Everyone torments their younger siblings. We do it because we can. We do it because it's fun. But mostly, we do it because we hate having to share everything with them, especially blame. It doesn't mean we're vicious monsters, though.
That being said, I am a vicious monster.
My sister Regina almost died when she was born. Thanks to her almost-mortem birth, she became the favorite miracle baby. And I hated her for it. I would toddle over to her crib and poke her until she cried, then put a bottle in her mouth just to pull it out again. When she would cry I'd say:
"Good. Cry. Maybe they'll throw you away. You belong in the dumpster. You garbage baby."
And that became my pet name for the little burden on the bottom bunk: Garbage Baby. She didn't know why I called her that, but one day when I was six and she was four, she asked for the reason.
I told her the truth.
"Mom and Daddy say I'm not 'posed to tell you, but I love you, so I'm gonna." Placing my little hands on her innocent shoulders, I ruined my sister's chances of ever trusting another human being.
"You weren't born," I said sadly, "We found you in a trash can all dirty, and Dad saved you."
The look on her face was a gift from Satan himself. Being the evil genius I was at that age, I knew I had to cover my tracks, lest the parentals find out I was being mean to the "miracle baby."
"But you can't say nothing. Mom and Dad will be so sad if you do." My face was painted perfectly with solemn honesty. "They want you to feel like they're your real family, 'kay?"
She nodded. I was off the hook.
As we got older, I found Regina to be more useful than a burden. She was always good for a laugh, even if it was at her own expense. This pattern of abuse is the reason my sister holds her drinks from the top, protecting the opening from foreign ingredients. She NEVER sleeps with the light off and, from what I understand, she still as a 25-year-old woman, checks to see if anyone is in her closet before going to sleep.
When you think about it, I actually gave my sister a handful of necessary survival skills. She won't be raped or murdered all because she had a sister that hated her.
I'm basically Jesus.
You could even say that I work in mysterious ways.
One of the miracles I gifted upon my sister happened over winter break when I was in 10th grade and my sister was in eighth grade. Regina, being the pretty, skinny sister, thought it was fashionable on cold days to break into my room and steal my "fat girl" sweatpants, because in her own words, "They're more comfortable—MOM, make Rachel share!" As usual, I was forced to concede. With my mom on her side, there was very little I could do about my sister.
While my mom was home, that is.
One chilly day after all the gifts were unwrapped and the gift sets were thrown under the bed until a lotion emergency, I noticed my favorite black and red plaid pajama bottoms were gone. And a stinky little garbage pale brat came into my room and ripped them out of their home in my bottom drawer. She was gonna pay.
Earlier that year, I learned that laxatives come in a tasteless powder when my stepsister began taking iron pills which often made her constipated. Her constipation would become so severe at times, she would bloat, looking like a pregnant cucumber. My mom and stepdad, full of sympathy, bought her a big jug of the tasteless stuff.
The day my sister stole my favorite pants was grocery shopping day. I staked my claim on the couch for the morning, watching reruns on MTV until Regina made her annoying existence visible. I didn't look to be sure she stole from me. The arrogant shit would definitely be wearing PJs that didn't belong to her.
I heard her rustling in the kitchen, doing exactly what she always did, making herself cereal and cinnamon toast with extra sugar on both. Little known fact: If you pour sugar and powdered laxative next to each other, you can't tell one from the other.
You see where I'm going with this?
But the idea of sudden, violent diarrhea wasn't harsh enough in my opinion. I had to do something that really fucked her up for life. You understand, right? She stole from me.
So while she was eating her fill on the couch, I casually asked if she'd like to smoke a joint with me. I knew it wouldn't make her suspicious, as we frequently shared our weed. We called it mutual blackmail, one can't get nailed without the other. Marijuana has many effects on the human mind, you see. It's not all munchies and giggles. For a lot of people, my sister included, the devil's lettuce can make a person insane with paranoia. Not only did I want her to continue eating my delicious concoction, I wanted her to be terrified when it finally kicked in. The little jammie thief was going to convince herself she was fucking dying from the butt-pee geysers I graciously bestowed upon her.
All I had to do was sit back, wait, and laugh. The best part was when she made herself some tea and finished off the batch of sugar-shit powder, dumping it all in the glass. She even refilled the canister with fresh sugar after she'd emptied it.
I was high. I was avenged. I was gonna laugh my ass off, while she ripped herself a new one.
My plan came to fruition when my mom got home with the groceries. It was our responsibility to unload the car, filled with foods and household staples. Regina stood by the back door, holding her stomach, appearing... uncomfortable.
"Mom," she called out desperately. "My stomach hurts... like I can't breathe through it."
"Stop your faking and unload these groceries," mom growled.
I couldn't believe my ears! My mom thought Regina was trying to get out of unloading the car. Try as I might, I couldn't squeeze my cheeks together to stop the grin on my face. My little sister was about to have one of the most entertaining days of my life. I just hoped I could witness the whole thing. With mom around, there was always a chance I'd be put to work peeling, chopping, stirring, or cleaning something.
Hopeful, I'd peek through wickedly squinted eyelashes every minute or so as the ticking shit bomb cried to my mom about her stomachache. My mom became annoyed and sent her upstairs with the vacuum cleaner, telling her to stay out of her face for a while. I'm not sure how much you understand about the human body, but when you lift heavy objects, your guts contract with the muscles in your stomach. People often blow embarrassing farts at inconvenient times in situations like this. In Regina's case, she easily lifted the vacuum, but when she went to take the first step toward the top floor of our home the laxative in her system helped her guts contract.
Disgusting, bubbly, slapping noises came from her direction. I watched with twisted delight as her agonized face turned mortified.
"Oh my God," she screamed, dropping the vacuum cleaner and darting toward the downstairs bathroom. There was no saving me from guilt, I laughed with so much vigor, tears were streaming down my chubby red cheeks.
Sweet victory, you are a cruel, cruel mistress.
"Did that girl just shit herself?" my mom asked. All I could do was nod my head, the laughs wouldn't quit coming. My mom joined in, letting out a chuckle and shaking her head. She usually laughed when she witnessed one of us do something hilariously stupid.
After about an hour of running back and forth to the toilet, my sister finally resigned herself to the bathroom. The poo-fountain had since changed out of MY pajamas, I was too entertained by her suffering to care that she'd defecated in my pants. When she called out for me to bring her more toilet paper, I found my little sister sobbing, elbows propped on her knees, hands in her face, completely defeated by foul play.
"Nothings even coming out," she whimpered. "My ass is fricking dry-heaving right now, Rachel. Am I gonna die?"
"Probably," I said, grinning wickedly. I handed her the toilet paper. That's when she noticed the large white plastic bottle in my hands. It was the laxative container. Placing it on the bathroom counter I told her, "You're in for a long shitty night, Garbage Baby." You could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes as it dawned on the shit-monster she'd been poisoned. She looked like she could murder me if her pulsing anus would allow her to move. "You can keep the pants, by the way."
"You fat fucking bitch!" I shut the door before she could get anymore insults in.
I walked away, already prepared for the backlash. But that's another story...
She never stole my pants again, though.