Blood Lessons For My Perfect Sister
Language: en
My sister, Phoebe, was always frail, but viciously defiant. To guide her—to shock her into compliance without laying a hand on her—my mother, Elaine, turned me into her living, breathing Control Group. Phoebe snuck out, chasing trouble in cheap clubs and coming home smelling of stale smoke and bad decisions. So, my mother sent me out. Dressed in a skirt barely wider than a belt, walking home at 3 AM through the worst stretch of the city. When Phoebe saw me the next morning—my clothes ripped, a map of cheap, purple bruises marking my neck—she was so terrified, she stopped seeing those…