i wrote a story
this is completely fiction remember that!
THE BARBIE
By
Ilona Lukovskaya
She was the perfect daughter, the perfect student, and the perfect girl. She would have been 25 today. She would have been in law school now, working on trying to be the lawyer she always aspired to be, and I can’t help but think she’s not because of me. I remember that day so well. I was 5, she being 10 years my senior, was 15. I apparently showed an interest for cutting hair at an early age and thought that to broaden my talent the obvious thing to do was to practice. Barbies, with their lovely long hair, seemed perfect in my mind, and after giving mine haircuts that would make the bowl- cut look fashionable to the tenth degree, I upgraded to hers. She never played with them so I thought it would be ok, they were collective-type Barbies, not made to be taken out of the box, much less man handled by a 5 year old with a dream. God she was so angry. She was screaming so loud, louder than her usual, and that’s saying something. Actually she never could keep her mouth closed for very long, she was either talking or laughing or singing, badly by the way. That day though, she could put a wild banshee to shame. I, having sufficiently destroyed $3,000 worth of designer dolls, was being screamed at by a sister with the lung capacity of an opera singer. Being 5 years old however, and with limited taste, I felt traumatized by her reaction to what I would call masterpieces. I decided to retreat to the safe house of the jungle gym in the park across the street from our home where I felt my talents would be appreciated. I fled across the house, reached the door and was speeding across the street her chasing me all the while and degrading my cutting ability (she always was the multitasker I am told). When I finally reached the other side of the lane alone, something I had never done before, I felt a wave of accomplishment wash over me. I always knew that I didn’t need someone to hold my hand. I didn’t, but she did.
As I was heaving for breath after my sprint I noticed that her incessant jabbering had stopped. As I turned back around in the direction of our house I saw the image that still haunts me on a regular basis. She was lying there unconscious and blood stained, with a black Beemer 2 inches away from her, her body one way, her head the other. The driver, I was told, wasn’t watching the road and didn’t see her jump into the street coming to settle the score with me. He was too busy talking on his new portable phone, being ’95 the phones were still the size of small bricks and weighed just as much. He was putting his down right when she lunged into the line of traffic. What came after is a large blur, mainly because I fainted at the sight of my only sister surrounded by a puddle of blood.
She died of head trauma on March 13, 1995. It happened to be a Friday, and people wonder why I am so superstitious.
No one knows about her except my family, (and then not many talk about her, probably for my sake) none of my friends not even my best know. My parents obviously didn’t take losing their first child too well, this being the understatement of the decade; I however took it even worse, plagued with guilt I refused to eat, not that many noticed being to busy consoling my parents. But when I almost died from what was diagnosed as malnutrition (apparently not eating for nine days does that to person) my parents “snapped out of it” for lack of better words. I doubt they were going to allow themselves to lose me too. Therapy was initiated throughout ages 6 to 12 not that it did too much because although all eight psychiatrists have told me constantly, repetitively, almost as a chant that it wasn’t my fault, I cant help but have that same nightmare over and over again reliving that fateful day.
Every year on her birthday we go down to the cemetery and visit her grave, something we will no doubt do today, as it is tradition. And afterwards we come home and tell stories about her and every year I am told that I look like her more and more. I am even told that I sound like her and although I know I should take offence to these statements I seem not to. Possibly the saddest part of this entire ordeal is that the only time I remember her well is that last day. Most of my “memories” are just stories that have been told about her mixed with my imagination. I do remember her eyes though. The same eyes that made my family smile, the same eyes that impressed the teachers and the same eyes that sent every boy’s heart aflame. Why is that the most significant part of her that I remember? (Aside from her voice, of course.) Psychiatrists have their theories and yes, I’ve heard them all ranging from “it was the portal to her soul” to “it was the part of her which you saw the most” which if you think about it makes no sense because she, being a tall girl and I being only 5 years old saw her legs the most because they were eye level. But no, that’s not why I think I remember her eyes so well. I remember them because of that day. She was always unique, my sister, never one to follow the crowd even when she died. She didn’t go like most people with their eyelids dropped. No, not her. I remember her image well. Her body on the pavement as if it was tossed there recklessly by a child, her hair fanned out beneath her, and her piercing emerald eyes staring straight at me.
She would have been 25 today… she’s not because of me.
THE BARBIE
By
Ilona Lukovskaya
She was the perfect daughter, the perfect student, and the perfect girl. She would have been 25 today. She would have been in law school now, working on trying to be the lawyer she always aspired to be, and I can’t help but think she’s not because of me. I remember that day so well. I was 5, she being 10 years my senior, was 15. I apparently showed an interest for cutting hair at an early age and thought that to broaden my talent the obvious thing to do was to practice. Barbies, with their lovely long hair, seemed perfect in my mind, and after giving mine haircuts that would make the bowl- cut look fashionable to the tenth degree, I upgraded to hers. She never played with them so I thought it would be ok, they were collective-type Barbies, not made to be taken out of the box, much less man handled by a 5 year old with a dream. God she was so angry. She was screaming so loud, louder than her usual, and that’s saying something. Actually she never could keep her mouth closed for very long, she was either talking or laughing or singing, badly by the way. That day though, she could put a wild banshee to shame. I, having sufficiently destroyed $3,000 worth of designer dolls, was being screamed at by a sister with the lung capacity of an opera singer. Being 5 years old however, and with limited taste, I felt traumatized by her reaction to what I would call masterpieces. I decided to retreat to the safe house of the jungle gym in the park across the street from our home where I felt my talents would be appreciated. I fled across the house, reached the door and was speeding across the street her chasing me all the while and degrading my cutting ability (she always was the multitasker I am told). When I finally reached the other side of the lane alone, something I had never done before, I felt a wave of accomplishment wash over me. I always knew that I didn’t need someone to hold my hand. I didn’t, but she did.
As I was heaving for breath after my sprint I noticed that her incessant jabbering had stopped. As I turned back around in the direction of our house I saw the image that still haunts me on a regular basis. She was lying there unconscious and blood stained, with a black Beemer 2 inches away from her, her body one way, her head the other. The driver, I was told, wasn’t watching the road and didn’t see her jump into the street coming to settle the score with me. He was too busy talking on his new portable phone, being ’95 the phones were still the size of small bricks and weighed just as much. He was putting his down right when she lunged into the line of traffic. What came after is a large blur, mainly because I fainted at the sight of my only sister surrounded by a puddle of blood.
She died of head trauma on March 13, 1995. It happened to be a Friday, and people wonder why I am so superstitious.
No one knows about her except my family, (and then not many talk about her, probably for my sake) none of my friends not even my best know. My parents obviously didn’t take losing their first child too well, this being the understatement of the decade; I however took it even worse, plagued with guilt I refused to eat, not that many noticed being to busy consoling my parents. But when I almost died from what was diagnosed as malnutrition (apparently not eating for nine days does that to person) my parents “snapped out of it” for lack of better words. I doubt they were going to allow themselves to lose me too. Therapy was initiated throughout ages 6 to 12 not that it did too much because although all eight psychiatrists have told me constantly, repetitively, almost as a chant that it wasn’t my fault, I cant help but have that same nightmare over and over again reliving that fateful day.
Every year on her birthday we go down to the cemetery and visit her grave, something we will no doubt do today, as it is tradition. And afterwards we come home and tell stories about her and every year I am told that I look like her more and more. I am even told that I sound like her and although I know I should take offence to these statements I seem not to. Possibly the saddest part of this entire ordeal is that the only time I remember her well is that last day. Most of my “memories” are just stories that have been told about her mixed with my imagination. I do remember her eyes though. The same eyes that made my family smile, the same eyes that impressed the teachers and the same eyes that sent every boy’s heart aflame. Why is that the most significant part of her that I remember? (Aside from her voice, of course.) Psychiatrists have their theories and yes, I’ve heard them all ranging from “it was the portal to her soul” to “it was the part of her which you saw the most” which if you think about it makes no sense because she, being a tall girl and I being only 5 years old saw her legs the most because they were eye level. But no, that’s not why I think I remember her eyes so well. I remember them because of that day. She was always unique, my sister, never one to follow the crowd even when she died. She didn’t go like most people with their eyelids dropped. No, not her. I remember her image well. Her body on the pavement as if it was tossed there recklessly by a child, her hair fanned out beneath her, and her piercing emerald eyes staring straight at me.
She would have been 25 today… she’s not because of me.