The Periwinkle Specter

  
She appeared a pale periwinkle specter sitting on the edge of my bed. She often visited when I felt alone or scared offering silence. Nothing ever happened or was said. Her mood was reflected in simple gestures and slight facial expressions. Sometimes she comforted; sometimes she condemned.

I saw her only briefly between seventh and ninth grade. After that, she was gone or lost to puberty. I never found her again even though I searched. She was there only for the transition from childhood dreams to mature nightmares. Rarely are those two things different. But a line does exist, and once crossed things change.

My sister told me she saw her too. She was four or five and perfectly described her dress layered with petticoats and the lace decorating her collar. I knew she saw her not only from the description; she too was alone an scared at times. I was hopeful that the specter's silence might space my sister some hurt.

I went home the Christmas of 2008 and tried to find my pale periwinkle friend. I wanted to thank her and let her know how things turned out: all okay.

I didn't find her. But I did sit at the end of my bed just listening to the silence and taking comfort in its perfectly absent embrace.

The Fight with the Knife

 
We fought a lot. Sometimes it was the friendly fight of brothers. Others it was the competitive and volatile fight of siblings. We didn't understand each other, each on thought the other got more attention, had more friends, or some other shit like that. We didn't realize how similar we really were. Often, our fights were epic.

One afternoon, we had a particularly vitriolic fight. It started with simple teasing back and forth that morphed into me chasing him around the house with a knife screaming, "I hate you! I fucking hate you! Everyone hates you!!!"

He avoided my slashes laughing and crying nervously. I pursued certain I would make contact; unsure what would happen next. Our two other younger siblings watching everything unfold. I was supposed to be in charge. Obviously, I wasn't.

When I ran out of steam chasing him with the kitchen knife, I ran to our room and started throwing his clothes out of this dresser.

"You're not wanted anymore. No one loves you. Mom and dad don't want you here," and I ran to the laundry room, grabbed a suitcase, and started packing his clothes inside. Once packed, I shoved it at him, pushed him out our back door, locked the door, and from the screen window screeched, "Go! Leave! Don't come back. It'll be better without you around."

I will never forget the tears of anger and sadness that streaked his red face. "Fine," he yelled from the driveway, "You want me gone? I'm gone! Tell mom and dad goodbye."

He walked down the driveway and into the street. Our two other siblings cried and pleaded with me to get him to come back. Something snapped inside me, and I realized I was making him feel the way I felt. I was ashamed. I was supposed to protect him. I was the older one, and I should have know better.

"Wait!" I yeled as I unlocked and opened the back door. "Come back. I didn't mean it. You can't leave!"

He kept walking. I followed. Tears streamed down his face; his shoulders convulsed. I caught up to him.

"I'm sorry," and I threw my arms around him. "Come home."

Eventually, he came back and we put everything away before mom and dad got home. All four of us made a pact to never tell our parents about the incident.

The events of that day changed all of us. I know we had more fights and arguments after that, but nothing that escalated to knives or packed bags. I think we all realized that we all were alone in our own way.

While I don't talk to my siblings often, I know they love and accept me. And I know that that feeling of being alone or an outside connects all four of us.