Hands Off My Sister

The suitcase wheels clattered along the old hallway. With each step up the stairs, flakes of peeling paint drifted down. I raised my hand to my pocket, my fingertips brushing against that yellowed photograph. In the photo, my younger sister wore twin ponytails, holding a cotton candy and smiling with two small tiger teeth showing. With a creak, the wooden door of room 302 was pushed open. The light inside was off, and the curtains were drawn tightly shut. "Is anyone there?" I called out tentatively. Only dust danced in the sliver of light that seeped through the door crack. As I reached for the bedroom doorknob, a sudden sound came from behind me. I whipped around and saw a gaunt girl curled up in the corner of the sofa. Her hair was dry and tangled, a film of dust clouding her eyes. A tightness gripped my chest as I slowly stepped toward her. "How did you let yourself get like this?" I couldn't hide the tremor in my voice. She lifted her head, and when she met my gaze, her lips began to quiver. "Sister..." she barely managed, and then the tears fell. I knelt down and pulled her into my arms. Her shoulders were so fragile they looked as if they might break with the slightest bend. "Who has been bullying you?" I whispered close to her ear. The person in my arms first shook her head, then cried even harder. "Is it Ms. Clark from downstairs?" I remembered the last video—the cruel face that flashed behind my younger sister. She bit her lip and nodded. "Who else?" My fingers clenched tightly on the hem of her clothes. My younger sister lifted her tear-streaked face; her voice was as faint as a mosquito's buzz: "Also... Alex next door, he always says... says he wants to help me find a job..." A fire suddenly flared up inside me. No wonder when I sent money two months ago, she kept saying she didn't need it. So someone was working behind the scenes. "What did he do to you?" I tried to keep my voice steady. My younger sister lowered her head, her nails picking at the hole in the sofa. "He... he pushed me into the room last time when I opened the door... Luckily, I shouted for help, and he ran away..." My fist slammed down on the sofa armrest with a thud. The paint on the armrest chipped off, like my heart shattering in that moment. "Sister, don't go after them; there are too many of them..." My younger sister gripped my arm, her eyes full of fear. I patted her hand, my voice colder than I realized: "Don't worry, I'm not going to confront them directly, but this can't just be left like this."