Chapter 1: The Past
I laughed as his now lifeless body fell to the floor. He was gone. From everybody’s lives he had ever been apart of. No more coming home and drinking until dawn. No more yelling and arguing at 2 AM. No more backhands and beatings because I looked at him wrong. No more crying from me or my Mom. Now, he couldn’t hurt us, or anybody else. He had threatened to kill me a couple times, looks like I did it first, except, the script was reversed. He was dead. Not me. I cried happy tears as I dragged his body outside to the grave I had already dug him. I set up a gravestone the day before. I had been planning this for years. Ever since he told me that I was nothing to be proud of and that he never wanted me, and ever since he called my Mom an unattractive, old hag that doesn’t know the difference between shapes and colors. I didn’t mind the name calling and beatings my father gave me because, I knew, that if I didn’t kill him myself, all the alcohol and cigarettes will. But the moment he brought my mother into his own fun, I knew I was gonna be the one to kill him. And so, I did. Like half an hour ago. I poisoned his brown liquor and watched him as he struggled to breath and groaned in pain. I smiled and walked closer to him and held his chin in my hands so I was looking right into his eyes as he was about to die and said, “Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?“. His face was emotionless after that, either because he couldn’t move it because of the poison, or he couldn’t move it from the shock. Then, he let one final scream and fell to the ground, lifeless. Dead.
-4 months later-
I was coming home from work and I was looking forward to seeing my sister, I haven’t seen her since she first got out if rehab. I was told by everyone to stay away in case she hasn’t really got better. But they didn’t realize, that she can’t hurt me anymore. She already has so much, that anything she does now that could hurt me doesn’t affect me. I was numb because of her. She was a heroin addict for 11 years, so I’ve grown used to not seeing my old sister. Sissy. That was the nickname I gave her, she gave me like 20, but she used ‘Brat’ the most. And poophead. She also used to call me poophead, a lot. But it was okay, because my clever twelve-year-old self came up with ‘Diarrheaface’. I missed those times.
My sister and I are ten years apart, so when I was eight, she was eighteen. That’s when she started using. I lost my sister when I was eight. Sure, she was still there, with us, not dead, but she might’ve well as been. We still called each other nicknames and acted the same towards each other, but something was missing. I couldn’t see hope and determination when I looked into her eyes. There was no spark of life or true happiness that could be found in her eyes like she had before she started using. But, I loved her the same, because she was still my sister, and no one could change that. Sure she missed games, meets, holidays, birthdays, whatever, but the feelings I felt at the moment faded. The anger and disappointment, it was all too much, so I decided not to feel it all. I decided not to feel at all. Not only has she hurt me, but so has my father, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I decided not to.
I got in my car and drove home, happy to finally see her after such a long time. While she was in rehab, I allowed myself to feel. I was back to my old self, the one that was mean and rude as hell, but also the one that would not only take a bullet for a person that they love, but also stand right back up and kill the person that tried to shoot at the person that she loved. I allowed myself to feel things, like hope and optimism. And that was my first mistake. Allowing myself to feel such easily broken feelings. I bounced a little as I walked to the front door. I unlocked the door and stopped in my tracks as I opened the door.
Sissy was laying on the ground, with an empty syringe next to her. I rushed over to her and checked her pulse. Nothing. So then I checked her wrist, and her feet, and her neck again. Nothing. I called an ambulance and after three minutes they arrived. I stayed at the hospital for three days, until the line on her monitor went straight. I can still hear the beeping of the monitor. It haunted my dreams, and I could still see her pale, lifeless body on the hospital bed. The doctor came to me to tell me that she didn’t make it, but I pushed past him to her. I hugged her and yelled, “Sissy! Sissy, please wake up! There’s still much that I want to do with you by my side! That you need to do! I can’t lose you! Sissy, please come back to me! I need you!“. The nurses, doctors, and patients could all hear me, but they didn’t say a word, and didn’t even try to touch me.
After a while of me screaming and crying, I lifted her body from the bed and walked out of the hospital. No one stopped me, and no one said anything. They’ve known what we’ve gone through, how many times she’s came in the hospital for an overdose. Or how many times I was in here cause I had gotten so sick that I couldn’t breathe correctly or passed out during school and didn’t wake up three class periods later. Her and mom had always been there. Those were the one things she never missed, my appointments. And I was always the one to walk in on her passed out with a syringe next to her, but this time she didn’t wake up. This time she wouldn’t come back to me. I wouldn’t hear her bad singing when she came over to shower. Or her calling me by one of my nicknames and asking simply for a hug and for her to tell me that she loves me, which I said back, and I would also do the same thing.
I carried her to my car and put her in the back seat, laying down. I drove to our place. When I was sad or just didn’t have a good day, I would got there and wait for Sissy to show up, and then I would tell her all about it and she would listen and hug me after. And she used to do the same, she would come to me and let everything out, and I would listen and hug her too. And then there were days when we would just hug each other and cry for hours. It was our spot. We would also rant to each other and laugh together. It was a place where we could act anyway we wanted and we could say anything we wanted or needed.
And even when she moved out, we would still meet there to let it all out. Whether she came high or sober, I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. Because it was our thing, we said whatever we wanted and acted however we wanted. Sometimes I would go there when I was missing her, and she never showed. She usually came when she had something on her mind or when she knew I had something on mine, but I didn’t talk to her as much and I didn’t know if she had something on her mind, and she never knew if I had anything on mine. So, maybe we both went there when we did have something on our mind, but the other never showed. Maybe she sat there for hours waiting on me, like I did for her . Or maybe she was with her friends, getting high. I didn’t know, and even now, I still don’t know. Over the next month, I made her gravestone, dug up her grave, and made her as beautiful as she could be before putting her in her grave. Her grave was under the huge rock that we used to sit on when we let everything out. It took me and about 5 of my friends to move the rock, and then the same amount for us to move it back. I loved my sister. I still love my sister. And I go to her grave everyday and do the same thing I would do if she were here with me. Let it all out.
