Last Goodbye

My sister and I grew up rather close in the countryside for the first six years of my life. And for the only thirteen years of her's. You see, when I had hit six years old, the day after my birthday she went missing. No one knew where she had been at the time or who had been around, and I had been so confused as I sat cross-legged on the floor watching my parents sob in each other's arms. I had played with my doll's hair, occasionally looking at my parents only to get a dejected stare, and looked back at the doll who had my sister's fair hair and blue eyes. As days passed and I recieved no reply from Charlotte when I asked her to play, I began to understand why my parents were so upset. Their eldest daughter was missing, but I did not know what to think of that. My Lottie: missing? A few weeks passed and I sat alone at night, the book she read to me still on the same page as when she had read to me on my birthday, and at the dinner table it was silent and the atomosphere became depressing and uncomfortable. I started to miss school because my parents refused to let their six year old daughter work when I had lost my sister. The problem with that was I had no friends where I lived. Our house was isolated, except for the odd cottage down the road that were inhabited by old people and their cats. In the morning I would wake up to the birds tweeting, run downstairs for breakfast, call for Lottie and then drop down in the sudden realisation that she was not with us. But I always had hope that one day she would return, fair hair braided as usual and blue eyes sparkling, and give me a large hug and say sorry for leaving me. But that did not happen. I did not go back to school for a while, and no one taught me to read, so at night I would curl up with a book and look at the pictures, wondering if Lottie would like them. She had been a great artist, as was I, and as two years passed I began to paint dreams I had had of her, some being a horrific death and others being a run in the fields holding hands, hair whipping in our faces. I had begun school again, therefore I was learning to read, but I was behind in every class and that became a problem as the older kids started picking on me.

The days grew gloomy and my smile became small and the bullying increased. Still I continued to draw and read and fall behind and cry and suffer in pain. Every day that passed became one day I had mirculously survived, although it hurt to get out of bed and I was sick at the very thought of school. Unlike my parents, I never found the will to smile, nor the hope that one day Lottie would come running back. I had lost all hope at ten years old after spending weeks camping away from home to find her. When she had not appeared, I returned home and didn't come out of my room for five whole days. My head had hurt and my eyes had burned and I had wanted to die, or disappear like my sister had. That would be much simpler than living the joke of a human life.

At the age of twelve, in high school, the panic attacks started. They came without warning, like creatures in the dark, waiting until I'm most vunerable. It would start with a spining head, and then a racing heart, and then the shortage of breath. As they began to come frequently, my parents sent me to a therapist who was lovely but just not enough. The bullies were using me as a toy, not a punching bag, and one went as far as to say I was his girlfriend and we had had the special cuddles. I had ran home and cried into my pillow.

On the weekends I could have a break and draw all I liked and ride my father's horse on the farm for a couple of hours whilst he was at work. Sometimes I would help mum with the house work, and once that was finished she would sit me down and read me The Famous Five by Enid Blyton. The book Lottie read to me still remained untouched after all the years, still on that same page.

The bullying in school increased, and no one had any sympathy for me whatsoever. They didn't care that my sister was missing, presumed to be dead, nor did they care that I didn't want to live my life anymore. They continued to bully me every single day except on the weekends. No one wanted to be friends with me. That was until the new girl joined our class: Ellie. She was so pretty and kind and we became friends instantly. Once she even told me that I 'lit up her world, which had been pretty dark'. That was when I had decided to tell her my story, from when I was six till fourteen. When I had finished, she had wrapped me in a large hug, kissed my cheek and told me everything was going to be alright.

"You're a strong girl, you know? You can beat it Sophia." I did not understand what she meant until my therapist told my parents I was depressed. That day, after hearing that, I had ridden out on my father's horse as if to runaway but by the time the sun had set I was jumping off the saddle and straight into Ellie's arms, who had been waiting for me to come home with her head in her hands, worrying. I had swore, kissed her on the lips, digusted at myself, and she had kissed me back. I had asked her if we were girlfriends, and she had said yes. She also said that exact thing when I asked her to marry me seven years later. We settled down in a nice home away from civilisation, didn't bother with any kids, and I drew and she taught me what school hadn't and I was the happiest I had ever been.

When the time came for Ellie to pass, I had sat at her bedside and took her hand, giving it a light squeeze. She had been whispering something, so I had leant down to hear: "I told you you'd beat it, didn't I?" And she breathed her last breath before closing her eyes, never opening them again.

"Yes." I had whimpered, drawing the blankets up over her head. "Yes you did. Goodbye Ellie. It's my last one."

I died exactly six days after my wife, but I had done it. I had beat depression. Just like Ellie had once told me I could. And I had. I had never been more prouder than myself. And that's why I decided to tell my story: there could be someone out there like me. I'd like to let them know they are not alone, and there will always be that one person in their life to change it. Keep looking; I love you.