UNRELIABLY TOLDㅤ misc

juxtaposition, writing

june 1, 2022

If you look back far enough, you can see the precise moment of when you began your descent. You see the ocean on a lethargic Sunday and the juxtaposition of seagulls, fighting violently for a crumb. You see the shape of your sister beside you and you feel her body warmth—which freely bleeds and ebbs, its presence keeping the bile in your throat at bay.

You are tired and it exists in every ache of your body and mind, and in every harsh word you will spit bitterly at your most cherished. Your sister leans her head on your shoulder and asks you, "What now?"

It is the first time a voice has disturbed the air. You know she's really asking, How will we live?, because just the day before, your mother was found dead. Pills still laid in the cusp of her palm and you remember... you don't remember much. Does that make you a bad person?

"I don't know," you say finally. It's the first time you've properly heard yourself since. "We'll... I don't know."

You know she expected more from you. She's only eleven, and she's on the brink of adolescence—it was supposed to mark the most formative years of her life, but instead her eyes are rimmed with red. You swallow vomit. She says, "Should we tell the police?"

Tell the police? She'd be sent to an orphanage—wrenched from your grip and tossed to the sharks. And you? You'd be alone. Selfishly, you shake your head. "I turn eighteen in a week," you hear yourself say. "Then I can be your guardian, legally."

Your sister frowns. "But—"

"Not now, please."

She lifts her head from your shoulder. "Ma would want us to tell Oma."

You feel something within you snap and suddenly the seagulls don't feel out-of-place. Their violence is the only thing that feels right. One of them slits the other with its talon, leaving a spray of red, and when your sister grabs your arm you find yourself hollow.

"We can't tell Oma yet," you say. A fear has taken root in your lungs and if you live long enough, it'll grow throughout your entire being and define who you are. "Everyone is dying. If she hears about this one, she'll kill herself."

The ocean seems to forget to breathe. Your sister does, too, and then, slowly, she removes her hand from your arm. "Elorie," she says and your name is hardly recognizable behind her sob.

You realize you'd believed yourself. You believe yourself. You don't know how to take it back—your statement or your faith. "I didn't mean it," you say finally.

"You did."

You did. Because if Ma couldn't handle it then Oma can't, and a part of you is starting to believe you can't. You don't tell your sister this: how your outlook on life is already slipping through your fingers. How your fear is blooming flowers that are more beautiful in death than in life.

Instead, you shake your head. "I didn't," you say without much conviction. You stand up. The seagulls flee and leave their precious breadcrumb. "I really didn't, I promise. Let's get food."

"Just like that?"

No, not just like that. Because later, you and your sister will struggle to swallow the food you'll order, and then the two of you will sit and cry in a fast food restaurant, wondering if you'll starve to death and knowing you're really crying for your mother, not your appetite.

You muster a smile. "Just like that," you say. "Subway?"

She forces a smile back, just as yours tires and falls. "Subway's good."