By Blood

TW: Contains references to mental health issues, physical/emotional abuse, and sexual assault.

I found it ironic that I didn’t die first.

From childhood, through my teenage years, and now as a young adult, I always counted the years I didn’t end it. Statistically speaking, I should have died by now. I was a mentally-ill loner with no immediate support. I couldn’t get a job, so sooner or later, I would end up on the streets and starve. If neither of those would have done it, my physical health was terrible. I weighed one hundred pounds at a height of five-foot-seven, and though I tried, my eating disorder was not making gaining weight easier. It seemed the older I got, the more issues I added to the list. My mother and father didn’t hold it against me, but they certainly weren’t understanding of it, either— or what led to it.

This year, I thought: This is it. This is the year I die. I had to stifle a chuckle when my mother informed me my estranged sister died instead.

Eliza was older than me by two years. As far as I knew, she didn’t have a great health record either. Heart problems. However, I assumed she was better off than I was. My parents always looked out for her. She had a boyfriend at her beck and call, and what I can only assume was a nice apartment hours away from home. Best of all, she finally got rid of me.

My so-called sister was a sociopathic wolf in sheep’s clothing. As much as I loved her as a kid, growing up, I slowly realized how much she despised me. I didn’t know what other explanation there could be. At a certain point, I started feeling like garbage. At the tender age of eight, I was forced to put my mouth places it should not have been. She slapped me whenever I pissed her off, burning my cheek. I recall hands squeezing my throat from behind while I sat in the passenger’s seat of my mother’s car and losing the ability to breathe. Eliza also had the habit of calling me names whenever we had the slightest disagreement, condemning me and my existence.

One night, without knowing why, I exploded into a twister of fury, punching, kicking and screaming. My mother burst into the room once she heard the commotion and dragged my sister out of the fight. After realizing what I’d done, I cried, horrified with what I was turning into. The experience of being her sister left me feeling worthless, disgusting, and then angry. Always angry.

Eventually, Eliza discarded me.

My parents were Mexican immigrants and Catholics, so family obligation was everything. At the time, I had no idea what I was living with wasn’t considered normal. I was a timid and gentle mannered child, and so I did my best to keep a smile on my face. I took it upon myself— a child— to keep the peace. As the years passed, the mask started to slip. When I finally stopped talking to Eliza, my mother played peacemaker. She forced gift exchanges at Christmas and dinners at the same table on Thanksgiving. She forced hugs between siblings that no longer cared to keep the sisterhood. My father scolded me for my hostility, telling me my anger was absurd and pointless. I bit my lip, suppressing the urge to speak the truth.

He’d never believe me.

Still living with my parents as a young adult, I couldn’t completely erase Eliza from my life like I wanted to. My mother— the only parent professed to— invited Eliza over for regular visits. My father never addressed me when this happened. I didn’t receive warnings.

In other words, I was given a slap to the face every so often by my parents.

As selfish as it sounded, I wanted to be prioritized. I wanted people in my corner, too. I wondered what it’d be like to be put first and not automatically land in second place. Then again, I felt childish for hoping. If anything was to be taken as a lesson from my life, it was that nobody was going to save me. I had to look out for myself. I was tired of falling for false promises. I held contempt for the word “love.”

Love was a fantasy meant for children, and family wasn’t real.

Year after year, my mother and father picked Eliza over me. Year after year, I made an escape plan. Year after year, I failed, swallowed my hurt, and crossed my fingers that the following year it would happen; I’d leave. After a while, I stopped holding my breath.

What I didn’t see coming was both my parents frantically leaving the house one morning and calling me that same night to tell me Eliza had passed.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Is that it?” I retorted.

“What?” my mother echoed, her voice now elevated. “This is your sister!“

I hung up the phone and tossed it onto the coffee table. I watched from the couch as the cellphone screen lit up with my mother’s photo, and it buzzed over and over again. After five minutes, I turned it off.

I put a Pixar movie on the TV, but I could hardly focus on what was happening on the screen. I was an immovable, numb body sinking into the sofa as images blinked in front of me. Part of me was relieved, but another was suspended in disbelief. I thought this shadow hovering over me would remain for the rest of my life, and suddenly, it was gone. For a moment, the world fell silent.

Once my parents returned, the argument ensued. My father called me selfish and heartless. My mother called me inconsiderate and spiteful. Like all other confrontations before this one, I kept my mouth shut. My parents were grieving their favorite daughter and I was the outlet.

I went to bed and wept in the dark.

I opted out of knowing about the funeral arrangements for the next few days. My parents wanted me there out of family duty, but I was already considering leaving town. I thought about reaching out to my friends for support, but they were all too busy. One was married, the other had kids, and the last one had terrible communication skills— not to mention, they all lived out of town.

It was stupid how someone could be surrounded by people and still be alone.

The night before the funeral, I couldn’t sleep. My stomach tightened and my mind ran in circles.

Should I just pack a bag and go?

What hotel do I go to? I need to look up prices for booking.

I need to pack food and drinks. They’ll hear me in the kitchen. I’ll wake them up.

What happens when they realize I’ve gone? Will they hunt me down?

A month ago, I found myself being reckless after another visit from Eliza. My mother gave me no warning and I fled the house almost as soon as she stepped through the front door. I drove to a tattoo parlor and got inked, knowing full well how much my mother despised the art already on my body. Above my right hip, the word “Loveless” was printed onto my skin; a word that encapsulated me for the longest time.

The following few days, I had no regrets about anything other than my emotion. Even this night, as I sat up on the mattress, I felt things. A flicker of sorrow threatened to take hold of me, but I refused to shed a tear. I grabbed my throat, forcing a sob into submission. Even over a decade later, even in death, my sister had control. She lived inside me like a parasite, consuming every cell of my body.

Around 9 a.m., I found myself standing in the middle of a graveyard. My mother tried dragging me by the hand out to the burial, but I planted myself to the ground. Instead, I watched the small group of people gather from some twenty feet away. My eyes wandered to the gray sky and swaying trees, the words being spoken over the deceased blurring into background noise. My chest tightened once I realized the casket was finally being lowered into the ground.

Eliza was my only sister. To her, I was a waste of space. I had scars on my thighs and hips. I started to see her in places she wasn’t and heard her voice in places she hadn’t been. Every so often, I wondered what it would’ve been like to have a sibling that loved you the way you loved them, but we were only bound by blood.

My mother shot me a disdainful look from across the field. My father held her tightly as he watched the casket go lower and lower, until it disappeared into the earth. A few other faces looked in my direction, confused and appalled at how I could be bitter during such a grievous day. The huddled mass of black mourning clothes started moving as people walked up to both my parents, saying their condolences and expressing solace.

I wondered if my death would be regarded as such a tragedy. I didn’t know if I mattered as much.

My parents were blinded by their love for their first child. I knew that. It didn’t make it hurt any less to know that, by default, I was the disgrace.

Maybe I should have died first.