Sisters: An Unfinished Random Flash Fiction

The monitor has kept a lonely vigil on the nightstand. Its green, and sometimes red, bars of light have blinked intermittently for nearly two weeks. The volume is turned off, though the residents in bed beside it wouldn’t know the difference. They lay inert beside its quiet pleas—bodies and breath reeking of the same substance that recently occupied the empty bottles littering the floor.

Neither is much to look at. The wife—we’ll call her that, for they are legally married after the common-law variety—is rather large. Her thin, unkempt hair fans across the pillows of her fleshy cheeks, puffy lips hiding dark, spotted teeth. Her pink, wrinkled chemise stains beneath the underarms and her hefty legs tangle in the rank sheets.

Beside her lies the broad form of her husband. Though not as corpulent as his wife, he bears it more awkwardly. His arms and shoulders are thin, but he packs more in his gut and cheeks and ankles. He is also rather hairier; the short stubble of his head extends toward his eyebrows, and down his back. An empty liquor bottle rests against his chest. He strokes it mindlessly with his thumb, a smile on his lips; sordid dreams flitting across his barren mind.

The monitor gives a sudden, silent scream as the bars flash to maximum capacity. Green. Green. Red. Red. Red. All five blink in rapid succession. The monitor seems to buzz and shake with the effort of waking its owners. The wife twitches and begins to stir.

Down the hallway, at the microphone end of the monitor, a girl crouches against crib bars, fingers to her ears.

“Hush, hush,” she pleads with her infant sister, “you’ll wake them!” Her knees are held tightly to her chest, tears in her big, somber eyes.

The girl is no more than seven, perhaps eight years old, though she is small for her age. Her body is as pinched and thin as her parents are large and obtuse. Her wispy-fine hair is mouse-brown and matted, and she reeks of urine. Reaching into the crib, she tenderly lifts out the shrieking bundle. Even so, no one has taught her to support the neck, and the baby’s head lolls back. The infant shrieks louder. Terrified, she pleads again— “Hush baby!”

She cradles her sister like she’s seen other girls do with their dolls. Girls whose dolls are exquisitely dressed, pushed along in pink little wicker prams. She rocks baby girl, back and forth, back and forth. Still, the girl screams on, inconsolable.

Fearful, the girl looks about, grasping at a bottle on the shelf. It is empty—only a dried milk residue remains—but she puts it in, desperate to quiet the shrieking. For a moment it works, baby girl is content to suck on the dry air of the bottle. But her empty belly aches with the rush of air and the crying intensifies. Laying the baby on the floor, the girl rushes through the doorway to get to the fridge, when from the other end of the house, a roar.

“Fer gods sakes, shut ’er up!”

The girl flinches visibly and hurries back to the room. At the end of the hall, an argument ensues.

“It’s yer turn.”

A whiny voice answers. “I went th’ last time!”

“No yeh didn’! Yeh jes’ slep’ through me gittin’ up!”

Their voices grow louder and louder through the thin walls.

“You son-of-a-b—! You say that every time!”

“I don’t! Ef’n yeh ever got off yer own lazy ass, yeh’d know!”

She screams at him in return, a high, angry shriek, and the sounds of a scuffle ensue. Profanities rain through the walls and the whole house shakes at the meeting of these two behemoths. Baby girl screams on, where she’s been left the floor. Her sister sobs quietly, crouched, hiding behind a threadbare armchair in a corner of the room.

A few loud thumps, a final shriek and the door flies open. Hair ratty and frizzed from the tussle, the ogress emerges from her cavern, jowls quivering with rage.

She hurls a final insult behind her; “son-of-a-b—!” before stomping down the hall. Her fury is brought to a halt on finding her infant on the floor. Her face slackens into an expression of dull stupidity as she puzzles over the marvelous event, when suddenly the pieces click.

“Lena!” Her patience is razor-thin. “–Lena! Where is that little b—!?”

Timidly, Lena emerges from behind the chair, thin arms across her chest, shielding herself.

“There you are.” Her mother grimaces. “What you been doin’?” When Lena doesn’t answer, she cuffs her across the head. “You been wakin’ her!? Huh? You been wakin’ her ‘cause you know we already en’t gettin’ no sleep!? You little b—! Answer me!”

Lena glances down at her squalling sister before replying. “No’m. Jes’ tryin’ to shut ’er up.”

“Liar!” Her mother slaps her again, before turning her attention to baby girl. Lena takes the opportunity to scuttle back to her place behind the armchair.

“What Lena been doin’ to you, huh?” she smiles emptily down at baby girl. Lifting her up, she presses the child against her bosom. “Shush, shush, baby.” Lena watches jealously from the corner.

Alternately rocking and bouncing, the woman works to console her. Rock, bounce, pat. Rock, bounce, pat. At moments, the newborn pauses in her crying and allows herself to be consoled. Then, remembering her parentage, the wails begin afresh.

“Agh—jest shutup!” The woman’s jaw quivers angrily. “Well—mebe you’re jest hungry!”

Rummaging in the cupboard, she hastens to mix a few ounces of formula and puts it in the child’s open mouth. Though hungry, the child gags on the cold milk, crying louder. Her small, wrinkled face is a crimson red-verging-on-blue. Rock, bounce, pat. The mother goes through the motions of consoling her child, though inwardly her corrupted heart dwells on the offenses against her. An abusive husband who forces her to care for their children alone! A willful daughter who purposefully awakens her sister. An infant who won’t stop screaming. All of them, conspiring to wrong her. Her mind picks over each damning evidence.

A dark seed of hatred, already well-established, takes firmer root. Her stained pink chemise slips off her shoulder and those wretched, rotted teeth grimace as the infant scorns her attentions.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Five minutes pass, then six. Each second is an eternity beside those ear-splitting screams.

At eight minutes, she tries burping her, changing her, feeding her again. After each failure, her fleshy face darkens, and her mind grows more embittered.

‘All I do is care for ‘em, hour after hour an’ this is my thanks.’ She thinks savagely. ‘I hate ‘em.’

Rock, bounce, pat.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Behind the chair, Lena tries to stifle a miserable sob.

“Lena! Git out here!”

Reluctantly, Lena creeps out from behind her perch.

“You woke ’er, so you c’n take ’er. See how you like it!”

She dumps the child unceremoniously into Lena’s arms and retreats into the hallway. The thin walls no longer hold back the tide of noise, however, and the alcohol has worn its way into a pulsing headache. She hovers there for a few minutes ‘jest to teach Lena a lesson,’ before marching back in to pull the baby out of Lena’s despairing arms.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Rock, bounce, pat.

Rock, bounce, pat, shake.

At first, it’s just brief jounce, enough to scare her quiet. Then, as the screams crescendo and the injustices against her culminate in the woman’s small mind, she shakes the child harder. With a final thump on the thinly carpeted floor, she begins to scream herself.

“Shutup! Jest shutup!”

This time, baby girl listens.