When She Was Me

by Marlee Bush

But sometimes I still touch the trees, if only to remind myself that even the most identical things have thumbprints.

Apparently, Lenora didn’t hold it against me for trying to kill her in the womb. That would become our pattern. She’d always forgive me. I’d always let her. Especially when I didn’t deserve it.

On that night fifteen years ago, Lenora and I walked down a hallway together. But when the door opened,

the scene unfolded like a sick feature film.

And maybe the last time I really knew what Lenora was thinking was when she was me.

She doesn’t know that coming here wasn’t a choice. It was the only way we could save ourselves.

Dad will take care of himself. You will do something you shouldn’t. And then I’ll do something even worse.

But no one ever warned me about the dangers of my own thoughts. No one ever told me that there could come a time when trusting myself would be difficult and hating myself would be easy. What to do when the monster is you.

know Lenora. She wouldn’t hurt anyone. But the words are hollow even in my head, where the sound of that boy’s head slamming against the lunch table still reverberates. I guess Lenora isn’t the only one who lies.

Tree roots and wisteria wrapped around our bony bodies, slowly driving us into the ground. You’ll

My perfect sister. My perfectly screwed-up sister. Just like me.

Perfect when we strted

“I knew,” she whispered, “that I should have felt the instant love deep in my soul. It’s what all my friends felt. It’s what I expected. But,” she told us, “I could only feel the ache between my legs and the annoyance at the too-tight grip of your dad’s hand on my shoulder.”

We girls would grow like gnarled tree roots, turning and twisting together.

“You still love me, don’t you, Sandra?” you ask.

Brilliant

“The most selfish thing our mother ever did was put that knife in your hands.”