Breathe

My lovely sister-1

I loved my sister, Leila, with all my heart. She was the person I spent the majority of my childhood with, especially since our mom was rarely around, working tirelessly to provide for us. She became my second mom, teaching me how to ride a bike, play cards, and even swim. We did everything together, and going to school was no exception.

As a kid who spent most of my days at home, I was thrilled to go to school because it meant being with Leila. We attended the same school and having her by my side made me feel invincible. But little did I know that beneath her playful exterior lay a terrifying secret.

Let me tell you, Hell isn't some faraway place buried deep underground. It can exist right before your eyes, and for me, it was seeing a side of Leila that chilled me to the core. At school, she transformed into a bully, targeting scrawny kids like me, preying on their vulnerabilities. She would snatch their lunch money and even resort to physical violence. I couldn't help but wonder if the sweets she brought me after school were the very ones she had stolen from others. It was a sickening realization.

Because of Leila's reputation, the other kids at school were too afraid to befriend me. They saw me as an extension of her cruelty, and I yearned for a friend my own age—a companion to share jokes and laughter with. But it seemed that fate had a different plan in store for us.

As time went on, Leila's rebellious streak only grew stronger. Having a teenage sister was no walk in the park. I became the reluctant mediator, caught in the crossfire of her battles with Mom. It was up to me to try and bring peace to their stormy relationship, often bearing the weight of their arguments on my shoulders.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Late nights became a constant source of anxiety. I would wait up, anxiously listening for the sound of the front door opening, signaling Leila's return. More often than not, she would stumble in, intoxicated and disheveled. Cleaning up her vomit became a routine task, one that I undertook with a heavy heart. I didn't want Mom to notice. I didn't want her to see the brokenness that had consumed my sister. It was a role I played, the silent guardian of our family's fragile peace, while my own childhood slipped away in the shadows.

Through it all, my love for Leila remained. Deep down, I still saw the sister who had once held my hand and taught me about life. But the divide between us grew wider, and the pain of witnessing her descent into darkness became unbearable.

Leila's choice in boyfriends was a constant source of torment for me. Each one seemed worse than the last, bringing with them an air of danger and despair. They were a motley crew of gangsters, bookies, and men lost in the depths of addiction. I despised the sickening stench of cigarettes and cocaine that permeated the air whenever they gathered in our basement.

Leila had fallen into a cycle of self-destruction, repeating her senior year three times already and showing no interest in finding a job or a better path for herself. Meanwhile, I would return home exhausted from my job at the diner, trying to muster the energy to make something for Mom's dinner.

But as I climbed the stairs, a sinking feeling would settle in the pit of my stomach. I prayed that the pungent aroma of drugs and debauchery didn't reach the upper floors, for if it did, I knew I would be dragged down into their world to serve them food and clean up their messes.

The basement had become a den of darkness, where Leila's toxic relationships thrived. The sounds of their raucous laughter mixed with the clinks of glasses and the hushed whispers of deals gone wrong. It was a place I dreaded, a place that stole away the remnants of our family's once-happy existence.

I would stand at the top of the basement stairs, my heart racing with trepidation. Every creaking step downwards felt like a descent into a nightmare. I held my breath, hoping to remain invisible to the men who brought nothing but pain into our lives.

But as fate would have it, I couldn't escape their attention. Leila would call my name, her voice laced with a mix of authority and indifference. Reluctantly, I would make my way down, my footsteps faltering with each step. The harsh glare of dimly lit bulbs revealed the true nature of the men she chose to associate with—hollow eyes, roughened hands, and hearts devoid of compassion. They would demand food, their voices dripping with entitlement. I would oblige, serving them with trembling hands, trying to conceal my fear and disgust. Their crude remarks would slice through the air, leaving scars on my spirit that would never fade.

And then came the aftermath. Dishes lay scattered, empty bottles strewn across the floor, evidence of their reckless revelry. I would clean up the wreckage, tears streaming down my face as I scrubbed away the remnants of their presence. It was as if I was erasing their existence, their darkness, in a futile attempt to restore some semblance of normalcy to our shattered home.

In those moments, I yearned for escape. I yearned for a life where Leila would find her way back to the sister I once knew, and where I wouldn't be shackled to the burdens of her destructive choices.

But the reality was harsh. I was trapped, bound by the invisible chains of loyalty and family ties. I couldn't abandon Leila, no matter how deep she had fallen. So, I persisted, hoping it was just a phase, praying for a glimmer of light to guide her from the hole she has fallen into.

I watched my mother tirelessly navigate the challenges that life threw at us. Despite her absence during most of my childhood, she commanded my utmost respect. She never gave up on our family, on my troubled sister Leila, or on me. I admired her unwavering determination, even as she discovered Leila's pregnancy—a  revelation that mirrored the depths to which my sister had fallen.