My sister and I had to take care of each other as children

Let's get personal.

So I have one sister. She's four years older than me, and we share a close bond. My father worked in a law-related job and my mother was in the medical industry (I word it that way not to give away too many details about me. I would not like to be doxxed). Happy family for the most part, but not without its problem like any family. I was a greedy kid, my dad was angry, and my mother was exceptionally passive.

When I was in the second grade, my father was highjacked for his car. It was a beautiful baby blue BMW with a sunroof. My father loved the car and BMWs in general. He took us to the Kruger National Park as a holiday in it, and he let me stick my head out to see all the animals. Not only was it a gorgeous car; it had sentimental value.

My father, being a strong, muscled man with a mind as stubborn, did not want to give up the car to the crooks. Hence, he was shot three times and the car was taken My father crawled to the nearest house for help which he received while he lost a staggering amount of blood. By the time paramedics arrived, he had passed out. He was in a coma for a very long time. Months, if I recall correctly. Details get blurry when trauma enters the picture.

I remember the day. My aunt came to my house early in the morning and they were discussing something. It was obvious they were preparing to go somewhere, and I wanted to go to so I ran to the shower, but my mother insisted I stay, and I didn't understand why, although they tried to keep cheery faces. The morning ensued as normal. Probably watched Dragonball Z and spoke to my sister. In the afternoon my aunt and mother returned and said they have unfortunate news to tell us. My father had been shot three times and he is in a coma. My mother started crying like I've never seen her weep. The inconsolable woman cried to God but no divine voice soothed her.

Life goes on. My father was in a coma in hospital. My mom had a job, but she worked night shift. Consequently, my sister and I learned to survive South African nights on our own. A reminder I was in the second grade. It was just her and I. When it got dark we'd close all the curtains and cuddle up in one room, somewhat terrified. We were scared of the dangers out, true, but we were also scared of cockroaches that occasionally made their presence known in the evening.

My sister, being the older one, usually took the lead and I followed. She would make food for us, she would choose what room we'd sleep in, and if a roach was spotted, she learned to swallow her fear and deal with it using bug spray. Yeah, in the 6th grade my sister taught herself exposure therapy. In the mornings, she would wake me up, make sure I bathed and helped me put on my school uniform. I remember her lotioning my skin because I did it badly on my own. She would then walk us to school. It should be clear at this point that she was my surrogate mother in a house run by kids.

When I returned from school, my mother would be asleep from working night shift. She didn't get much sleep because she would visit my father before going to work. My sister and I couldn't see him. No kids in the ICU was the rule. One memory that sticks out was once we were sleeping in her room. We kept hearing this scratching sound. It scared her, and definitely scared me. My sister eventually figured out it was a roach trying to escape an ajar cupboard. She moved us to the next room where we slept safely.

My father eventually convalesced, but as you'd imagine it took years. He needed physiotherapy to learn how to walk again and perform basic tasks. This angered him. He just wanted to leave, he wanted revenge, he felt victimized and craved retributive justice. He had a legal firearm of his own and was ready to hunt down his assailants. It was my mother's kind words that helped him let go of all of those unhelpful feelings. She is a saintly woman.

The car was retrieved, but he sold it soon after for a Rover (not a Land Rover, just a Rover, they were extremely luxury cars at the time, but the British poshness wore off so you don't see them anymore).

When I returned from school, I would briefly see my mom because she had to visit my dad before going to work. So I saw her like 15 minutes a day. To tell you the truth, those nights traumatized me. It was scary being alone with my sister. I was scared about whether my father would live (he did). Eventually, he left ICU and I was allowed to see him. He has a serpent running up his belly, a sign of a drastic surgery taken to save his life. Tubes all over had him looking like he was stuck in tumblewood. He's lucky to be alive today, breathing and happily retired. But this is South Africa. Since then, he's been hijacked at least 3 times. He doesn't fight anymore. The wicked will get their just desserts when the time is right. Let's count the hijackings my parents have faced:

• BMW baby blue

• Toyota Etios (stolen and retrieved twice! I had a car accident in it)

• Toyota Fortuna

My sister and I still have a close relationship. She's the first person I call if I have problems, psychological or otherwise. She'll understand. I feel pain that she's married because it feels like I'm sharing her, but I understand the nature of life and that she found happiness in a relationship with a wealthy man who treats him well (not that my sister isn't wealthy, she is in finances and accounting).

So that's the story of my sister and I spending nights together. She protected me. I was too young to fully understand what was going but as an adult I've digestedit all. It was a dark time for my family, and I doubt any one of us were left psychologically unscathed. I feel deep appreciation for my sister who tried to take care of me during South African nights. Just the two of us.

Lastly, the perpetrators. The men who wanted to take my father away from me. I forgive you.

That's the story. Apologies for any typos. I took a shitload of different benzos, I'm surprised I could write this much at all.