Dear Chris

Annie Sumpunlapak ‘19
Thailand

Dear Chris,

Many of my friends say you deserve a better sister. I was hoping for a dog, not a brother. But you did a good job substituting anyways. I did not like you much, because mom always made you right. You always used that against me, and I got hit with whatever stick that’s closest to her reach.

I forget that we grew up under the same stick. But you cried harder. Apologize, even if you’re weren’t wrong. You screamed louder when we held your body down, pushing a syringe of flemmex down your throat. I didn’t want to have a weak brother, so I kept giving you bloody pinches.

I’m sorry for running away from you in that playground jungle every time mom dumped us there. I’m sorry I plugged the iron and stab it on your thigh. And forcing you to go to the village at midnight alone with just a flashlight. You were six and didn’t want to get another bloody pinch. I was nine and should’ve known better.

Three extra years of life doesn’t mean shit, Chris. I gave you weed because I didn’t want your first high to be with some stranger. You repaid me by telling our parents that I’m a pothead. They almost cancelled my returning flight to Minneapolis. You forced me to stay on call for six hours when you found out she cheated on you. Gave me your account so I can break up with her for you. And got back within the first three minutes she started apologizing.

I told you the cold hurts, but you said you love cold when the coldest you’ve been in is 52 degrees. I sent you videos of snowstorms in January, and you still applied to three schools in Minnesota. Dad paid me to write your college essays even if I told him I shouldn’t. He thinks money can buy college entrance and you think I can make your problems go away.

You don’t suffer from middle child syndrome, because you justify Allie’s birth as an accident. You say that to her over and over, hug her every and each time so she knows you’re kidding. You’re not kidding. You said no one loves you enough to buy you Christmas presents. We’re buddhists, so I bought Diablo III on the Eve. You said you don’t play Diablo III.  Mom calls and cries. She said you’ve locked yourself up in the room and only answer with screams, again. He’s 18, why is he like this? I don’t know mom. She said you’re getting paranoid and blames it on me and the weed.

You don’t smoke, you barely do. So why are you paranoid? I told you to stop doing laughing gas, nitrogen oxide kills your brain cell. Your skin doesn’t bleed anymore, they’re soft like the red cushions we used to jump on. And when the waves come, I jump on so you can never get hit by them, Chris.  I’m tired of crying in my sleep, you get kidnapped and Allie gets pregnant. I’m sorry about the umbrella stitches. I’m sorry about the bloody pinches. I’m sorry about



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