I’m tired of talking about myself, I’ve lost all interest in my life. But I’m writing again, mostly fiction.

I’d only met her twice, each time losing energy and coherent thought processes, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to see her again. Her sullen eyes were always rimmed with slightly reddened flesh, her hair dark and without apology, much like a bird’s nest, the tangles made their frizzy home wherever they saw fit. She was not beautiful in the classical sense, nor in the modern sense, she just was. Her cheeks were freckled and always flushed, as if she just returned from the harsh cold. Her lips were cracked and bitten, occasionally stained with a cheap lipstick or spots of blood. Her voice was deep, so anything she said sounded profound. She drank far too often and far too heavily for her thin frame, the alcohol bubbled in her empty stomach and she popped antacids into her thin, wide lips like candy. She was tall and lanky, her arms ended four inches past the point they would on most frames, her elbows and hips jutted out too far.

There was never a mistake she didn’t enjoy making, never a lie you could catch her saying, never a genuine smile across her lips. If it wasn’t sarcastic, it wasn’t coming out of her mouth. Being around her took too much from you, therefore she had hundreds of acquaintances but was left with very few friends. When she was happy she was loud, when she was sad she was louder, and when she was angry she was deafening. She was, by all means, a bitch–unapproachable, unpredictable, cynical, rude, unforgiving, and yet she was genuine. She was, by genetics only, my sister.