CAZine

Masochists. You probably know one. They enjoy pain. Sadists. You also probably know one, as well. They enjoy inflicting pain. I knew something was wrong with my sister when she began laughing at my dipilectic spasms. I have a rare disease named Dipilectica, which causes the afflicted to randomly spasm throughout the week. Dipilectica is actually something that refines the nervous system, yet, because of the sudden and violent spasms, it is considered a disease. Really, it’s a blessing in disguise. The downside of it is that it makes one more sensitive to pain, more sensitive than any normal person could be.

My little sister Clarabella had been a little angel until she was ten. Then, we were in an aircar crash, and it appears that her brain was rewired, and she became horribly twisted. She began taking an unusual interest in the occult, and has since shredded or somehow obscured all of her butterfly and princess puppets. She painted her walls white with specks of red, making them look like the walls of a slaughterhouse. Her bedspread was completely torn up and crudely stitched together in various places with lumpy but strong thread. It used to be pink and yellow, but she had defiled it so much that it was a dull and dreary gray. Sometimes I still come into her now deserted room and remember the sad patchwork of horror and twisted ness that had once been my sister.

I think it was during the same aircar crash in which she became twisted, that I became dipilectic. I remember lying in the hospital bed, shaking violently in pain. I remember my sister laughing at me for the first time. I remember my heart shattering piece by piece. Now I sit and wonder what evil we had committed to deserve this kind of fate, why that family was broken up, as if we were dropped in a large abyss of corrosive fluid.

“Dianica! Why were you faking a seizure?” My mother’s voice echoed in my head.

I could hear my small voice replying meekly, “But Mammie! I’m not faking it. That was real!”

But the worst of all was the laugh of a corrupt child in my head. Ever since Clarabella died from self-inflicted blood loss, the laughter had echoed in my head. When she was a good child, her laugh had sparked happiness in me, it was clear and loud as a bell; but, after the accident, her laugh changed. It became shrill and hysterical, almost like a shriek.

My sister was deformed beyond recognition at her viewing. Her hair was short and missing large clumps, her skin was laced with cuts and scars, and her clothes were ripped and torn everywhere. She lay in polished oak coffin covered in glass. Her twisted horror and the classic beauty of the casket were a paradox. But that’s what she has always been.

Now, the Clarabella I used to cherish lies six feet under.