“You mean your brother?” she said as she burned my sister’s dresses. The words stung like a knife, twisting and turning inside of me. How could she say that? How could she forget my twin sister? The thought of her dresses going up in flames made me sick to my stomach, and I couldn’t hide my disgust. But my mother just stood there, her eyes empty, her face devoid of emotion.
Days passed, but the feeling of anger and betrayal lingered within me. I couldn’t understand how my mother could just forget about my sister like that. I tried to bring it up again, but every time I did, she would just brush me off and tell me to get over it. It was like my sister never even existed.
One night, I decided to confront my mother. I crept into her room and stood by her bed, watching as she slept peacefully. My anger boiled within me, and before I knew it, I had picked up the pillow and placed it over her face. She struggled and fought, but it was no use. My mother was dead.
In that moment, I realized that the anger I felt towards my mother was nothing compared to the guilt I now held. I had become the monster, just like she had when she burned my sister’s dresses. And now, the only thing left for me was to live with the blood on my hands and the knowledge that I had become the very thing I despised.
