5th April
The insistent alarm of my internal clock, perhaps ingrained by years of relentless early mornings, yanked me awake at the usual time, even though the soft, golden light filtering through my curtains proclaimed it was Sunday. Before I could even properly stretch, my mother's voice, sharp with a familiar urgency, cut through the quiet. "To the rooftop, Vienne! Exercise time!" I groaned silently. A lazy Sunday lie-in was a foreign concept in our house. Mom, ever vigilant, would keep a hawk's eye on me, ensuring I went through the motions, but that didn't stop me from slacking off at every possible opportunity, my movements a study in feigned exertion.
Later, I found myself sprawled on my bed, lost in a daydream, when a sudden, piercing shriek shattered the afternoon calm. I blinked, disoriented, then realized I was sitting squarely on Lily's beloved stuffed panda. Kiki.
Lily burst into the room like a tiny, enraged whirlwind, her eyes wide with manufactured anguish. "My Kiki! You are sitting on him!" she wailed, launching herself at my legs, her small fists pummeling me. God, how could that worn-out panda toy be so important?
"I didn't intend to!" I retorted, my own frustration bubbling to the surface. I practically shoved the offending panda back into her arms.
"Say sorry to him!" she demanded, her voice shrill with theatrical indignation.
What? Was she losing her mind? Why in the world would I apologize to a stuffed animal? "Stop the drama, Lily. It's not like he's real."
And just like that, her eyes welled up, big, performative tears already starting to stream down her cheeks. Stop those alligator tears, I thought, my irritation peaking.
"How dare you?!" she shrieked, her voice trembling. "He's alive! He's hurt by you! Say sorry!" Her continuous fist attacks rained down on me, prompting me to shove her away, perhaps a little too roughly. That only fueled her fury, making her charge at me with renewed vigor.
Amidst the escalating chaos, my mother appeared in the doorway, a spatula clutched menacingly in her hand. Her gaze, usually warm, was now narrowed. "Can't you even say sorry, Vienne?" she demanded, her voice rising. Why was she always targeting me?
"What?" I sputtered, disbelief warring with irritation. "Sorry to a toy? And when it wasn't even my intention?"
"She's a kid," Mom retorted, her voice dangerously low, "can't you be more gentle with her feelings?" The spatula felt like a silent threat, a promise of impending doom if I didn't comply.
I glared at my little sister, who was still wailing, a picture of pathetic injustice. That faker. Dramatic waste.
"Yeah, yeah, sorry," I mumbled, my apology as grudging as it was insincere.
Lily wailed even louder, her voice dissolving into a desperate, tear-choked plea. "Say it to Kiki! Gently!" she managed to gasp between her loud sobs.
"What? I'm not saying it again!"
Mom's glare intensified, and I knew I was cornered. "Jeez… sorry, Kiki," I muttered, my voice barely audible, a forced sincerity that felt completely hollow.
And just like that, the drama ended. This was an almost everyday occurrence, or at least twice a day. Why did they both have to gang up on me? Why couldn't they understand it was all such bullshit, especially when I had even explained it wasn't my intention? But I knew it was a battle I couldn't win, and that perpetual inability to make them understand was what truly frustrated me.
The afternoon stretched out, slow and uneventful. I sat doodling aimlessly in my rough notebook, sketches of fantastical gowns and intricate patterns filling the pages. Lily was playing again, her murmured conversations with her stuffed animals filling the background. Mom scrolled through her phone, lost in her own digital world. A very boring day. I hated Sundays. There was never anything new, not when you were cooped up inside.
"Sissy, there's a new movie on TV!" Lily's voice broke through the monotony.
I looked up, surprised. When had she even switched to the TV? But despite my initial annoyance at her constant distractions, a spark of intrigue flickered.
"Oh, really? Let's watch it then," I said, leaping off the bed and practically bounding into the drawing room. The movie had just begun, its opening credits rolling across the screen. We settled onto the sofa, side by side, the soft cushions embracing us. It was strange, how just an hour ago we had been screaming at each other, and now we were sitting together, completely at ease. But that was just how we were. A few playful nudges, whispered comments about the characters, and the occasional shared laugh punctuated the film, and the time melted away surprisingly quickly.
"Close the TV, kids," Mom called from her spot, her voice a gentle reminder.
"Yeah, in a moment," we chorused, united in our common goal of extending our screen time.
And those "moments" stretched into two extra hours until Mom's warning grew sharper, signaling that our reprieve was truly over. We both sighed, a shared resignation. Lily lazily trudged over to switch off the TV, while I sprawled out on the sofa, feeling the pleasant lethargy of a well-spent afternoon.
Soon, she was back to playing with her stuffed toys, and as usual, she casually roped me into her imaginary world. For once, I didn't mind. I let myself be occupied by her play, the simple, imaginative games a welcome distraction from the dullness of the day. She was a nuisance, undoubtedly, but sometimes, just sometimes, she was okay. I found myself smiling.