Confinement
We were confined in the warmth of our mother’s womb, we were confined into the cold world of violence and abuse, and now she is confined in a coffin in the ground. Her name was Sharyn, or as she called herself “Shary”.
She was my baby sister, I held her as she wept from the fear of our father and I held her when we were abandoned by the one person who was supposed to love us, but I can’t hold her anymore. If only one person had cared enough to save us, I could still protect her. But no one was there, we were alone and broken and now being the last living sibling of the group, I still am.
They say that time heals all wounds, but when the pain is inflicted on a child whose brain isn’t fully developed, pain becomes a part of that person into adulthood. We didn’t know what was wrong, or why we were doing these bad things, or even what could make us feel better. All we knew was that we were outsiders and that no one could fix us, so we tried to fix ourselves.
Sharyn was only 2 years old when she was abandoned in a children’s home due to severe domestic violence. A place we were abused, unfed, dirty, and treated like animals.
By the time she was 10, she had developed anorexia. The poor girl would starve herself, worse than the home had starved us. Besides tomato sauce of course, that was the only thing keeping her alive I thought. I never understood her affliction at the time but looking back on it now I understand how she needed to be in control of some aspect of her life.
By the time she was 16, she had replaced almost all of the required calories from food with alcohol and pain killers. I always wondered if she was trying to burn away the dirty feelings she felt inside like I did, or if she just wanted to numb the pain. I wanted to save her; I really did. But I could barely save myself, and she was confined within these rules she had created to punish herself. I couldn’t pull her out of the current that she was drowning herself in.
By the time she was 29, she was gone. We never found out how she died, they say she died from a broken heart, perhaps the loss of her infant daughter just two months before. One moment she was a small crying baby, desperately screaming to be saved. The next she was nothing but a casket of bones and a broken heart.
My baby sister, my darling, beautiful, cheeky baby sister Shary. Gone. I never got to hold her again. I never got to tell her how funny she was, or how much I liked the way she would spaghetti dance through the halls.
Life tore her apart, and no one was there to save her. She died still screaming, begging to be let out. And eventually, she was, just not how any of us had hoped she’d be set free.
A.Brockie(c)2021
