Hello! Have missed the last two write ins, the pen refused to move. So am happy to be back. This is a response to the prompt word: scribble. For the record, I am a nice older sister. Honestly.
The words flew from her, screaming and stamping, a proper full on tantrum. She picked the plate up, the one my mother had said was for me, my special plate with the watership down style hares circling the border. She threw it against the window. Bang, the glass cracked and the plate in pieces. I was ten years old. I pulled her by her hand, and enclosed my teeth around the veins in her skinny wrist. I bit down.
I didn’t break the skin, only the red marks of my teeth left behind and her shocked tears. Little sisters can be so annoying. She ruined the yellow fairground of my bedroom walls, scribbling with black crayon over the pattern. When I locked her outside I wasn’t trying to hurt her, I just needed a break. Some small space of silence before Mum got back from the shops. She often popped out, for fags or groceries, I remember, we had run out of bread. I made myself scrambled eggs, like my granma did for me, the quivering pile of whites and yolks mashed together, a splash of milk. I watched the gloopy liquid thicken and rise like a balloon expanding from someone’s lips. The beeping sound continuous as the minute on the microwave ran out, and the single bark of a dog outside.