My sister and I used to fight when we were kids — not scratching and slapping. I’m talking head-biting, slamming each other with doors, kicking, punching, hair pulling, pinching, and biting. Basically, like we were in prison, fighting to be top dog. I was two years younger than her, but physically I think we were fairly evenly matched. So the outcome would usually be even — we’d both be fucked, quiet, and probably bleeding.
We had rules though, like all good prison bitches. Snitches got stitches.
We never hit each other in places visible to our mum. If she knew how much we were beating each other, she’d beat us. And I think we just really enjoyed the release of the fight.
So when we did fight, we didn’t make a sound. We were a more violent version of Laurel and Hardy. Of course, I was Hardy, due to my bigger bone structure.
Even crying had to be controlled. There was no sympathy for crying — in fact, it was seen as weakness. The only time crying got any attention was if it got too loud. Then there’d be a momentary ceasefire. Talks would be had through gritted teeth, spittle flying everywhere:
“SHUT UP!”
At the same time, we’d do a quick body scan — checking for any lasting damage.
I can honestly say I have never beaten anyone more than I’ve beaten my sister.
And I hope she hasn’t either.
If we beat anyone else like we beat each other, we’d be incarcerated.
We could give and take a good beating.
There was one occasion, though, where I had to bend the rules of fight club.
I had to. I didn’t want to.
It was a day like any other — we’d been tasked with cleaning our room, so we were already annoyed.
Ready for a fight.
We started low-level bickering. I knew I only had 30 minutes before I had to leave for Brownies.
I was wearing my Brownie uniform, so we both knew that meant we couldn’t get into a proper fight. If I creased up that long brown cotton shirt dress, my mum would know we’d been up to no good.
So we just faffed about, aggressively whispering insults at each other.
She was telling me to sort out the books. I ignored her.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a red object hurtling towards my face.
A book hit the corner of my eye.
Time froze. The look on my sister’s face said it all — this didn’t look good.
I didn’t make a sound, but my left eye started weeping, and it felt really hot.
My sister jumped to her feet, leapt over the clutter to my side, and clasped her hand over my mouth.
“I’m so sorry — don’t cry! Why didn’t you move? I was trying to pass you the book!”
Pass? Really?
Before I could even reply, our mum shouted from downstairs.
We needed to leave.
Right now!
Quickly escalating into,
“Otherwise you’re going to be late!”
Then,
“Well if you don’t want to go, why should I go? I’ve got loads to do in this house —” loud Punjabi mum tut.
Okay, okay — I needed to find my Brownie hat and cover my eye. My sister hissed, “Don’t tell her,” as I started to walk down the stairs.
I turned off the hallway light and made my way downstairs into the porch, putting my shoes on quietly, shielding the left side of my face from my mum.
Right — thank fuck it was dark outside. I nearly gave the game away at the lights when I looked both ways. Thankfully, my mum was in her own world.
We got to the church. I told my mum I would just run straight in and she could start her walk back. She agreed. I had made it.
It turns out we hadn’t really thought it through. The church hall was fully lit with fluorescent lights. As I walked in, there were sideways looks between the parents and Brown Owl.
We started like we always did with a circle and a little chant:
“Twist me and turn me and show me the elf
I looked in the water and there saw myself.”
Then we peered into a mirror on the ground, and I saw my eye.
It was nearly sealed shut; what you could see of it was bloodshot red. It was weeping and swollen.
I needed to put my hat back on.
As soon as the hall broke into activities, I was ushered into a different room. There I was given hot chocolate and biscuits. I quickly pocketed some and burnt my mouth on the hot chocolate.
Brown Owl came in with another parent and a priest. It was like the start of a really bad joke. I was asked about my home life, my siblings, my parents. I answered as honestly as I could. I remembered things I couldn’t share — like my dad fiddling with the electrics and gas.
Then they moved over to my eye. That’s when I became a lot less chatty. I told them I wasn’t allowed to say what had happened. Every vague answer just made them more anxious. I asked if I could rejoin the group. They agreed.
It became an issue again at home time. They asked me to help clear up all the chairs at the end of Brownies. They wanted to talk to my mum alone. I watched for a little chunni-covered head amongst the tall Caucasians. I saw her, and then watched as she was swarmed by Brown Owl and her merry men.
After a while, Brown Owl came out and took me to the side. She told me my mother knew nothing about my injury. I agreed with her.
I was trying to make it better, but I was making it worse. They were going to call the police. If they called the police, my mum would actually murder me.
I changed tactic.
I said, “Okay, right, I’m going to tell you what happened. But first I want you to make my mum promise that she won’t tell my sister off.”
I mean, honestly — how good am I?
Once the real story was told, they lost interest really quickly and let me go home. On the way home my mum was very ‘nice’ to me. When we got to the crossing for the A-road, I knew to stand back a bit. There was something about her that didn’t make me feel quite right. I also made sure to keep up with her pace and carry all my own things.
I was too young to die.
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