Cassandra's Dead Sister's Bucket List ✔

-1-

· Cassandra · 

There was vomit in my hair. My eyelids press tightly as they struggle to open to the dawn of a miserable new day. My head lifts just an inch over the sticky, hot pillow. Or is it a cushion? The scent of rotten eggs blended with onions crawls up my nostrils and I gag, the back of my tongue shooting up to the back of my mouth. What did I even eat last night? I don't think I ate anything. Maybe that's the problem. 

Oh, yes, it's a cushion. I thought I was in my bedroom, but I am in my living room.

The memories from last night start slowly writing themselves back into my blank mind. "Ugh," I whine to the walls around me.  

My eyes scan my body, assessing the situation I am in. I  stink, heavily and consistently, I'm only wearing my cherry and white polka-dot underwear, and I feel needles throbbing against the back of my eyes. I am in my parents' living room. There are basically...empty bottles, plastic, red cups littering the cedar floor that our maid, Rosa, spent the whole day polishing—she should be glad I'm giving her more work to do today by the way.

My eyes turn to my stomach. Oh, Gosh. There is an arm draped over me. "Who the hell are you?" My voice wears a raspy tone.

I whine again. "Nick?" I peer down to discern who the person next to me is. "Yeah, this is Nick. It could have been worse." The corners of my lips shrug downward. Then, I fish his dangling arm off my body. I think it's his vomit on my hair and not mine. But I didn't have sex—I think. I would know, right? 

Hey. Don't judge. There is enough of that in the world. I am a good person who had a farewell night to my beautiful Buenos Aires. Tomorrow, I'm traveling for a few months to Neverland, that is, England. Also known as the land of never seeing my parents again (I kind of like that), never seeing my friends again, never seeing the sun again, never having fun again—Yay. England awaits.

Anyway, I was kindly asking you not to judge me, but I know I'm gonna make it hard for you. People cope with stuff however they can, not however they want. Ugh. If only we could all understand what that means. 

My dad doesn't get it, or maybe he is just too busy to notice that I am coping with an immense amount of grief. Mum is too depressed to notice I'm still alive, unlike my perfectly beautiful sister, Jazmin—her death sanctified her making her even more worshippable than she already was. And I am this very flawed person that stands out because I happen to be her one year younger sister, who has never accomplished an inkling of all the awards, trophies, and scholarships she won in her life. She was smart and pretty. Unfortunately for Steve and Mariela, I was not blessed with the smart part—I got the beautiful face, the right size everywhere, and the capacity to eat without fattening. And that's it.

The good thing about us underachievers is that we are resilient. So I came up with a coping system—which I promise is not drinking and having parties behind my parents' back. That's just me having fun, trust me.

I simply decided to not care. I live in the present, and I don't allow myself to dwell in any other timeframe than that. The present is the only thing that matters to me. The rest doesn't really exist: the past is gone, the future is not here yet. So, it's pointless to just waste time in one or the other.

No amount of guilt could ever erase the past. Then, why feel guilty? Sounds shallow? Well, I don't care. Caring will not bring my sister back. Feeling guilty will not fix the big fight we had before she died. Being sad will not solve anything. 

I am living my life before it ends. Unlike my sister, who died before she could even start college, or even go to a graduation party. I'm sorry if I don't sugar-coat her death. Things are what they are so what's the point in downplaying them, or romanticizing what happened to her.  

Her death sucks. Life sucks. Whoever told you otherwise, they lied to you, bestie. I'm saving you some time, trust me.

"Cassandra Kingston!" Steve shouts at me. His suitcase is next to him, his dull brown tie hanging loose around his neck. 

I quickly throw on the crochet, creamy shirt I was wearing last night. "Hi, Steve. Sorry, my bad. I'll clean everything up." My joints hurt as I stand up.

"I am your father. Stop calling me that." 

My eyes roll, but I hide my action by starting to pick up the glasses around me. Nick groans, stretching his arms above himself—Better keep myself busy than looking at Steve right now.

"This is exactly why you are leaving tonight. This exchange program is the best decision we could have taken. You need to learn that there are boundaries in life, and The Bard's Institute is all about boundaries, trust me." He walks toward me, kicking items on his way. 

"Out of my house!" he commands, addressing Nick. The latter leaves as if the zombie apocalypse had started. He is hot, but he is so lame. God. Yeah. No. I didn't have sex with him. I sigh in relief.

I struggle to unstick the pads of my fingers from the cups as I pile them one over the other. I come to a halt when Steve's grip tightens around my arm, forcing me to look up. My skin goes white under his grip. 

"You better not behave like this in the Wilkinson residency. You will embarrass our name, and yourself. The Wilkinsons have three exemplary kids."

"Are any of them hot?" I snatch my arm away from his grasp.

He humphs. "What happened to you? You always struggled, but you were a good person."

"Never as exemplary as your late daughter, mind you. Or the Wilkinson family." 

"Do not speak to me like that. And do not disrespect your sister's name," he seethes, his index finger pointing at me.

"Should we stop mentioning her until we forget she died and that not even all the money you own could save her?" I speak calmly and continue picking up empty bottles around me. 

He scoffs. 

"You're hurting. I get it. We love you no matter what, but you need to stop. This English family will certainly help you. They are nice, respectable kids. All of them have good marks, good friends. That's what you need, a good circle of people around you." 

"So maybe the problem is the parents and not the kids. You guys should really have read some parenting books. You clearly suck." I squint one eye at him, feigning a thinking face. 

My statement silences him—Well, about time. 

"One day, Cassandra, your words will haunt you." 

I set the bottles on the coffee table. "Hopefully I'll never have kids, so I doubt it. Why bring kids to the world if you can't afford to keep them alive, right?" 

"Right," he adds sarcastically, his arms akimbo."The chauffeur is taking you to the airport. I don't want to see you again until you grow up," he spits.

"That's gonna be a long while. The growing up bit, I mean." I chuckle. 

He sighs heavily, defeated. "Go pack. You're leaving in two hours."

And just like that, he gives up. He turns around, a breeze runs past him from the still-open door behind him, carrying the scent of his pine cologne toward my breathing ways. He still smells like when I was six. He grabs his suitcase and goes upstairs without looking back. 

That's fine. I swallow thickly. I wasn't expecting him to hug me or anything. It's not like I have tears in my eyes. 

My hand smashes away the cups and bottles I had just picked up—I guess Rosa will have to clean my mess again because I have a flight to catch.