She is the loveliest thing I think I've ever seen. I watch her on the swing, flying back and forth. Her hair is streaming out behind her, flame red mingling with the many-coloured ribbons I have tied there, curled to match her hair, always just behind her, chasing her like the fire that has so often burned me inside-out, but she always manages to stay one step ahead. I wonder if she'll stay that way forever - so perfect, so truly innocent that not even the fire of adulthood can stand in her way. I know that someday it will catch her. All I have to do is wait, but I don't like to think about it. No matter what happens in her life, she will always be that lovely flame-haired girl, and she will always be perfect.
She will always be everything I am not.
And suddenly I want to snatch her off the swing, to tear out her lovely red hair, and the ribbons that I tied there, and keep it for my own, watching her scream and cry, face burning, not knowing why I want to steal her soul and lock it away inside of me so no one can ever hurt it, no one can ever see it, or make it anything less than perfect. To make her less than perfect would be a crime. But then, so would stealing her soul.
I have to let her grow; to get older and learn, and something deep inside of me tells me that she will always be okay - no matter what happens to me, or our family - because nobody could ever not love her. The fire that burns in her does not consume, does no harm, for hers is the fire of love - of passion. But others, I know, may not see this.
And I watch her on the swing, laughing, red hair just behind her. Then she switches direction, and it fans in her face, covering her from my gaze.
It is then that I realise.
I cannot save her. Chances are she won't need saving. But if, by chance, she does?
I will always be there to try. My little sister, the loveliest thing I think I've ever seen, who will never be anything less than perfect, who will always be everything I am not.
She calls to me and I go to her, holding her in my heart forever.
It would be easy to hate her, when everyone we know thinks she is so lovely. I do, in fact, hate her for it. But I have to love her, too. It's an unwritten law. But how can you love someone, who can never be anything less than perfect?
I know the answer.
Like this.