I open the door and immediately see my sister standing at the top of the stairs. We live in a »high-ranch«. When you open the door, you can either go upstairs (five steps) (thats where we live), or downstairs (four steps) (that's where other people live). Her hands are wrapped so tightly around the railing that her knuckles are white. She looks at me, but doesn't recognize me. Her hair is dishevelled and she's wearing a green t-shirt that ́s way too long. As I tightly squeeze my keys into my right hand, my left hand keeps holding onto the copper-imitation door knob.

If this were a movie, it would be called »The Other Sister«, not »My Sister«. I'm stuck in the wrong movie. The Movie  »My Sister« would be about a sister who is four years older than me. It would be about a sister who is a poet, a painter, a  dancer! We were dancing partners! She would put the only Michael Jackson record that we had on and we would move our arms and legs like crazy until we fell on the floor. She taught me how to dance merengue. She would press my shoulders  down with her hands and repeat: »Now just move your hips!« She was my protector. She experienced everything before  me and gave me a prologue for my life. Reality is not a movie, and yet beauty can outshine darkness, and hope can be a  prologue to change. Hope, change, and beauty have all been part of the life of »My Sister«.

I am standing with the door half opened. I want to open the door fully, but there are two police officers standing behind it  (they startle me). The police officers are not sure whether my sister and I know each other. I say (with a light smile) »Yes, yes,  that ́s my sister! And my parents will be coming home soon (which is not true)!« The police officers ask my sister to confirm  this. She nods. They tell me in a low voice: »She called us because she was afraid.« I say »Thank you. I'll take care of it.«

They leave. I nearly fly up the 1-2-3-4-5 steps. Now I am standing right next to her. She immediately turns away from me and  moves on. Usually, there is a lot going on at home, but now no one is home. The TV is not running, the radio in the kitchen is  off, and no one is talking. She walks into the kitchen. I call her, but she doesn't respond. She's like a remote-controlled race  car. She lands in her room. It ́s dark in there (the lights are out). I go past her things and think about the past. She used to  play the flute (that was beautiful). She stands at the opened window with her forehead leaned against the mosquito net. Her head is turned slightly to the right. She is looking at our tree in the backyard. The tree is swaying in the wind and the moon  has hidden itself deep into the sky. The sky is very dark (I've never seen it be so dark). She says something, so quietly, that I  can hardly hear her. She whispers quotes from the bible about the rain, the wind and the end of the world. I remember how  my sister used to whisper song lyrics in my ear, while dad was driving the car. Madonna ́s »Vogue« was a song about equality:  »It makes no difference if you're black or white, If you're a boy or a girl.« Her bible quotes are perfect matches to the oppressive world, but I tell her: »The world is not going to end, it's just a storm that ́s brewing.«

She turns away from me and slides past me. Walking in the dark doesn't seem to bother her. In the kitchen I stop following her. I get my backpack out and sit myself at the kitchen table. I'm going to do my homework. If I do everything the way I used to do it, then everything will be the way it used to be. I don't know how long I sit there doing my homework, but  suddenly it squeaks in my ear. It takes a while for me to realize that the squeak is a scream. I can't place it. As I hear the  scream again, I realize that it's coming from the living room. There I see a woman standing in front of the TV. I don't know who she is. She's standing there with her mouth wide open and screaming. In that moment I realize: that woman is my sister. I've never seen a grown-up cry like that.  She's screaming: »Jewel is dead!« (Jewel is a singer that she liked). Inside the TV there are corpses in body bags. It's a documentary about OJ Simpson and his murdered ex-wife (and lover). I change the channel to MTV, but Jewel is nowhere to be seen. I don't know what's going on. My sister used to work at McDonald's. I still remember how her feet would hurt so much on Sunday night after working all weekend. My mom would then prepare her a hot foot bath. My sister was the first person I knew to get a car. My sister was autonomous. Now she is standing in front of the TV and crying. If my mom was home she would say: »She just needs to get enough food and sleep, and she ́ll feel much better.« I get an aspirin, give it to her, and say: »Go to sleep, okay?«

Later, deep into the night, while everyone is sleeping, I am still sitting at the kitchen table. In the stillness, my head has lost itself in the world of homework. I lift my head up to take a brief pause and suddenly see my sister standing in front of me. I didn't hear her come into the kitchen. Her eyeballs are searching for something (like searchlights in the sky). I freeze my body  to hide my uneasiness. My right hand grasps tightly onto my pencil and I say bluntly »Go to bed, it's late!« She turns around  and goes to her room (she is on autopilot). For a while after that, she walked around the house with a slight hunch-back and  dragged her feet. I would tell her: »Stop walking like that!« And she ́d always respond: »It's the medicines. They make me  feel old.«

Why can ́t I see my sister, the way I want to see her? What do doctors really know? All they do is name symptoms.  When my sister got her first panic attack, she thought she was going to die. No doctor, no nurse could calm her down. Lying in her hospital bed, she suddenly saw a man sitting at the edge of her bed. He was transluscent. She could see right through  him. His face emanated a bright light. As he touched her hand, she felt at ease, secure, and a spark of joy, as she thought:  »Somebody finally cares about me!« She believed in angels. A doctor doesn't see angels. A doctor sees schizophrenic tendencies. My family and I have never stopped seeing my sister the way she was and is. I simply think her moments of confusion  away like the afterword of a book I forget to read.  As my sister panicly ran through the house, closing all the windows (even after we had just opened them), because she feared  bad energy would enter into the house, I still saw the sister with whom I could talk to about anything, laugh with, and so  deeply trust. When we brought her to the pyschiatric hospital, she screamed (a lot). My mother and I wanted to follow her  (to help calm her down), but the nurses held us back. I wanted to yell: »That's my sister! Let her go!« My mother and I were  escorted out. Standing outside in the doorway, my mother was crying and wanted to go back in. I stayed put like a statue, held her back, peered into the distance, and pushed down the feeling in my throat of wanting-to-cry.
It's like a TV Movie you're watching in the living room.

Sometimes you miss something, because you want to go into the kitchen and get something to eat, or because you need  to go to the bathroom. In these moments of absence, my sister was sick. Returning to the living room, I know I've missed  something, but I don't want to know what, and I simply just keep watching the movie. When a bad part comes up again, I turn the TV off. When I think the bad part is over, I turn the TV back on. Although I've missed some parts, I'm still watching,  the whole time, the movie called »My Sister«.

OSCAR OLIVO was born in New York. After obtaining his Bachelor of  Arts degree from Columbia University he immigrated to Germany during  the Bush era. He completed a program in puppetry at the »Ernst Busch« Academy of Dramatic Art in Berlin. He was a member of the ensemble  of the Schauspiel Hannover until the 2015/16 season, where he, among  other things, brought numerous solo programs to the stage, including  Ich und die Finanzkrise. At the Gorki he has appeared in Othello and  will appear in Yael Ronen's latest devised piece Denial, beginning September 2016.