The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Silly conversation

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“Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Okay, but does that hurt?”

The one with the water-slick eyes would then let out a pained ‘no.’ But it always sounded like a question.

Always in the back of the car, on a trip to wherever, way before seatbelts were mandatory, these were the kinds of conversations my sisters and I would share. It stemmed from boredom, mainly, but other times it was born of the malice of siblings. It involved digging one’s fingernails into the other one’s arm, mildly at first, until there were four tiny, half-moons glazed over with a fresh spring of blood. It would not have done to give in, to admit to the pain or to bow our heads in shame to one another. It was about endurance and courage, the quiet rebellion of little girls who did not roll in the dirt or hurl curse words to make their point. We were backseat warriors, we reserved our need for blood for long car trips knowing our parents would tolerate more from us when we were away from home.

I remember the pain of it, the agony in refusing to say it hurt, and this refusal only egged the offending sibling on, almost to the point where they looked as panicked as the sufferer felt. We always knew we were going too far, that the one who was digging might be enjoying it a little too much, but the parents were always busy arguing, or were lost in their own heads. Our mother would have her head against her feather pillow, propped up against the passenger side window and our dad would be listening to the radio, humming the songs to himself, oblivious to the bizarre torture his three small daughters were exacting against one another in the seat behind him. He thought it was a game. She thought it was silly conversation. It wasn’t until we’d get to where we were going that we’d emerge from the car looking as though we’d been attacked by a feral cat. Then, we would be chastised, particularly me who was the eldest, and told to never do it again. We always did it again.

As we got older, we got better at hiding the evidence of the assaults, which never seemed to stop. Hurting one another physically became a usual, if not sensational way, to end a disagreement. Occasionally, we’d go so far as to blatantly attack one another in front of our parents, but more often than not, we did it when they weren’t around, so that we could fully exert ourselves without interference, without the possibility of the game ending before a point had been scored. Once, my sister K. provoked me by kicking my shin with a pair of incredibly sturdy penny loafers, which caused me to ball up my fist and punch her squarely in the nose. My best friend, Kyla, happened to be at our house that day, and she could not believe the display in front of her, laughing at first, then covering her face in horror. The blood from my sister’s nose sprayed the wall by the staircase, and we all stood there looking shocked and terrified by the starry art of it, like the blood itself were more offensive than the violence which drew it. I started to cry when I realized what force I’d used on this person who is my family, whose blood was my own , and she cried when she began to think I’d broken her nose (a very vain person, my sister K.) We all three cleaned up the blood and checked K.’s nose, as well as my severely bruised shin, and we covered everything up so that my parents would never know.

They never did.

So many drops of blood cleaned up, so many scars in the skin from arguments about things that never mattered much, even then. It was all about a rage that had been instilled in us three, born of a mother who believed (still believes, actually) that hurting someone physically is the way you make your point. How many times did she ignore us when we spoke to one another like garbage? Did she ever sit us down to tell us how wrong it was to beat someone until they cried? Not to my recollection. I suppose to her, it was normal.

Now that we’re all in our thirties, we three see it differently than she does. We’ve been wounded in several ways since we were children, and the scars aren’t all on the skin. I hate that my sister P. remembers me as a vengeful, acid-tongued pre-teen who provoked her and belittled her as we grew up. I hate that my sister K.’s self-proclaimed conceit annoyed me to the point that I worked to make her feel small, when I should maybe have admired her for being so self-assured. I am angry with them both for being as blind as I was, for needing to feel my skin under their nails so that they could feel my weakness in it, and for being as quick to throw a punch when the conversation went in the wrong direction.

There were good times, though, and I hold on to them as tight as I can. There were peals of laughter, and hand-holding, and sisterly secrets and strokes of the hair. There was love for another, and it lives today, somewhere underneath it all, despite the residual anger which has become more potent with time. A conversation today is usually guarded, like we’re all waiting for one of us to go for the throat, in a way which won’t involve anyone to rise from their chair. Now that I’m older, I am finding that it makes me sad to think about all the wasted time between us, the fights and short-term hatred. I do not look back on the spray of blood with pride, but rather, I remember it with a great deal of shame. I see K’s face, with the jagged scar down one side, and I remember the way her skin felt as I opened it with my claws, and it sickens me. I hear P’s anger on the phone line, even when we’re talking about throwaway things, like gossip or recipes or ideas for decorating, and I know she’s holding onto the anger tighter than I am, which I didn’t think was possible. I want to feel love between the three of us, instead of suspicion , jealousy and disappointment, and I want to know that our closeness can be rebuilt upon a new foundation of respect and love, rather than on genetics and a shared, imperfect history.

I could tell them this, but it would feel strange, excruciatingly uncomfortable, really. They would think I was being dramatic, like I was following a new age script and they might even laugh at me, dismissing me before I got to the last word. They might want to believe me, but the past is alive in us all, each cell of it duplicating, spreading, becoming a part of the body which brought it. I would then retreat, full of ire and bitterness, and nothing would be changed for the better. There would only be more resentment to make room for, and I’m all full inside.

Does it hurt? I hear a voice in my head ask.

Yes, I say back. It hurts more than it used to.