Envy
The line down the middle of our bedroom was imaginary, but it may as well have been carved into the floor like a boundary of war.
On her side, glory. Mine? Dust.
Her name is Mara.
You say her name in our house and the world seems to light up. I swear the temperature rises by two degrees. My father's shoulders relax. My mother's lips stretch into a smile that crinkles the corners of her tired eyes.
As for me, no one remembers me that unless they need someone to blame.
Every morning, sunlight spills through the curtains and immediately gravitates to her wall, like even nature chooses her. She has rows upon rows of certificates, ribbons of excellence, plaques mounted so carefully you'd think we were in a museum.
But mine is bare and it's not by choice, but by merit or the lack of it. I once taped a drawing there. It was a pencil sketch that I took hours to get the shading right on the petals. My mother glanced at it once and said, "It's cute." The next day it was gone. Thrown out perhaps. Or maybe it just left on its own, realizing it didn't belong.
They don't hit me. But I promise you, silence hurts more.
How do you grieve a life that was never offered to you?
A question I constantly ask myself.
Some nights, I lie awake and wonder if I was born as an afterthought. A placeholder. A backup plan that was never needed. Mara is not just the golden child, she's the sun and I'm the shadow that proves she shines.
There's this... rot inside me. It started small. Maybe the first time my mother forgot my birthday because Mara had her debate finals. Or when my father told me I should "try to be more like your sister" as if he hadn't already built her into a god and me into a ghost.
And do you know what the worst part is?
She knows.
Mara walks like she owns the air we breathe. When she speaks, it's with this polished charm that makes teachers adore her and boys follow her around like puppies. But when we're alone, she's different.
She's cold and condescending.
She once said to me, "Don't you get tired of losing all the time?"
And I just... laughed. Because what else could I do? Crying would've just made her feel powerful.
Then, on a particular Thursday. Report card day. Mara, of course, had all A+'s. I didn't. Math dragged me down again. Biology too. My parents didn't look at mine. They never do.
At dinner, my mother turned to Mara and said, "You know, we should start thinking about applying to international universities. Maybe Harvard."
Frustrated, I said, "I improved in C.R.E"
She turned to me with a tight smile and said, "I'm sure you did your best," then turned back to Mara and said, "I can't wait to discuss it with your father when he gets home."
That night, I stared at her wall, the gleam of her trophies throwing reflections onto the ceiling . I looked down at my hands. My fingers were curled so my nails dug into my palm. I didn't feel it, not at first at least.
I whispered, "I could be gone, and no one would even notice."
The air felt heavier after I said it.
I started doing small things at first.
A ribbon goes missing. A framed certificate falls and shatters. I always said, "must've been the wind." A trophy is replaced with an identical fake. I paid for it with money I had saved up.
No one noticed.
So I got bolder.
It was 3:12 a.m.
I remember because I checked.
Twice.
I sat on my bed in the dark.
I stood up, slowly. The floor was cold beneath my feet.
It felt grounding.
I walked over to her side of the room. I let my fingers trail along the edges of her prizes until they landed on the one I hated the most:
"Most Outstanding Student - National Level."
It was heavy, gold-plated and was really sharp on the corners.
She stirred slightly when I approached and mumbled something in her sleep.
"Suki..."
I paused.
My name...
I raised the trophy. My arms shook, not from fear, but from rage of everything I had swallowed for sixteen godforsaken years.
Crack.
The first blow landed just above her eyebrow. Her eyes flew open in confusion, panic and betrayal. Blood spurted on her pillow.
She opened her mouth to scream. I didn't let her.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
I kept going. Long after she stopped moving and her face stopped being a face. Her blood soaked into my shirt, my arms and my skin.
When it was over, I dropped the trophy. It clattered to the floor, sticky with blood.
She looked nothing like Mara anymore.
And I weirdly felt nothing. I didn't feel joy or guilt, just a strange emptiness.
Instead, I walked to the bathroom, quietly, like I was afraid to wake her.
The light flickered when I turned it on, casting shadows across my face in the mirror. I stared at my reflection for a long time. It was unrecognizable. It was splattered red, hair clinging to damp cheeks, eyes hollow. And yet... I looked alive for the first time in years.
I peeled off my clothes slowly, the fabric resisting, sticking to my skin. Her blood was the last claim on me. I smiled.
The water was scalding hot. It felt good, kinda like purification. It felt like I was washing away not just the evidence but all the years of being forgotten, overlooked and unwanted.
As I scrubbed my arms, I whispered to myself, over and over, "She's gone. She's really gone."
And each time, it felt more real. Each time, I smiled a little wider.
I wrapped myself in my softest towel, put on fresh clothes—my favorite hoodie, the one no one ever complimented cause it had graffiti prints and walked back to the bedroom to her trophies still glinting in the dark like they were still mocking me.
But they couldn't hurt me anymore.
She couldn't hurt me anymore.
I climbed into my bed, pulled the blanket to my chin and for the first time in my life, I slept with a smile on my face.
A real one.
A full, satisfied smile.
Maybe now... they'll see me
