Race Cars

I spread dusty blinds with my fingertips and look out at the street. It's a suburban race track out there. We're on a corner lot and the turn is not sharp.

My adopted sister has Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. She's ten. I'm twenty. Sometimes she chases me around the house with a kitchen knife.

Today, I'm babysitting, and she's decided she wants to go outside and play with Susie, our Cocker Spaniel. I let go of the blinds and turn toward her. I tell her, no, she absolutely can not go outside and play with Susie. I stand firm because we all know that 'playing' really means 'trying to twist Susie's head off'. She tells me she hates me and she hates Mom and she hates life. I tell her that's okay because we all love you, even though we probably don't.

She tells me she's going to kill herself and I say whatever. She goes back in her room and slams the door and I turn on the TV and watch NASCAR racing.

Beyond the TV is a view of our backyard through the sliding glass window. I look past the TV and see Susie looking at me, huffing with her tongue out. I get up and go outside. I pet her and feed her and tell her she's a good girl. Because she is.

I slide open the glass door and come inside and close it again. In that same moment, I catch a glimpse of my sister running across the hall. The front door opens and slams shut.

I run to the front door and open it and look outside and see my sister lying in the middle of the street. I tell her to get her ass back inside and she tells me to shut the fuck up. I tell her fine, if that's what you want to do, if you want to kill yourself, that's just fine with me. She tells me you'll feel different when I'm dead and I tell her, whatever and I shut the front door and lock it.

I sit on the sofa and spread the blinds with my fingertips. She's still lying in the street. I turn and watch TV; a demonstration of the stopping distance of race cars.

Darby Larson has been published online before. Visit his website at http://darby.tv

You can email Darby at darbylarson@sbcglobal.net.