Tables Turned

As my injured leg dragged the ground, I crawled into my cramped room and collapsed among the scattered trash. Blood soaked through my legs as it stained the fabric of my pants. This pair of pants was the only birthday gift I had in twenty years. They were rough, but new. A rare gem lovingly stitched by my brothers' hands.

The doctor had warned me — no more, or risk a fatal infection. However, I wore them anyway, a testament to my brothers' sacrifice.

Debts from our parents' passing left us with nothing. We did not even have enough for a warm coat. My brothers, though, sold their blood just to buy this pair of pants. I could not bear to ask for more after that. That was why I only sang myself a birthday song in the dark, wrapped in my blanket.

I grew up scavenging, flipping through dumpsters for bottles to sell. Grateful for whatever tossed-out scraps to fill my stomach. I avoided hospitals, no matter the injury. I sprinkled flour on my wounds, praying they would heal, all to spare my brothers any more strain.

My coat, twenty winters old, was fashioned from an abandoned blanket.

Classmates sneered, but I always kept my head high.

"We're poor, but we've got to stay hopeful," my brothers would say.

Yet, in a cruel twist of fate, I learned their talk of hope was all a lie. They were not poor at all. They showered Jasmine — a delicate girl sheltered in the luxurious greenhouse — with everything they had.

My patchwork life could not compare to her silken existence, my street-rumbles far cries from her princess gowns.

Blood and tears dripped on the floor beneath me, painting a shocking shade of red.

I racked my brain, trying to figure out what I had done wrong, why they showered her with love and left me with nothing.

"Carol, we're back! Come see what we've got for you," my oldest brother,James, called out, his voice soft and warm, as if he had not just snubbed me moments before.

I scrubbed the blood from the floor and dragged myself into a corner to hide under a pile of junk. My eyes landed on his faded clothes, and for a second, I wondered if the pain I felt was all just a nightmare.

"Carol, look, we saved you some cake scraps from the hotel. It's super sweet. Eat up, it'll help you feel better," he said, shoving a box of jumbled cake pieces into my hands.

I would have leapt for joy before all this. Hugging my brothers as tears streamed down my face, telling them how much I loved them.

However, then, all I felt was exhaustion.

Just a moment ago, they were doting on Jasmine, splurging on a fancy orchestra for her entertainment.

I bet while I lay awake at night, trying to ease their load, Jasmine was nestled in her plush bed, lost in dreams.

"Check this out. A handmade New Year's card just for you, for our favorite little sis. It'll keep you company while we're out working," my second brother, Ryan, said as he pulled a pink card dotted with ink stains from his pocket.

They lavished her with luxury while all I had was a tattered piece of paper.

I bet even the paper was a castoff from Jasmine.

I felt like a clown, grateful for their handouts, oblivious to the fact that I had become the punchline in their private jokes.