The fires that burned witches warmed houses. My sister was the witch, I was the house and my parents were the fire. 

That was something I realized years ago when I was six and my sister was eight, back then my sister was forced to clean the house and then do the dishes. She accidentally broke a plate and the person who gave birth to her hit her hard enough to cause swelling. 

My other parent was sitting watching a football match, an arm draping my shoulder. That memory was as vivid as the present day, probably as vivid as the first day I remember the older woman getting angry at my sister.

Soon he stood up and stopped the whole fiasco, by slapping my mother. 

Thinking back, I realized my parents were the true monsters from those picture books they bought me. 

The woman picked on the weaker. 

The man picked on the weaker.

But my sister was gentle. 

I know because I was weaker.

I remember that night my mother apologized again and again after coming to her senses, for hitting my sister, my sister just smiled faintly. She was looking closely at the bruises on my mother which were all too much a painting of blue-black-red. 

My mother was the weak.

But my sister was a child.

It was a tragedy in the writing.

I remember being with my sister that night. We were sitting on the bed. I was just hugging her hand till I fell asleep. When I woke up, I watched my sister cry. 

For the first time.

"No, no cry." My eyes watered, her tears not stopping.

She smiled, mustering all of the courage in her. She kissed me on my forehead. She hugged and rocked me till we fell asleep. 

It was a fond memory. 

The warmth, the tears and the gentleness, all clearly burnt to my brain.

When I was eight, I wanted a toy, I asked and cried and wailed. The person, half of whose genes I owned, got angry and was about to beat me and my sister clinged to his legs to stop him. The monster, shaped like a man, beat her with a slipper. 

Two of her teeth broke.

She gave them to me.

"The tooth fairy would grant your wish." She grinned vividly, her front teeth missing.

I believed her and next day the dinosaur I wanted was right there, under my pillow. 

I ran to her and hugged her, the green coloured stuffed toy in one hand.

"Happy Birthday!" I grinned as brightly as I could.

My sister had laughed, her eyes crinkling, ruffling my hair

She was probably the one who bought the toy with the money my mother gave her sometimes as an apology.

It was the first time I had given her a gift.

It was the first time she had gotten one.

On my ninth birthday, she brought me to a bakery and went and bought a muffin with a candle. 

It was the best I had ever tasted. 

We walked home talking and eating the other snacks she had bought. I loved eating

The tenth year of my life led to me realizing that as much as I liked eating, people did not like those who did so.

I remember someone drawing a pig on my stomach and making me walk naked in the class, on all fours. Where the hell were the teachers?

But at least I got good at fighting.

My sister was terribly worried.

Till she stopped caring. One day her eyes were darker than the usual black, the life in them gone. She was gentle, but it was the caress of a corpse.

At eleven, I started to throw up food. Not always, just sometimes. Every extra bowl of rice made me feel guilty, every roll of fat gave me a sense of horror that no movie made me feel.

 My hands felt disgusting. 

My legs felt disgusting. 

My cheeks, my mouth, my nose, my ears and my face all of it felt disgusting.

My sister said I looked fine.

I wanted to believe her.

But a greasy, fat and disgusting boy screamed at me from the mirror.

My sister told me it did not matter anyway.

She told me in a whisper.

"No one would love you anyway." 

That broke my heart.

Because I realized that was how my sister viewed herself. My eyes were seeing me the way she saw herself.

Those words were not for me.

But for her.

A warning to her.

I hugged her.

She pushed me away.

She used to lock herself in her room, and when she opened them the room was a mess and her hands were bloody. 

She was a murderer.

Of her own life.

How much could long sleeves and fake smiles cover?

It was when I was twelve.

I began to understand her better, physically.

When that man hit me for the first time in my life. My sister jumped between us but how much strength could her frail body stand. When he reached me he kicked me in the stomach.

That day he kept on hitting me till I had received my share of pain.

My sister hugged and apologized the entire night. Bandaging every wound. She did not cry. But she mourned, mourned the existence of our lives.

She had changed but she loved me all the same.

At thirteen life was getting worse. School was hard for idiots like me. My sister barely slept and she seemed more and more distant.

The same beating, the same pain. But both of us changed.

I found my first friend, a transfer student. The kindest boy I had met. 

He had become my everything. He liked me for me however I was. 

He was kind.

I began losing weight.

I look even more disgusting now.

It was getting hard to swallow the food when all you could taste were the numbers.

It was hard being alive when everyone felt attached through a thin string.

But it is all fine.

I will be fine.

Was what I held onto.

My petty hope gave me a reason to live.

At fourteen we got a cat. Claudia.

My sister was hated by the cat but I was loved. Thoroughly loved by the kitten. 

But as usual, my parent who should have just died the day he was born had some problems within a month. He got annoyed at the cat's meowing.

I had to give the cat to Hikaru.

It was raining that day and I ran towards his house, asking if he could keep the cat.

He had agreed.

My hair wet from the rain, I smiled at him and then I ran away back to that house.

I took a bath.

I washed my skin till I could erase that man from my skin. I wish I could remove every connection I had to that disaster of a human.

I cried in the shower.

When I got outside, my sister silently hugged me.

I missed the warmth.

I cried more.

When I was fifteen, I found a video game. Romantic lover.

It was a very cheesy name.

But it was my favorite game. I played it for hours on end.

The protagonist was loved by so many people, even if all of it mostly ended in a disaster.

Happy endings were hard to achieve in the game.

It had been two months since I bought the game and no signs of happy endings anywhere.

Kind of like my life.

Today's bad ending was that the father of the marchioness got angry and tried to kill me. And succeeded. I got up and went to the kitchen.

The fridge was shaking.

Since when did it get anxiety?

I giggled, till I noticed everything moving.

An earthquake.

I was not scared. But I did not want to die before I finished that damn game. I thought it would be better to not be home so I went outside to the convenience store.

I got some drinks and crossed the road. My eyes reading the web novel of 'romantic lover.'

Unfortunately, I forgot that vehicles do exist.

And I died, getting hit by a truck.

Then I woke up, my sister by my side.

And another person there was a brown haired green eyed woman.

"What is going on?"

"You are dead." My sister said looking somewhere.