A field with 20 mm of rain, scattered all around. When I leaned back, I fell, and in more than one way, it hurt. I felt a seraphic stream of envy, a stream of hatred and illuminated tears. One after the other, they rolled down my soft, mendacious face. A lying character. That’s who I was in the story of fate. A funny thing, fate, that is. As melodramatic as it is, fate is just waiting to turn teenagers into onions, waiting for them to be peeled apart and stabbed several times. Seldom, I wished I was an onion. For my sister was an onion. Stabbed and peeled apart till the only thing that was left of her was a faint memory and faded photos. At midnight, I cried as I heard her screams. I stood in front of her and watched her fade away. There wasn’t much I could do. She was 11. I was 4. Though there isn’t much I can do to describe her otherwise. Although she wasn’t in my life anymore, she never really was. Her connection with my pure soul and being meant nothing to me.
I felt my back getting wet with water. Slowly, my idea of the reality I was living in dissipated. I sunk deeper into the grassy lake, hoping to fall asleep. I felt a smooth, clean cut down from my chest, leading all the way to the middle of my torso. I hated my sister. For the most part, I was glad she was out of my life. I couldn’t bear to see her crushing up another pill, her horrified eyes staring at me whilst her 11 month old baby suffocated from the fumes of a 2 month old vaporizer. As she closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, she was gone. The last time I saw her, she was cruising down the street, hopelessly. Her therapy is going better. Her life is going better. I guess Venice is overall better.
Suddenly, I got a jolt of energy. I never hated my sister. She died when she was 11. She didn’t even have any children. She hadn’t even had her first kiss yet. She wasn’t struggling at all and we never stepped foot outside of Wellington. The confusion must have taken over me. There was a change of heart. Something I couldn’t control. That’s when I heard the doctors say that the heart transplant was successful. Everyone cried. Tears of joy. They, my parents and the ghost of a sister formed a field with 20 mm of tears. I had lived. I never hated my sister. I guess it was just a change of heart.
Writer – Maria Secara
Editor – Olivia Hautler
Artist – Angela Wang
–August 2025–
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