Long ago, in our childhood, my younger sister would say this to me as we tried to fall asleep at night. Our life behind closed doors was far from the perfect family facade we were coerced into living for an abusive father.

My sister died on July 17, 1995. She had been in a coma since her car lost control in a curve in the early morning hours of July 15, 1984. Not wearing her seatbelt, she was thrown from her car and her head hit a utility pole.

I saw her there, in ICU, my beautiful golden haired, blue-eyed sister. From birth to graduation, people called her “Doll.” Beautiful inside and out, smart and funny. Now she lies in her bed, fingernails and toenails perfectly polished.

She’s on life support, the front side of her hair shaved and the stitches mark the place where they removed part of her skull as her brain swelled. One cut on her chin that didn’t even require stitches is her only other injury.

“Tell Me A Story.” I hear her say this to me in a whisper all these decades later. My pen now whispers across pages, notebooks filled with pages of all the words. So, though I haven’t been able to do her justice, I will not give up.

Dearest of sisters, my Sidekick through life, I haven’t given up, I’ve only been side-tracked by that man we used to call Daddy. He’s proven his worthlessness and I delete him for his depravity.

I remember how we huddled together, laughing silently as I told you stories making the real monster raging in another room into a comical coward, one we could blow away when we synchronized our breath.