Bad Words

 I have a sister. People never think we are related. 

She has almond shaped hazel eyes with flecks of gold. I have close set brown eyes. She has high cheekbones and blond hair. I have a long face and brown hair. She is driven and unafraid. I am not. Unafraid that is. 

When we were kids I would peek through her door to catch her practicing smiles, and reading Metal Edge. Like most older siblings Heather would play with me for a while, then grow bored and wander off. Sometimes the game would be “Redecorate Megan’s Room”,and she would wander off after pushing all the bedroom furniture to the center of my little room. Leaving me standing there looking up at the giant dresser, waiting for her return.

I desperately wanted to impress her. 

We were raised in a cursing house. My dad casually dropped bombs in between laughter. So once in a while, in front of the neighborhood kids, I would let a word fly. I felt dangerous. Of course Heather was always nearby. And after a few weeks of my five year old “dark period,” she cashed in. 

“Megan, go get me a Shasta.”

“No!”

“Megan….bad words.”

This extortion went on for years. Finally, I actually gave myself up. Wandering in Pike Nursery behind my mom, ravaged with guilt and never knowing when the next whisper would come. I broke.

“Bad words, Megan.”

I still get chills.

“Mom, I said some bad words when I was five and Heather has been blackmailing me ever since!”

My mom kept poking through the impatients.

“Okay. You’re forgiven.”

I never felt so free. When we got home I could not wait for Heather to hiss the phrase at me when she wanted something done.

“Megan, turn on the TV.” 

“No. I told mom! You can’t blackmail me anymore!”

She curled her lips and sharpened her beautiful green eyes at me. 

“Megan. Do. It.”

“Okay.”

I mean, come on, she was still my big sister. 

Down the road that powerful gaze would aim at all the things in life that might hurt me. 

My own personal Fury. 

So do me wrong. Go ahead.