five years ago

I took a seat while my dad struggled with the words that I needed to hear. My sister instinctively reached out for my body as a comfort and my arms rejected her. She was crying, and I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t cry.

I met her only once. I respected her so much, she was such an individual, happy, beautiful, everything I wanted to be, only to be forced out of my life so quickly. I disdained the idea of alcohol; I couldn’t drink at the time but I forced myself to believe it to be the crux of all evil. After all, that’s how she went.

I ran upstairs and punched a pillow, once, twice, until the feathers popped out and only then I cried. My mother held me in her arms and I cried so hard that my father had to hold me down. I never knew such deep sadness until my idol had left.

I traipsed through the days, trying to make sense of what was what and who I was. Everything had a dull taste to my mouth and all words slipped through my head. I could not talk coherently. I was offered help from a psychiatrist but I refused. I wanted to heal on my own.

My boyfriend dumped me, he realized I wasn’t good enough for him and left. In reality, it was because I was so emotional, I had nothing to hold onto anymore. I considered many things, but the hole left in my heart screamed that if I went the same way somebody would cry, somebody had to. It was just as selfish a reason. So I put the items down and I continued to traipse about the world in complete and utter disbelief. How could everyone walk so straight?

My sister wasn’t impacted as much as I was. My grades fell, my mind was racing. I was crying all the time and my friends decided to leave me. I was fifteen, and so alone in the world. She messaged me the night before, telling me about her camera, knowing that I loved photography and wanted to be an artist. She told me she would take pictures of home for me and my heart was nonchalant. I thought she was just drunk messaging me.

I was probably one of the last people that talked to her before she left.

I was probably the last person that talked to her before she left.

And I thought it as insignificant.

It’s been five years now, the case has closed, the toxicology says that she overdosed on drugs and alcohol. There was no foul play. The person who was arraigned in another case to help assuage the guilt went free.

I stare out the window wondering what she thinks of me. I’m still suffering from the event. I’m still hurting. What do you think of me? Do you hate me for being the last person that talked to you? It could have been somebody else.

I stare out the window blaming myself. I blamed myself for years. I continue to blame myself.

Please don’t hate me, I was fifteen. I didn’t know any better. You at least tried to get to know me and I refused. You were an angel and I’m still a kid.

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