I received an email message from The Princess a few hours ago:
Subject: please call
[Heathen,] Dad is in the hospital. Please call me at 907…
I’m not in the subhuman resource business any more. I’m just the guy who’s added one more email address to the list of those that will be rejected by my mail server.
I haven’t seen my sister in 22 years, and until today hadn’t heard a peep from her in at least six years — since she disowned me. I knew I was disowned when she called and spoke to my parents for over an hour on my birthday, but didn’t ask to speak to me and didn’t ask to have well wishes conveyed. She had my telephone number and my email address, and knew that I was just in the next room when she called. I wasn’t much surprised at being disowned, though, as she’d taken the training well and viewed me as a useful subhuman resource but otherwise a disgrace.
When we were younger, before I enlisted in the Air Force, The Princess resented hell out of her false friends who came around only as a way to get near me — and from the age of about twelve onward that’s the only kind of friends she had, because she’s antisocial as hell. I found those false friends of hers, many of whom were otherwise attractive, merely pathetic. What a lousy thing to do to someone, pretending to be her friend so you can try to make a play for her brother. By the time I got out of the Air Force, though, The Princess saw the utility of it.
At first, I thought her wanting to be around me to be a sign of an attempt to heal our relationship and be brother and sister rather than just genetic siblings. One day when I was hanging out with her in her room in our parents’ house, I took up her teddy bear and she snatched up her camera… Next thing I know she’s trying to drag me around to meet her friends. The bitch had that teddy bear photo on her desk and was using me for bait to acquire, not friends, really, but additional resources. That’s how she views people, as resources. I got wise to her game on the second such outing, and declined all subsequent generous invitations.
Prepare to be shocked: This here heathen is going to, just this one time, post a photo of himself online. This is what bait looked like:
Please pardon the wrinkled photo. It’s three decades old.
The realization that that’s what she was up to was a real stomach turner. The nature of my parents’ evil symbiosis is essentially the same thing. My mother is so disagreeable and openly malicious that few can and fewer will tolerate her, but my father, as are all successful narcissists, is very adept at luring victims into the lair. Knowing that I was expected to serve the same purpose for my sister was disgusting. I forgave her for it, rationalizing that it was natural enough given that she’d grown up as she did, but I avoided her just the same and hoped that she might outgrow the narcissistic fantasies of our parents in which we both spent our childhoods.
It wasn’t too much later that she and I sat and had a heart to heart in my living room. She said something about my strained relationship with our parents, and in the course of conversation I explained to her how I’d given up my job and unwittingly my relationship with the love of my life out of sympathy for her plight as one still dependent upon our parents. Her response, in an aggressive tone: “I didn’t ask you to do that”. She didn’t express resentment that the rat bastards used her in their sympathy play, or acknowledge that I’d sacrificed everything that mattered to me out of love for her. “I didn’t ask you to do that”, she said, and within minutes was gone.
Now, just as I predicted, I’ve heard from her again because one of our rat bastard progenitors is near death. That’s the story of our relationship: I hear from her when she wants something. I suspect that all she wants now is what she’s got, the ability to say to Mommie Dearest that she tried but I won’t respond to her either. My estrangement makes it easier for her to claim all of the rat bastards’ estate when Mommie Dearest graces the world with her departure from it. I wouldn’t mind catching some cash as partial compensation for being bankrupted by them twice, but I expect that Mommie Dearest and The Princess are going to find some way to ensure that I would have no claim anyway. The Princess is very adept at extracting what she wants from them — they even bought her a Cambodian, an adoption mill baby, who is now The Princess’s scapegoat child. It ain’t right that the poor little bastard gets to live my life, but it ain’t my problem. It’s not for me to fix my sister or her family — I’ve never even met her husband or their children.
The really sick part: I was the scapegoat in my childhood family, and The Princess was quite willing to play along and get her share of me, too. Her husband grew up with some kind of deeply religious pieces of shit for parents who fostered and adopted children, made them slaves and sources of income, and taught their natural children to look down upon them. Now they’re continuing that legacy with the Cambodian my parents bought for them. They don’t even have decency enough to be ashamed of themselves for being sick fucks.
As for the progenitors: I don’t wish them ill, but I recognize the benefit to me of their deaths. They’ve made it abundantly clear that their goal is my destruction and Amethyst’s, too, and adding six feet of soil to the distance between us will be a more effective deterrent than the inconvenience of the miles. My father’s death will be the partial lifting of a burden, and my mother’s demise will be the lifting of the rest of it. We’ll celebrate with champagne at the news of them both being gone, even if it’s not until years after the fact that we receive the news. It’ll be like being pardoned for the crimes of others, freedom that was deserved all along but denied.
It’s not surprising that The Princess contacted me, as I predicted she would, but I still find the audacity of it deserving of the title cunt.