Mary lives in the smallest, darkest room in the house. I’m forbidden to go near it. Mother and Father insist that the devil resides there; it is he who has taken my sister away from us. Late at night, she howls like a ghoul, and Father has authoritatively informed me that she wants to crawl back into the seventh circle of Hell, to join her sinning acquaintances. Never must I talk to her.

I quiver as I stand in front of the door. The stone is exuding a foreboding air and my knees knock together. If I were at the playground, the other children would laugh. I almost drop the bread in the grime, but I catch it quickly. Thank God – if I had dropped it, Mary would have gone hungry! She would wail, and they would know. I’d probably be in there with her. I take tentative steps towards the door, hesitating with every heartbeat, every breath. How can my own sister frighten me so? How does she make me feel afraid of my own shadow?

Three more steps to go. I hate this; this makes me want to bawl my eyes out. This makes me want to bury my head in my mother’s best silk gown and ruin the satin fabric with my salty tears. This makes me want to run away where Mary doesn’t exist, where she doesn’t humiliate me. Sometimes, I wish Mary would go away. Sometimes, I wish Mary would die.

Please, God, don’t punish me! Please don’t punish me for what I’m saying.

“Cynthia?” hearing my own name makes me cry out softly. Admittedly, her voice is like that of an angel, the perfect contrast to her demeanour. I swiftly whirl around, facing my back to the door. The door watches me; it is her eyes. I clamp my eyes shut, wishing for her to be quiet. Doesn’t she know Mother will hear?

“Cynthia? I know you’re out there…Cynthia? Cynthia, I’m hungry.”

The tremors begin, nervously starting from my hands, growing until my body takes on seizure movements. Please, Mary, go away.

“Cynthia? How long will you hide?” Mary’s voice is lilting, mocking. But it isn’t her, no, I shan’t believe that. It was the devil, crying for sustenance.