I Murdered My Sister
Before I tell you how I murdered my sister, let me explain the picture. I asked my dad to dig up a picture of my dead sister and this is what he sent me along with a review of the previous night’s Murder She Wrote. You guys would love my dad. Oh, and this picture was taken on June 9, 2015 on the aforementioned basketball court.
Back to the story.
I will never go to jail for it, but it was definitely murder.
WARNING: You may find some of the images presented here disturbing or disgusting. I know I do.
I had a twin in utero and she implanted above my eye as a cyst. I am convinced it was a girl because “cyster” and sister are the same and that is just, plain funny. I think I murdered her in anticipation of the nasty boyfriend kissing incident in grade 9 – that bitch! That is possibly all in my head but it sure seems real.
Anyway, my family always thought the lump of hair was a pimple that grew out of my head. They heated it, squeezed it and the hair and puss (sorry) would come out and it would go away for a period of time. Heat, squeeze, repeat.
My twin kept growing.
When I got to about grade 7 or 8 my twin was the size of a ping pong ball growing above my eyebrow partially closing my right eye. Kids are mean, so you can imagine what they said to me not even knowing it was my twin. Had they known, I think they would have been instructed by their parents to leave the conjoined girl alone and stop staring.
Heating and squeezing no longer worked.
I will never forget the day that Joanne (I am saying and typing her name with a sneer for affect) caught me off guard with a chest pass in basketball and it landed directly on my eye – which was her intent. My twin exploded. I cried humiliating tears. The kids laughed. This had to end.
My father took me to the doctor who scheduled a time for the removal in his office. I remember the lame anaesthetic. I told my doctor I could still feel everything and he said I couldn’t. He kept telling me that it was just the pressure I was feeling and to keep still. He cut, squeezed and I was screaming like he was killing me not knowing that he was actually murdering my twin sister/cyster. I can only imagine what my father was thinking in the neighbouring room. I still have trouble with anaesthetic and often just go without at the dentist because they have to stick me so many times.
Back to my twin. The doctor couldn’t stand my screaming and apparently refused to add more freezing to the open wound so he stitched me (as I cried) and said he would have to do a general. I distinctly remember the sound of metal hitting metal as he threw down his instruments and threw a fit.
The surgery happened and I was left with a second nasty scar above my eye. Fast forward to my step-grandfather’s funeral. We were on our way to the family pews when my exceedingly helpful and funny aunt asked me about my cyst. I told her the Coles Notes version of the story and that is when she told me I was a murderer. I had had an embryonic cyst and that, considering the age at which I removed it and the amount of space it took up, it was likely to contain fully formed teeth when it was removed. My aunt was responsible for lab testing at the time and had seen her share of teeth so took great joy in sharing. Needless to say the tears at the funeral were real and so were the giggles as my mother, aunt and I could barely contain ourselves. Nothing like a good family murder story at a funeral to give you a new lease on life I always say.
The scars are real folks. The scars are real. Literally (and I use that word correctly grammar nazis), the scars are real.