old: Memoir

Memoir

My first memory of being scared is from when I was four or five years old, I think.
I was in bed, aware of a thirst that was clawing up my throat and leaving sawdust in its wake. The duvet felt stuffy and suffocating, my legs cocooned and claustrophobia started taking its hold.
My younger sister whispered my name across the metre of carpet that separated our beds. I ignored her, too uncomfortable to care.
“What is it?” she insisted.
“I want water.”
I heard shuffling, blankets being pushed away, a little body sitting up. “But you can’t have any,” she murmured, voicing my thoughts. We weren’t allowed to leave our beds.
“But I’m really thirsty,” I complained to her, mimicking her movements and sitting up too.
“Mum will get angry if you go downstairs.” All I could see of her was the gleam of her eyes in the silhouette she cast over the wall.
“I know. She already got angry with me today,” I told her.
There was a slight creak outside our closed bedroom door. My eyes widened, and I leapt for my pillow as my sister did for hers, both of us holding our breath and feigning sleep.
But the thirst was still there.
After what felt like an hour, I sat up again and squinted down at the shadow on the other bed. “I’m gonna go,” I whispered.
She ignored me, still pretending.
I gently placed my bare feet on the carpet, and stood up, looking out for any signs that someone outside the room had noticed.
The first few steps were hard, but once I’d opened the bedroom door and crept across the landing, I was sure I could get away with it. Mum must have fallen asleep.
A bit more relaxed, I gripped the banister and went down the stairs, careful to step at the edges of the ones I knew creaked. I was in the kitchen before I knew it.
Reaching up, I searched for the plastic cup that was mine, but it wasn’t on the drying rack beside the sink where it usually was. I started to panic; how was I to drink without my cup?
“Sister?”
My gaze whipped to the kitchen entrance, terrified that I was caught. It was an irrational fear, as not only was it not my mother’s voice, but there was only one person in the world who called me that.
“Dina?” I whispered angrily. “What are you doing down here?”
She looked at me, her eyes wide, her curly hair in the two high bunches Mum had made that morning; she was short for a four year old and I was hyperaware of this as her eyes followed me. Her teddy was clutched tightly in one hand, its snout grazing the floor.
“Dina, go upstairs!” I hissed, knowing that if both of us were caught, I'd get blamed.
She shook her head vehemently. “I was scared. Why aren’t you drinking?”
“I can’t find my glass.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not on the table.”
Her eyes landed on the drying rack and sure enough, I was right. “Mine is.”
I ignored her, watching as she walked over to me. “You can use mine,” she whispered, standing on her tip-toes and trying to reach the cup. She was too short but I wasn't, so I got it for her.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, and smiled at me.
“Here you g-”
“What are you girls doing!?” The angry voice was so sudden that the cup slipped from Dina’s fingers and clattered to the floor, sounding like a gunshot atter our whispers. We both looked up to see Mum, looking livid.
“I- We were-”
“I was thirsty!”
“Yeah?” Mum sounded furious; she flicked the switch to turn on the lights in the kitchen. I saw her standing In the doorway, hands on hips, her night suit scrunching up at the shoulders.
She stormed towards me, her hand reaching out and grabbing my wrist. “I’ll teach you to be thirsty.”
Dina had started crying, and I could hear her whimpers intensify as Mum’s grip around our wrists tightened painfully.
She yanked us out of the kitchen, leaving the light on, and dragged us to the living room, where she snapped at us to wait for her.
As soon as she left the room I glanced at Dina, whose crying got louder with each passing second. “Shut up, Dina, it’s all your fault! What did you have to come down for? Now we’re gonna get hit so hard, all thanks to you!”
She cried harder, and looked up at me through her tears. “I won’t get in trouble, will I?”
One look at her red face, wet and scared, smothered my anger instantly. “No. No, I won’t let you. I’ll tell her it was my fault, you can go to back to bed, okay?”
She nodded but didn’t stop crying.
“Now stop that, or you will get in trouble,” I murmured to her. She tried to, but she’d caught the hiccups by now.
A light clatter came from the kitchen, and the light was switched off. Mum came back in the room, and I saw a wooden cooking spoon in her hands. The sharp ice of fear jolted through me.
Without warning, Mum grabbed Dina’s hair and pulled. Dina’s sob turned into scream as her hair was pulled so hard her feet almost left the ground.
“Mum, Mum! No, stop it!” My voice was shrill as I ran to her and started pulling on her arm. “It was me, I made her come down, Mum, please!”
Behind me, I heard the dull thump of the wooden spoon on flesh, and Dina cried out again. My voice climbed an octave as I tugged at her with all my might. “Stop it, Mum, stop it!”
She glared down at me, but let go of my sister, who fell to the ground with a muffled sob.
A sudden pain flared in my arm and I heard more than saw the cooking spoon strike me. I shrieked a little, my head snapping up.
“I’m so sorry, Mum-" thump "-I’m so sorry, please-” thump "-I won’t do it again, I’m sorry!” I sobbed. Her hand found its way to my hair, and tightened. I could feel the roots being pulled away from my scalp as she dragged me up so I was on my very tip-toes.
“I’ll teach you what happens when you don’t do as I say,” she spat at me, and threw me so hard I stumbled into the nearby sofa.
I cried into my hands, trying to stop the hot pain flaring in my scalp. I saw Mum grab Dina's arm through the gap in my fingers, I watched silently as she twisted and twisted, and it was all I could do to scrunch my eyes shut as a sickening crunch cut off Dina’s scream.

('The first time I ever told a page a secret'.)