Disclaimer: All characters are mine.
Summary: A young girl supposedly dies in her sleep, but her sister knows better. Rated PG for adult content.

DEAR MARCY
By Blitz

Dear Marcy,

Believe me when I tell you I love you, dear sister. You died too young, but you didn't die soon enough.

When I was born, I was the light of my parents' world. But then you were born. You had to be different. I guess Mom and Dad would say "unique", but to me you were just a drain on natural resources and Mom and Dad's money. Did you know I had to work part time to buy food because you needed that respirator.

You shouldn't have been born. You should have died in the womb. If you were the strongest sperm out of the lot, then I'd hate to see the rest. You were weak. And I was strong. That's why you're dead and I'm still pushing on.

When you were born, I knew that you were a mistake. Not that God makes mistakes or anything. But maybe nature does. Maybe you were just a failed experiment. But I said I loved you anyway, because Mom did. But you were brain dead nearly from the start. You were a failed experiment because you had hooves and gills. You weren't even a whole mutant, just different parts of ones all put together. I wonder if the gills worked? Because once, when I was giving you a bath when I was 12 and you were 9 I "accidentally" let you slip in the bath and let you lie there and drown in the bathwater. But I picked you up before you did. Whether they don't work or you were just too dumb to use them, I don't know. I don't think either answer would surprise me.

I remember how our rooms used to connect. You got the bigger one. I moved out. I had to make room for all your gizmos and gadgets that you were hooked up to and your little glucose bag and your respirator.

But you didn't stop there, did you? Once you had my room and my parents, you found you weren't satisfied. I started getting extra chores added to my list, one of them being changing your diapers. I couldn't invite my friends over because I was too embarassed when they had to wait outside for me. Then I had to take different part time jobs so I could make money for food. My grades began to slip.

So there you have it. At 14 I had no friends, low grades, a job, and a brain dead little sister with parents that just wouldn't pull the plug.

So I did it.

I went into your room one night and pulled the plug to your respirator. But when I found you were still hanging onto that one shred of hope, continuing to breathe, I had to put the pillow over your face and smother you. I could almost swear I saw you struggling against the weight of my hands and two or three times I almost let you go. But in the end, I did it. I killed you with my bare hands at 14 years old.

Then I put the pillow back and plugged the respirator in. As far as anyone else knew, you had died in your sleep. You might as well have. If you ask me, it was long overdue.

And now I will throw this letter in the grave while dirt is being thrown on top. No doubt I will be asked what's in it. "Just my last goodbyes," I will say.

So that there ay be a shred of truth in my reply, Good-bye, Marcy.

Maybe you'll read this letter from beyond the grave, maybe not. Maybe you're not really dead, but still in a state of shock and your brain dead state. But your pulse wasn't on the EKG machine, so I suppose not. I couldn't care one way or the other. If you're still alive, you'll die sooner or later with no one to feed you.

But I hope you're dead. That way you won't suffer.

Good-bye, Marcy, and remember: it's my life now, they're my parents, and you're no longer a part of it.

Love, Your loving Sister,
Sonja Peterson