This is what the edge looks like

Friday: Sister arrives at the house. How she got in I’m not sure. Parents are away. She isn’t supposed to be here, brings her dog, an abused mutt. Dog has no crate. No private space. I try to hide in my room. I felt slimy, upset. Lost my appetite. She leaves, “will be back around 11.” She leaves her dog so I can’t lock her out (Did she have a key? Did I forget to lock the door?) My condition doesn’t improve; I dread her return. I take a shower, the usual violent scenarios play out in my head. I go to a friend’s place for a few hours; I bring him up to speed. I’m taking care of the dogs this weekend so I return. My sister returns at roughly the same time. I manage to get the dogs walked. I keep them in the back of the house for the rest of the night. Sister leaves.

Saturday:

A little after midnight I receive the following text message:

Boyfriend is acting crazy don’t answer the house phone.

The same boyfriend who is 6”6 and over 250 lbs, the same boyfriend who put her dumb ass in the ER, I don’t fall asleep until after 4 am.

The phone is ringing; the door bangs. I wake up at about 8:20. Caller ID lists the boyfriend’s name. I try to wait it out. More ringing, louder banging, person is moving from one door to another. The fear is too much I call 911. I’m trying to keep my composure. Operator tells me to barricade the door. I do. I’m convinced he’s going to break in any minute now. Operator wants me to explain the situation. I do my best list the factors involved. Someone else picks up the line.

“Oh my gawd, I couldn’t get in, you locked all the doors, thanks a lot!”

My sister has an accent that fuses southern twang with valley girl. She is upset, disgusted by my selfishness.

Dumb
-Struck.
Embarrassed.
Humiliated.

I stammer out an apology to the operator, who tells me something about 911 being for emergencies.

My sister’s words are lodged in my head. How did she get in? Where is she? I look around. I go upstairs. The door to the locked. I call her name. She answers.

I bang on the door, shouting, screaming at her for her insult. Screaming at her for making me relive a break in, for anticipating a violent show down with a much larger man, and for not telling me she was coming over. I don’t remember much of what I said, but “I hate you” was definitely part of the spiel.

It takes me ten minutes, but I finally track my mother down. I am outside, barefoot in the driveway. I yell; I cry, but it doesn’t matter. Sister doesn’t leave the house.

Sunday:

Between 2 am and 9 am she leaves, her dog is gone, but my sister has left a mess behind for me to clean up