A quick piece of Flash Fiction I wrote this morning:

TEST DAY

I don’t know if we were born to the same family for each other, or if it was random. But I’ve heard you get closer to a fellow comrade during war—even if it’s a domestic one. It was okay that we both supported a different side, because deep down, we didn’t want the other combatant to stand alone.

I taught you to tie your shoelaces. I taught you your multiplication tables. I taught you to fight the neighborhood bullies. I’m ashamed that couldn’t always protect you from the one at home. We were closer than sisters, more like soulmates. And I was always secure in who I was, because I was your big sister.

On your Test Day, the doctor didn’t have to tell us. It was in his eyes. In ours, a deep, mirrored terror.

I couldn’t break. It had always been my job to make the world okay for you.

I failed.

After, I was adrift. Who was I if I wasn’t your big sister? A chasm opened in me. I wasn’t afraid of suicide, but I didn’t know how it could be possible to live without you. So I decided—I’d live enough for both of us. In my triumphs, I heard a small cheer. In my despair, I heard you cry.

Today is my Test Day. I’m unafraid, because if it’s the same sentence you got, I know I can do this.

You taught me how.