Chapter 1

It was the fifth time I had been in the emergency room. The stale white walls were no different to the rest of it: the bed sheets, the tiled floor, and the loose gown covering my body. I always knew that I would end up in the clinic again even though I wasn’t the type of active person who got into trouble.

“Mr. Kinjo, this is the fifth time Mio has come to the E.R. She shouldn’t be in anymore life threatening situations.”

This was all her fault…

There was silence. I couldn’t hear the low, rugged voice that lectured my father. Then, I heard footsteps. A man with a white coat, brown shaggy hair and clean face appeared next to me. Who was he?

“Dr. Higa”, the nametag read. A doctor. For me. He was an acquaintance of Father and supposedly a good doctor. Putting his trust in Higa, Father chose this tiny clinic over much bigger hospitals for my latest injuries., especially since I have been coming here more often than usual. I had been to his clinic many times before for my injuries, but he wasn’t the type of doctor who was interested in his patient’s personal life and wasn’t the type of person who was familiar with small talk, so I never knew his personality. But, he was more open talking with my sister, just like any other person would be.

“How are you feeling Mio?” his warm, soothing voice reassured me. I simply stared into his eyes, minimally – masking my knowledge of the situation.

He rolled out a bandage and wrapped it round my leg. He was a good doctor even though he usually had an expressionless face and lack of emotion for his patients; all of my injuries had been cured very quickly. Yet the effort of burying the memories I have had was in vain. I doubt I would be able to heal any of the emotional injuries scarring my heart…

I knew I would be coming to the clinic again… over, and over… and over again.

“What happened, do you know what happened to you, Mio?”

Yes.

I do. I do, doctor.

I shook my head and silence answered his question.

There was no point in saying something that no one would believe. The last time, a similar incident had happened, I was more able to express the truth with violent and crude remarks. All I received was disbelief, shrewd glances and the title of “liar”. Did the world dislike me so? I thought so at the time, but I realized no human could see beyond what their eyes pick up. No human could have empathy without actually being in the same situation. I did not hate people for it but I did pity them. I didn’t hate humanity until I realized their potential for hurting the innocent or maybe because…however much someone tries to tell the truth, they would only believe whomever they chose. I had always thought, just as the grown-ups had told me when my mother died, that it wasn’t my fault for her death and that there are other people out there just like me, who go through what I went through and feel what I had felt and all I have to do is accept it and live life. But, I knew that when I wasn’t in their presence, they would speak ill of me. They would say it was my fault. They would say such a pity that my mother had to try to please me and therefore paid with her life. I tried to hide that knowledge. But I knew it was true. I was the reason that my mother died. It had kept on haunting me every day for years. The day my mother died was the first time I was in the emergency room.

The next time I was in a room similar to this. I died: I truly died inside of me. Someone I had truly treasured had died; and it was my fault. No one comforted me, or showed me any pity. They were more upfront about it. Their cold stares and quiet whispers were definite signs of their hatred. I was in love; but, no one would ever believe that a thirteen-year-old girl could ever have such feelings for a boy. They were wrong. In a world where there is no happiness or joy or merriment, you are immediately captivated by the first person who loves you. He died and everyday I live I ask myself, “why bother”. Why bother living a life when you are tormented?

That was when I realized: no one could have ever felt what I felt. No one could have ever seen what I’ve seen. No one could ever be in my position and no one would ever believe that any sane human living among them could be in that situation. That was when I realized they would finally not believe me; it is not their fault for not helping me.

I gave up on myself.

The door flew open, this time a girl came in, a couple of years older than me.

It was her.

“Sister! I am so happy you are ok!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She was a magnificent specimen. Sparkling hair - originally black but now dyed a light bronze - shifting in the from side to side with a cheerful bounce with every step she took closer to me. She had a charismatic smile, her cheeks were always rosy and cheerful and she had traditional Japanese, ebony eyes. She is my sister. My malicious, mortifying, mesmerizing sister, how typical of her to act like she had done nothing. Behind the smile, and the hair and her perfect image I know what she truly was…

Her murky eyes met mine for a mere second; I felt my heart skip a beat. I feared her: my provocative puppet master and I, the wooden doll entwined in her strings.

It was her…

She was the one who hit me so hard. She hurt me.

“Saya, do you know how Mio got hurt?” the doctor inquired adjusting his semi-white coat.

She looked at me – mocking me.

“I am not sure what happened doctor,” her eyes gleamed innocently and her voice was a soft, angelic whisper. “One second I heard a loud thump down the stairs – and - and the next thing I saw… she was on the floor, unable to move.”

A teardrop twinkled in the corner of her right eye, “All I know, doctor, is that… I could not do anything to save her! My poor sister!”

He believed her: fell into her trap. Typical.

 “Oh, my dear child,” he patted her and hugged her as she buried her face in his shoulder and her spurious sobs stained his white sleeve, “it is not your fault, your little sister was just very clumsy to fall down the stairs like that.”

Like always, since I was a little girl I was blamed for everything. I was motherless; they blamed me for that, too. Father had raised both my sister and me alone. However I couldn’t help but feel casted away, or cornered by the family; father never did love me, he never even liked me. He supported me because it was his duty as a father not because of the fact that he loved me as a father. My sister was different. She was the one father adored. Saya had always gotten what she wanted. She was talented, beautiful and perfect – an ideal daughter. Everyone cared for her and gave her love. I was the opposite. No one loved me and no one loves me now and no one ever will. No one will believe me. No one will care for me…

Sister was the one I was the closest to, but you couldn’t call it a normal, loving relationship, but one of abhorrence. We shared a relationship that no other sibling could ever have. Sister hated me. She would hit me. Sometimes blue marks would appear on my body and the place would ache until it hurt so much I couldn’t move.

I could remember once. Fear had overcome me. The first time she struck me; only a week after mother’s death. Everyday seemed meaningless. I would lie on my bed and bury all my screams and tears into the pillow, which was the only thing I was good for. Remembering all the good things mother had done for me; all she ever did was love me. Thinking about it only made it seem more pathetic. It was my own personal purgatory. I was in the midst of thinking of mother when the door creaked open and Saya entered the room. I thought she had come in to comfort me. That is what sisters do. however, the angry face, fisted arms and the slamming of the door contradicted all of my previous assumptions. It was too late to run when she pulled me off the bed to the floor and banged me onto the wall. She screamed at me, with tears rolling down her cheeks. She slapped my face with all the anger and power she had. She spat at me with disgust and blame for my mother’s death. She repeated it over and over again.

Mother died because of you. You murderer.

When father found out about the marks sister would say that it was my fault. She would lie to him. Even though I tried to tell him, he would never believe me. I repeated myself.  Why would I lie? He thought that I had inflicted the wounds on myself because of the grief. He thought that I was breaching insanity or he thought I was a stubborn girl wanting attention from him. Father didn’t love me. I felt pathetic. Sister would always say that I was and made sure I would never forget it.

“Well Mio, you should really be more careful the next time you walk down the stairs. You wouldn’t want any more injuries than you actually have right now. Not to mention that it is very dangerous and almost life threatening. You could have died,” the doctor lectured. I thought about how he would base his opinions on what sister had said. A pathetic, clumsy girl who seeks attention by hurting herself.

Yes, I could have died, yet I am unafraid. Death does not scare me. Many have died. One day, I will die.

“Mio! Thank God. You are so lucky that it isn’t this serious this time.” Saya spat at me.

Ironic how the extent of her torture affects the seriousness of my injuries.

I had been here countless times, yet Dr. Higa could never figure out that it is not because of my clumsiness… that I keep on getting injured.

My wrapped leg was uncomfortable but the bandages neutralize the pain.

Dr. Higa said that I could go home today and that my injuries weren’t serious but I don’t want to go home. Because she will hit me again and I will return, to this routine of a lifetime.