From the Life of Riley Black

Chapter One

Chapter One

Ryland Black

Her room was an unmistakable pale shade of white. The ceiling fan twirled, her room lights flickered on and off, her bed was neatly made - the only odd thing in her room, to be honest, and - even more disturbingly - the only clean thing present was her bed; her clothes were scattered across the carpeted floor and her desk lamp was no longer on. The laptop that sat on her bed had probably blacked out a long time ago, but none of that was my concern.

I stalked over to her walls, each one lined with her paintings, and no family pictures where in sight. It felt awfully depressing to be in here again, but I ignored that feeling. I zeroed in on what was once my favorite painting: a girl in the middle; her red color made her stand out from the others that were painted black. Everyone looked happy. That girl was Riley. I understood that much. The people in the background where her family, and the people she knew or had met at one point - society, us. I understood the concept now: we were only shadows to her; people who surrounded her without actually being there with her. Or maybe, perhaps, she was the shadow.

It pained me deeply now to think that I was one of those who made her feel like shit, and even worse: she kept dropping hints all the time as to what she was going through. Here they were, surrounding her room walls!

And yet.

And yet, we failed. We all failed.

I understood one more thing: she fooled herself into thinking she was happy. She thought she was okay with being alone, that it was normal, until one day she couldn't have any more of it. I was almost certain she didn't think twice before deciding to leave. If I had been in her place and made the same choices she had, would I have lasted as long as she had?

But there was a chance she knew all along. It was possible she knew she wasn't herself.

At last, I drew my gaze away from the painting and onto her bed. As neatly made and unnerving as it was, I couldn't help but think of how she laid here, in that same spot where her laptop was, three weeks ago. What was she thinking about? Was she contemplating how to go about the whole ordeal, or was she having second thoughts at the time? Maybe if we'd paid more attention to her, made her feel like she belonged and observed her condition, she would be there, and I would be back to being the annoying older brother that barged into her room. I was that person five years ago, when she was ten and I was twelve.

Not anymore.

My sister didn't play any instruments or sports, and she didn't do any extra-curricular activities. It sucked that it felt like I was forgetting the details already and that I could only catch glimpses of what she was like. I couldn't remember mentioning anything she liked at all, except from art. The last memory I had of her was her sitting on this desk, pen in hand, and she was scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. At the time, it was an unspoken rule to not go into her room at all - unless she consented to it, but she never did. I watched her for a minute before getting on with whatever I was doing.

I just left her when I could have gone in and helped her. I could've stopped this.

Her desk, the one she'd decided to glue herself to for the past year, sat empty and untouched at the other side of the room. It was the opposite of her bed and equivalent to the rest of her room. The lamp flicked on and off; her notepad looked unkempt; the pile of letters that she'd been writing lay scattered across the desk.

"Who are the letters from?" I asked her when she finally came out of her room, looking as pale as ever. She'd lost weight, but not so much.

"Someone." She'd answered, without sparing me a glance.

"Why not just e-mail if texting isn't an option?"

"Because," she said it with such finality that I didn't think she'd continue, but she did. "He doesn't have an electronic device. And it's easier for me. It's our system." And she walked out, locking herself in her room once more.

Sudden rage filled me. The person these letters were addressed to knew why she decided to leave and why she couldn't confide in her own brother when he'd tried. Did he feel betrayed also? Or was he also not aware of her plans? Or perhaps he was, and had tried to stop her, and ultimately failed and had no idea their pen-pal was six feet under the ground.

Maybe if I read the letters - forgive me, Riley, but I have to - I would know the answer to what I did wrong, and would be able to seek your forgiveness properly.

I slowly took a seat at what used to be her desk. It was free for anyone to claim as theirs. The top letter was old, or at least, looked to be that way. There was no stamp or address on the envelope, so I assumed it was one of her unsent drafts. The paper felt heavy in my hands, and it felt like I was about to go to Riley's world. I was about to be inside her head. Finally, I opened it, her familiar cursive gracing my sight. I ran my fingers along the length of it and examined it carefully. I found it was addressed to a boy named Noah. For a moment, I thought these were love letters, but I figured that they most likely were not (more like I concluded it without thinking).

I took my time to sort through all the letters, and I searched her room for more. I didn't find only letters; there were notes and what I assumed to be her diary. It didn't look full. I arranged the letters to their date accordingly, and snuck in a note here and there. I was going to follow through with everything.

I ignored my mother's call for lunch and read.