It was never me. I always presumed I was the error, the porturding fluctuation beautifully tagged the black sheep of the family. Auntie began with her taunts and I accepted it all. I was the thief. My countenance echoed doubts in Auntie. She said my laughter was risible and I shrunk in dejectedness. Everyone saw what she thought was there and I saw it too.
I was in the wrong with my siblings as if I had fallen from a different world. They wondered why I often made Auntie angry even without batting my eyes. How could I know? I was just a child devoured by fear and the need to please. Everyone would be happy if I was just silent.
Yesterday I flowed into memory lane. It was never me, it was Auntie. She was the problem. Her childhood had been mangled by unreciprocated love and care. Her family never gave her a chance to shine. She was the last child, the one who suffered when the tides turned and none of her siblings sheltered her.
It was explosive anger and vengeance. She was never chosen. When my mother, her sister began to have kids, Auntie knew it was time to flip the story. Now she could choose who was her favourite and who would bear the brunt of her past.
Broken and battered, the torments came and whenever Auntie showed up, I would cower and cry. The world was against me. Yesterday, I realised Auntie was in pain and she needed someone to cast out. I held firmly till I could fight back.
Now she talks and I stare back glacially, reminding her of the hurt she caused. I've forgiven the past but she knows my silence carries a trudging weight. I've grown!
