I’m a Marked Person: 666 for the Beast, Zero for Me

In my previous writing, I touched on the Damien of my family - a sibling whose cruelty was so innate it felt almost supernatural.

Growing up with a sibling as wicked as Damien from The Omen was like holding a lifetime ticket to a haunted house.

There was always a fresh horror lurking behind every door - like the day I walked through the front entrance after school, only to find myself floating mid-air because a monster had snatched me by the hair.

All of it was a courtesy of a four-year-old Damien, who was already perfecting her cruelty.

For years, I let the myth that blood is thicker than water blind me. I allowed her into my business and my life, only to be reminded that a leopard never changes its spots. She was born a Damien, and she has grown into one.

She felt entitled to take what was mine simply because she wanted it. She was a rotten child who believed she was owed everything her siblings had, throwing tantrums whenever she couldn't get exactly what she expected. It wasn't just that she wanted what I had; she would demand the very things I was still using, expecting me to hand them over and go without. She was like a playground bully demanding the ice cream I was already eating.

She didn't just want what I had; she wanted to see me broken.

Photo by Maria Budanova (Pristavskaya) on Unsplash

This entry from 2023 was my first attempt to name the Damien in my life and find the origin of that darkness.

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My Evil Sibling

Dec 2, 2023

This isn't a story of sibling rivalry because she was unrivaled.

Content warning: Child abuse

I was the black sheep in my family. My parents had always sided with my younger sister; it was the three of them against me alone. It was the same dynamic for as long as I can remember.

She was like Damien from The Omen - the malevolent kid. She had ways of getting me in trouble that I didn't understand; I don't know where she learned it or if it was an inbuilt ability.

I remember coming home from school one day and she seemed so happy to see me.

The next thing I knew, I was being beaten into a pulp by my father. He slapped me and grabbed me by my hair with one arm, lifting me off the ground, and punched me repeatedly with the other hand, beating me into submission.

I screamed, I cried, and I begged him to stop. He just continued the assault. I hadn't done whatever he claimed I had, but I admitted to it just to make the beating stop.

That became my self-defense mechanism: apologizing for things that weren't my fault to avoid being hit.

I didn't know what kind of tale she had told him, but she did it habitually. It made her so happy she would jump around with joy, whispering in a singsong voice: Very good. Daddy beats you up again. And she'd laugh. I was eight years old; she was four.

During my high school years, she would rush to the phone not because she was waiting for a call, but to report any male caller to my father. When they did call, I would be beaten again. She would glee at all of it.

Even my lifelong struggle with problematic skin was a source of joy for her. She would taunt me: Very good. Your face is full of pimples. I hope you get a pockmarked face.

Years later, a motorbike accident marred her face.

The stitches weren't done properly because she was kicking and screaming, making it hard for the medical staff to work. It left her chin misaligned and a cleft on her lip.

I felt so guilty because I had cursed her under my breath years ago, though I know now it was just an accident caused by her own chaos.

Still, I remained naive. Believing blood was thicker than water, I hired her to work at my beauty salon.

It was my biggest mistake.

She refused to put in the work and joined my parents in twisting my arm for undeserved raises - it was extortion.

I brought the poison into my workplace and the damage was irreversible. She tried to coerce me into relinquishing my business to her.

With a family like that, who needs enemies?

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I often wonder if I am some kind of magnet for evil. I was born to two people who valued cruelty over being human, and that darkness has followed me ever since.

It feels as though I was marked from the start - to be exact, from the moment of conception. I am not exaggerating when I say I was never the child my parents wanted; that is a story for another day.

Why my path is always crossed by those who seek to take and destroy.

If 666 is the mark of the beast, what is the number for someone born to be a target?

Am I just another version of Abel?

But right now, I feel like a zero. I don't mean that I am nothing; I mean that I have become a void. Everything I build, others take. It feels as though my only purpose is to be stabbed and drained until there is nothing left.

I want to know.

Author's Note: This post includes my original 2023 entry revised with new reflections and an expansion of the origin story. It is a rewrite intended to bridge the past with my current perspective.

©Britt H.

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More about the person behind the writing in My Introductory Post