her so much when we were kids; important things, sacrificed without argument. But this was different. This time, she took what I wouldn’t give. Her selfishness gave her a taste of reality...and I was about to give her the rest of her dose.

It made me sick to see Pamela happy with my things, but I waited it out. Now she was without the thing she craved, and all because of me. She sat there grieving for that which was mine. It was maddening to watch her hurt over something that wasn’t rightfully hers. Even more infuriating was the knowledge that she had a taste just before he left. A taste I could cut out her tongue for.

At last I vacated the foggy window, storming into Dad’s office. My trembling hands fumbled at the box before I managed to get it open and drop the bullets in the chamber. I spun it scornfully, then slammed it into place. I tucked the gun in the front of my pants, concealing it under my t-shirt.

I was ready.

The sky was gray, darkened by a light mist descending over the backyard. Blackened clouds hovered over the tree house where the evil wretch wept. The tree house that we, as children, shared toys and memories in. I didn’t share one good thing in my life, so she took it.

My bottom lip quivered at the thought of being stabbed in the back by my own sister. Being betrayed by the love of my life hurt, too, but not as betrayal by my own flesh and blood. The fact that she was able to go about life as if nothing was wrong made it even worse. It made me less regretful for what I was about to do. She didn’t care what she did behind my back, so I didn’t care that I was going to punish her for it.

I popped my head into the tree house entrance. "What’s wrong, Pamela?"

She jumped, trying to wipe away the redness in her eyes. She still thought I had no clue. It almost made me laugh.

"Oh—nothing." She forced a smile.

A liar once again. Nothing but lies since the day Jay gave her the wrong look. Yet it never seemed to bother her.

I pretended to be scratching my belly when, in fact, I was touching the gun. I wanted so bad to pull it out and put a bullet in her pretty little face. But that wasn’t why I was there.

"Did someone call?" I gestured toward the phone clutched to her chest.

She stared at me with skeptical eyes. She knew I was up to something, just not what. She of all people--the deviant herself playing the skeptic to someone else’s actions. Not only a liar, but hypocrite as well.

"No, I was just waiting for—"

"Jay?" I strained to keep a smile off my face.

She hesitated. "No." She offered no explanation, instead looking out the moss-covered window.

The tree house was rotting and falling apart, but it didn’t seem to bother her to sit in it. Guess she had enough practice walking on the edge of harm to care.

Ratty sheer curtains flickered in a slight breeze, first blowing into the tree house and then sucked out into gray air. Little trinkets and magazine articles wilted on the walls, memorabilia of a previous life full of other things that we had loved...and shared. Fresh blankets on the floor were the only things out of place; signs that he and The Tramp didn’t just meet at his house, but in our cottage of memories as well.

My voice dripped with sarcasm. "So, did you and Jay have fun last night?"

"Why would I be with your boyfriend?" Her voice cracked on the word boyfriend, and she looked away.

"Oh, I don’t know." I smiled at her. A smile ready for vengeance. "Maybe because that’s never stopped you before."

Her face grew pale, discolored with realization. However, she was still ignorant as to my intent.

She shook her head as if she couldn’t make herself believe what I knew. "I don’t understand."

I walked towards her; her body got smaller as I neared. "Oh, I think you do, dear sister. I think you know very well."

She cowered lower with each step I took, drawing her body into a tighter compact. I lifted my t-shirt just enough for her to see the handle; just enough for me to watch the panic on her face. Her eyes widened as tiny beads of sweat popped out of her pores. Her face had gone pasty white. I smiled again. I had her under my control now, doing whatever I wanted.

"Karla!" She yelled and threw her hands in front of her face, her voice seeming to vibrate the curtains more than the misty draft.

She scooted backwards until stopped by the wall. "I'm sorry."

"For what? For taking away the only thing I loved? For being so selfish and heartless that you would betray your own sister?"

She said nothing, looking at me with regretful eyes begging me to show mercy.

"I took care of you ever seeing Jay again. Now I’m here to take care of you ever seeing me again."

She began sobbing like the little girl who once hung posters with her big sister. The little girl who cried when she couldn’t bike ride with my older friends and I; or who threw tantrums when she couldn’t play with my toys. The little girl who broke her arm when she fell off the jungle gym, and I ran crying to mom because sissy hurt herself. Who entered Jr. High with my hair clips and hand-me-down jeans. Now, she was a big girl who still wanted my stuff. I pulled out the gun and aimed it at her reddened face.

"Please don’t! I'm sorry...I'm so sorry, Karla!"

I pulled back the hammer, wrapping my finger around the trigger. The metal felt cold against my hand. Cold, just like her heart...as opposed to my compassion for sparing her.

"Goodnight, Pamela," I whispered.

With that the gun turned, its cold barrel pressing against my throbbing temple as I squeezed the trigger.

THE END

Staci Kearns has been writing fiction and poetry since childhood. She is married and has a baby girl. This is her first submission of fiction. Staci can be reached at twisteded_up@yahoo.com.