Sissy Test

By Leilani Biswas | A short story about lasting scars.

By Leilani Biswas | Guest Writer for Seeking Veritas on Substack by Sankarsingh-Gonsalves Productions | Leilani’s writing explores the realities of life, people, and relationships. “Writing about people helps us to understand them, and understanding them helps us to accept them as part of ourselves.” – Alice Walker

Photo by mali desha on Unsplash

“Grandpa, how did you get that scar on your arm?”

The question transported Lester back in time to the house he grew up in on 88 Brackley Crescent. More specifically, to an evening when he was alone in his bedroom, quite content as he steered his toy dump truck across the floor. His older brother pushed open the door without knocking and walked in uninvited.

“Hey, are you a sissy?” his brother asked him.

“No!” Lester replied emphatically.

“I don’t know,” his brother said, a look of concern coming over his face. “We need to do the sissy test to find out for sure.”

Lester had been enjoying his peaceful playtime. Why did his brother always have to show up to bother him, when all he wanted was to be left alone?

“Come on,” his brother insisted, “you have to do the test so we can see whether or not you’re a sissy. Let’s do it in my room.”

Lester wished there was some way to make his brother go away, but he knew it was hopeless. His brother was older, bigger, and stronger, which meant he always got his way. Lester knew the deal; he could go willingly, or by force. He got up and grudgingly followed his brother into his room.

“The test is simple,” his brother explained, as they both sat down on his brother’s bed. “If you cry, you’re a sissy. If you don’t cry, you’re not a sissy.” With that, he took hold of Lester’s arm and began to lightly drag his thumbnail back and forth across a one-inch strip of skin, just before the spot where the arm joins the hand.

His brother’s touch was so light, he could barely feel the thumbnail as it went across his skin. “How could this make anyone cry?” Lester wondered to himself. He was eager for the test to be done and over with, so he could get back to his dump truck.

On and on, Lester’s brother continued the steady stroke of his thumbnail back and forth over the same one-inch strip of skin. As the minutes passed, Lester grew increasingly impatient. The test seemed to be going on forever and nothing was happening, although he did notice the pressure of his brother’s thumbnail change. Initially, the touch had been so light, he could barely feel it. Gradually, the strokes had grown harder; he could definitely feel them now.

“See,” Lester said, “I’m not crying. I’m not a sissy.”

“Oh no?” Lester’s brother replied. “I’m not so sure about that; we haven’t finished the test yet.” Continuing the back and forth stroke with his thumbnail over the same one-inch strip of skin, he adjusted both the pressure and the speed of the stroke suddenly and dramatically. He pressed his nail hard against Lester’s skin until it was sinking in, while moving his thumb back and forth so rapidly that his hand became a blur.

The situation seemed to change in a flash, so quickly that Lester didn’t realize what was happening at first. His brother’s thumbnail sank deeper into the flesh, still at that rapid pace that made his hand a blur. The pain seemed to come out of nowhere, sharp and intense. Lester cried out. Looking at his arm, he realized the skin over that one-inch strip was completely gone, exposing tender, pulp-like pale tissue beneath the skin. Along with blood, a light-coloured substance was oozing from the wound. By this time Lester was sobbing, but he was too consumed with the stinging pain and bloody, oozing flesh to care whether he was a sissy or not. He snatched his arm away from his brother, ran back to his own bedroom, and slammed his door shut.

Within a couple of days, Lester was sporting a one-inch, bumpy brown scab on his arm. It itched and distracted him; no matter how hard he tried, he could not leave it alone. In class, when all the students were supposed to be examining math problems copied down from the blackboard, Lester was focused on examining his scab. At one point, his teacher walked by his desk while he was thoroughly engrossed in his scab examination. In what sounded to Lester’s ear like an accusatory tone, his teacher warned, “It’s never going to heal if you keep picking at it.” The shame of being chastised by his teacher added to the original sting of the injury.

“Grandpa! Did you hear me? How did you get that scar on your arm?” The question, asked a second time more loudly, interrupted Lester’s reminiscence and brought him back to the present with a jolt.

“This scar right here? I got this a long time ago,” Lester answered. “It’s hard to remember.”

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