My Sister Loves Minions

My sister loves minions.

The yellow, banana-eating, overall-wearing, big-eyed things from a family movie called Despicable Me? Yep… that’s the kind. The things you see middle-aged women post memes on Facebook. My sister is obsessed.

She eats bananas daily, watches the movies, probably has every plush minion made.

I never paid any mind. I mean they are kind of cute. I liked that you couldn’t understand their gibberish but at the same time, you could piece it together.

She’s dressed up as one the past several years for Halloween and, of course, wears their swag all year. So I figured I could maybe save some hard-earned money from my part-time job and get tickets to Universal Studios. That would be the perfect birthday present for her. You only turn ten once.

She cried her eyes out and gave me a huge hug.

“You’re the best brother ever!” I sure felt like it.

She was excited on the ride up. She was singing along to the radio and ready to have fun. We made sure to get to the parks early so we could enjoy the day all day.

She was the first person in line to meet the minions. I took her pictures and she was so happy she was crying and clinging on to the characters. Then things just seemed off.

Universal is a huge park with other great things offered. So, naturally, I wanted to see Harry Potter World and other things.

I motioned for her to follow me to the ride nearby. She was so happy her face glowed. But I told her it was time we found other rides and characters. But it’s like she wasn’t listening. Instead, she was walking back to the line to meet the minions.

“Harper, come on,” I begged her.

“Fuck off!” she screamed in reply.

I stood stunned for a moment, in disbelief.

“What did you just say?”

“I wanna meet Kevin. Fuck off.”

“Harper, you can’t say that.”

“Fine. Leave me here and go see your Harry Potter stuff. I’ll be here when you get back.”

That wasn’t like her. She is sweet and kind. I had never heard her cuss before, and we never used profanity within earshot of her.

I gave in, as stupid as that was. I mean, it was her birthday present from me. But I was sure gonna tell Mom and Dad later.

Eventually, she gave in and let me see a few things but she kept staring at her pictures with the yellow mascots. Even when we were eating. She kept talking about it.

We were around those things for hours, probably. Even when it was time to go home she threw a big temper tantrum. She didn’t wanna see the night shows or anything. She had spent all her birthday money on Minions merchandise.

The car ride home was worse. She wouldn’t even talk to me. She gifted me with the silent treatment and acted as if I had done her wrong. It really upset me, considering I had spent several hundred dollars on her gift, which took considerable effort to save up.

I made the mistake of telling my parents about her potty mouth. They decided to ground her. A fitting punishment of no television for two weeks. Which meant no minions or Despicable Me.

I figured I needed to calm down so I went to a friend’s house for the night for conversations and beer.

I never expected to see a crime scene investigation when I came home around lunch the next day. I wish the officer would have caught me before I sprinted in.

The house had rotting banana peels in it. And my parents lay on the floor. They were there for hours. Their skin was painted yellow. Both their heads were shaved and eyeballs were missing and replaced with plush minion eyes. Stab wounds covered them.

The officer told me they came in and she was watching Despicable Me. She tried to come after them but was restrained.

Neighbors surrounded the house as my little sister was screaming bloody murder from the back of an ambulance. Yellow paint covered her hands and face as they stained the back windows of the vehicle.

All I wanted to do was let my sister have a good time.

A detective called me about an hour ago and said the ambulance veered off the highway and crashed, and that the EMTs aboard were all dead. And Harper’s body never was recovered. She escaped.

This is all my fault.

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Credit: Matthew Pruitt

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