I spoke to break them up.
Somewhere along the way, I decided that what I believed in and forsaw was the only conclusion and I manipulated her into aggravating the situation. I nearly succeed.
I knew exactly what she was getting herself into. But I wanted to break her. I wanted her to finally fail. I was sick of her getting everything she wanted. Her pets, a perfect husband and endless support from our father. I let her go.
But I wanted to watch her crash and burn. And I wanted to be the one who caused it.
I wanted to take the good she didn’t see if front of her before she noticed. I wanted her to regret. To feel extreme loss; again and over. She didn’t deserve to be happy. She was just lucky. She always was and it wasn’t fair.
I thought everything through. I read everyone involved perfectly. I was ready to twist our mother against her, I could have. I would have but I didn’t.
I didn’t because I hesitated. After months and months of making notes in my head of what to say and who to accidentally bump into, I didn’t do it.
I didn’t do it because I decided that her staying this way would hurt her more. To have her fight hard enough and not end up with what she wanted just like the rest of us. I let them stay together. Because it was my way of trapping her. Her personal hell defined by a signed contract and circumstances. I wanted her to face her own consequences.
I wanted her to hurt more.
So I built her up again and sometimes it saddens me that she’s so happy again, with child and husband. Showered with support in everything she does.
I should feel happy for her but I’m so bitter. Because in the end I am the one who gave her this life again. Everytime she asked me to fix things I somehow did. ‘I’ll figure something out, right?’
I was supposed to sabotage her.
I was supposed to tear her down.
But I didn’t and I should be happy but I’m not. All the effort wasted. I go home and see her as one of my social-engineering failures all because I hesitated. A could have; an almost.
It pains me, I never got what she got when was down. Instead I am told to shut up and to stop crying. When I am torn and vacant I am demanded to smile and be happy for my father.
I knocked her down and instead of suffering I saw how much tighter the collar around my neck was.
No matter how hard I try, I am always losing while she is just lucky.
Sister, sister you are ever so lucky.
And I can’t help hating you for it.