I was a product of science, a test-tube baby born after years of struggle. My brother, Anthony, was a miracle of nature—conceived effortlessly seven years later. The difference in our origins defined our existence.
Anthony was born with a terrified soul, especially when it came to insects. If a fly even landed near him, he would dance around me in a panic, begging for salvation.
"Sis! Sis! Get it off! Help me!"
His terror was my entertainment. I clutched my stomach, laughing at his frantic flailing and comical expressions.
The laughter died instantly.
Mom stormed over, her hand connecting with my cheek before I saw her coming. Smack. Smack. The sting radiated across my face, silencing me.
"I told you I'd buy you new clothes next time! When will you stop being so spiteful? You actually put a bug on Tony just to scare him?"
My head rang. The buzzing in my ears drowned out the rest of her tirade. The next thing I knew, I was banished to the woodshed to reflect on my sins.
Winter had settled into the cracks of the wooden walls. My hands and feet were swollen with chilblains; the itch was maddening, the pain a dull, rhythmic throb.
"Sis? Look what I snuck out for you."
Anthony appeared at the door, his breath misting in the cold air. He pulled a bright red apple from his pocket, sat beside me on the freezing floor, and began to peel it with the intense focus only a child possesses.
I stared at the swirl of hair on his crown. A poisonous thought took root: If he died, maybe there would be some love left over for me.
I reached out and took his wrist. It was warm.
"Tony," I whispered, pressing my thumb against his pulse. "Do you feel that? That jumping thing inside your wrist? That's a bug. We need to get it out, okay?"
——
The fruit knife glided through his skin.
Crimson bloomed against the pale flesh of the apple, spreading like ink in water.
Anthony looked up at me, his eyes swimming with tears. "Sis, it hurts a little."
I gripped his hand, suddenly paralyzed. Stop. Stop it.
"Tony!" Mom's voice cut through the air from the courtyard. "Get away from there. The woodshed is freezing. Don't waste your time on her—she deserves to suffer."
The door creaked open.
Mom froze. Her gaze locked on the knife in my hand, then the blood dripping from her precious son's wrist.
She didn't scream. She attacked.
Her boot slammed into my stomach. A twisting agony exploded in my gut, and I curled into a ball on the dirt floor, gasping for air.
Mom scooped up Anthony, who had burst into terrified sobs. She cradled him, her voice trembling.
"Tony! Did that wretched girl hurt you again? Let Mommy see. Oh god, look at this blood..."
She turned back to me, eyes blazing. She grabbed a piece of firewood from the stack and brought it down. Thud. Again. Thud. Shoulders, back, legs.
"I... I didn't..."
My voice was a broken croak. I wanted to scream, I'm your daughter too! My blood is your blood! But the pain silenced me.
When her arm finally tired, she turned back to Anthony, panting. "Tony, tell me the truth. Did your sister cut you with the knife?"
Anthony shook his head.
For a split second, a flicker of guilt crossed Mom's face. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Sis didn't cut me," Anthony sobbed, burying his face in her coat. "I... I did it myself. Because Sis said the jumping thing inside my wrist is a bug. She didn't mean to hurt me. She was just helping."
Dad appeared in the doorway just in time to hear the explanation.
Mom pointed a shaking finger at me, screaming at her husband. "Look! Look at your good daughter! She wants to kill my son that badly!"
"I told you she was vicious. She's a monster made by cold, unfeeling machines in a lab. How could she ever compare to my own natural-born son?"
Mom carried Anthony away, shooting Dad a look of pure venom before she left.
Dad stared at me. He picked up the piece of firewood, now stained with my blood.
"Killing your grandmother wasn't enough?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Now you want to slaughter your brother too?"
The stick came down again.
I lost track of time after Dad left. The bone-piercing wind seeped into my marrow, dragging my mind back to a similar night one year ago.
That day, Anthony had broken a porcelain bowl. I had rushed to clean the shards to protect him from getting cut.
But Mom walked in and assumed I had broken it. She beat me then, too, and locked me in this same woodshed.
Anthony had brought me an apple to apologize that day as well. But back then, I was still fueled by rage. I refused his apology.
I told him the only way I would forgive him was if he went to the river behind the mountain and caught me a fish.
Mom had strictly forbidden Anthony from going near that river. Every year, the currents claimed countless children, sweeping them away never to be seen again.
