Boycotting Blue

07/Lou

 Lou

I had a sister.

   She was one year older than me, and her name was Daisy. My parents liked to pretend she didn’t exist—it was much easier than facing the truth.

   My mom always had been about letting us make our own choices, and Dad always went with whatever she said. Growing up, it was never “don’t hang out with them” or “don’t do this”, it was always “whatever you think.” I chose to withdraw from most people who teased me about my mom. Daisy, on the other hand, used it to her advantage.

   She always told me she “liked” sex, and usually ruffled my hair and teased me for not even having my first kiss yet. She enjoyed that life style. Boys for days ran in and out of the house. There were pregnancy scares, but nothing serious. We always laughed about it afterwards. She would come into my room and paint my nails, style my hair, do my make-up, and pick out clothes for me. She was the closest person to me. She was my rock.

   We partied together, mostly I came with her to keep her from getting drunk and wild, and to stop bad decisions. I always remained sober, the wall flower that watched and observed, but never partook in any activities. And then, one day, she wanted to party, and I wanted to stay home and read, watch some Disney movies. She went without me.

   Daisy didn’t come home until two days later.

   Mario, her twin brother, was worried. He and I both. Our parents said nothing was wrong; it was just Daisy being Daisy and partying. She was probably at a friend’s house.

   I was home alone when she came in. She looked disheveled. Make-up stained her brown cheeks. Her hair was wild and tangled. Her nails were chipped, and her clothes were torn and backwards, hastily put on. She threw herself into my arms and started sobbing like crazy. I closed the door behind me, fifteen and unsure what to do.

   I didn’t get the story out of her at first. Instead, I ran bath water and helped her drag her numb body into some warm water and comfortable clothes. And then she told me what happened.

   She was raped.

   Immediately, I wanted to kill the bastard who did it, but my parents came home. The police were called, she was brought to the station, and then we were waiting in court. The asshole who did it didn’t even look bothered by it. He smiled, came into court with his suit. His attorney questioned my sister until she cried, throwing words like “whore” and “slut” around. She slept around, so it was okay he raped her. She had it coming, he said. The boy gave a false testimony about how he told her he wouldn’t agree to move from a friends with benefits relationship, so she cried rape.

   To make it worse, she found out she was pregnant.

   I was there when she found out. She peed on eight pregnancy tests, and then went to the doctor only to confirm what we already knew: she was pregnant. Meanwhile, her life had dwindled further and further away until she was nothing more than empty shell of herself. She decided to do what was best—drop the criminal charges as long as the boy offered her a $15,000 settlement so she could help with her baby. Not once a year, or once every few years, but just once. His parents were loaded; $15,000 to him was nothing.

   Instead, he gave her enough money to get an abortion. Our parents only agreed. The court case was settled about three months later. He was found innocent by rule “no reasonable evidence.” My sister lost her baby a few days later.

   Monday, September 19th, 2012, my sister committed suicide.

   Juan came pick me up from school that day and took me to some preseason game—nothing out of the ordinary. He said I needed a “break.” I enjoyed myself at the game. My mother called him, told him to keep me away for another two or three hours. It was the day before my birthday’ I figured they were throwing a surprise birthday party. So he took me to a restaurant, took me shopping, and eventually took me home.