Every year, on my birthday, she returns at 2:12am, the precise minute of my birth. She reminds me of all that I have failed to accomplish, each year she appears angrier. So here, on my eighteenth birthday, I await her, counting down the minutes. At 2:12am, a pale, bony hand reaches out from beneath my bed, and she crawls out. Her body is horrifyingly distorted, having been contorted to fit in a box much too small: bones jut out, neck twisted, head to the side, white skin discoloured and grey. She stands up, more grotesque each passing year, her body so disfigured that her outline in the moonlight is barely recognizable as human. She reaches her arms out to me and opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. I had stolen her life from her. I, the weaker one, had killed her in the womb. Every year, on our birthday, she returns to try and take my life and send me back to her coffin. Only one of us can live and each passing year she becomes angrier. And stronger.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Nov 2013 10:30:51 +0000
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