The Monster They Made Me

If I hadn't gone, Mom wouldn't have forced me to take Anthony's place at the school across the river. Anthony was her golden boy, the one who listened to her every command. He was terrified of the water; he would never have gone near that riverbank on his own.

But the moment I stepped out of the woodshed, the blow came.

Thwack.

Mom brought a thick stick down across my back, the pain exploding along my spine.

"You wretched girl! I let you go to school, and this is how you repay me? Scheming against your own brother?" Her face twisted into a snarl. "You wanted him to feed the fish, didn't you? I ought to beat you to death right here!"

I curled in on myself, shielding my head, but her words cut deeper than the wood.

"You're just waiting for Anthony to die so you can hog the morning drumstick, aren't you?" she shrieked. "You heartless monster. You freak."

But I knew the truth. Anthony's clothes were bone dry. He hadn't been near the river at all.

Mom, Anthony is lying to you. I screamed it silently. He wants to steal you and Dad away from me completely.

That night, I was banished to the woodshed. Grandma tried to intervene, her voice trembling as she pleaded for mercy. It only earned her the same sentence.

"You old bat!" Mom spat, turning her rage on her. "Isn't it enough that you leech off this family? You want to side with that little wretch? Fine. Go freeze with her!"

Dad stood by the door, silent as a statue. He didn't dare speak. He only watched.

The woodshed was bitter cold. Grandma whispered in my ear, her breath forming faint clouds in the dark.

"Cat, don't mind your mother's temper. She let you take the school spot, didn't she? Deep down, she still dotes on you."

She rubbed my freezing arms. "She's just angry right now. Apologize tomorrow. She's your mother; she won't hold a grudge forever."

Grandma kept chattering, trying to distract me from the cold, but her voice grew fainter and fainter until it was just a murmur.

It was the warmest night I slept that entire winter.

It was also the last.

Morning brought a bone-deep chill that woke me with a start. My body felt heavy, as if something were pressing the air from my lungs. I turned my head.

Grandma's face was inches from mine.

Swollen. Purple. Still. Frost clung to her gray hair like cruel jewels.

Grandma was dead. And with her went the last person who might shield me. From that day on, Dad never tried to stop Mom's beatings. He only looked relieved that the target wasn't him.

Just as my parents blamed me for their misery, I directed every ounce of my hatred toward Anthony.

I wish he were dead.

Tonight, the cold bit into my skin. No one was there to warm me. I curled into a tight ball in the corner of the woodshed, silently praying for my brother's demise.

I never imagined that when heaven finally answered a prayer, it would hurt this much.

In the dead of night, a shadow moved in the corner. Through my daze, I saw a hand pick up a half-peeled apple. I thought it was a stray cat until a burst of sweetness exploded on my tongue.

"Catherine, eat."

Anthony's voice drifted into my ear, soft and terrified.

I didn't speak. I chewed mechanically, accepting the apple he fed me bite by bite. Then the taste turned metallic. Copper mixed with sweet juice.

I opened my eyes. In the pale moonlight, I saw the gash on his finger. He had sliced his own flesh while peeling the fruit in the dark.

He was a boy who cried over a scraped knee, yet now, with blood dripping from his hand, he didn't make a sound. No tears. No fuss. He just kept feeding me.

I opened my mouth to speak, but his small, sticky hand covered my lips.

"Catherine, don't talk," he whispered, eyes wide. "If Mom hears, she'll hit you again."

The moonlight caught the tears swimming in his eyes. They shone like stars.

Why?

Why did he always do this? Every time I took a beating for him, he would sneak in to comfort me. Every time Mom gave him a drumstick, he saved it until I came home from school. He followed me around like a shadow, looking at me with those big, innocent eyes that made everyone pity him.

If he didn't do these things—if he were just a spoiled brat—I could hate him properly. I could use every vicious method I could think of to steal our parents back without a shred of guilt.

Anthony stripped off his down jacket. He draped it over me, though it was too small to cover more than my chest.

"Why?" I choked out.

He pressed his hands down on the jacket, tucking me in to keep the warmth from escaping.

"Remember when Mom took Dad to visit relatives?" he whispered. "You went to school and didn't take me. I was mad, so I tore a page out of your textbook."

He sniffled. "Grandma saw and slapped me. It hurt so much, Catherine."

He looked at me, his expression devastatingly earnest.

"When Mom hits you, I feel just like that. My heart hurts. Catherine, I don't want you to be in pain."