All that motivational speech had worked for nothing.
The next morning at the hospital, we waited for the doctor to come out of the room. Sarah was standing beside me while I was hoping for good news. The doctor finally exited through the door to warn us of the news.
"I'm sorry," He said at first, concerned, then a sad face, "She won't make it..."
I jumped out of the stool and mom burst, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN????"
"I mean, she's dead," The doctor made himself clear, "I'm sorry for your loss."
"NO! SHE MAY NOT DIE!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
"As I said, she's dead. I'm very sorry, we tried everything in our power, but it wasn't possible," The doctor said, afterward leaving the room.
After Cindy
Mom cooked eggs for breakfast every morning, something Cindy loved. She would clean out Cindy's room at least once a day. Cindy liked to be organized. Not once this week has she spoken to me.
"Mom? May I have a cookie?" I asked, my mouth watering.
"Not today, Cindy," She responded.
"My name is Carla, mom... Not Cindy!" I said, stuffing myself with some cookies.
"I said, no cookies Cindy!" She repeated.
"My name is Carla for the last time!" I complained.
"I know, Cindy! I know..." She screamed as she opened the door to her bedroom and shut it.
"Mom!" I screamed.
I kneeled to the floor and wondered, why does mom always call me Cindy? My name is Carla, I thought, picked some more cookies, headed to my bedroom, and shut the door tightly. My fake plants, Lily and Rose, were dancing through the wind. My white desk was situated in the spot with my pastel pink chair behind it, my white bookshelves were used as decorations, where I would put pastel pink lamps, some plants, and other things, some books. In front of all of that is my disorganized bed, Cindy would restrain. She's not here though. Is she?
I was never captivated by the doctor's name who was carrying the motivational speech the day before Cindy succumbed. After that day, she was never heard from again. Which made me despair.
***
"I'm sorry for your sister," Sarah unflustered as lacerations spilled through my cheeks down to my jaw and then dropped to the ground.
"Whatever," I exhaled, as I scribbled a chef d'oeuvre which I was going to dispatch to the International Handcraft Manufactory Patronage (or IHMP).
Today, Sarah is wearing a black hoodie with diminutive ripped jeans and laced her ponytail with a tight scrunchie.
"Move on," Sarah huffed, "She's no longer with us."
"Us is not the word," I said, "She's no longer with me"
"Yeah," Sarah spilled, "Sorry."
"Whatever," I huffed, as I continued scribbling my chef d'oeuvre with my paintbrush, "Well! This chef d'oeuvre is a beauté!"
"I don't care," Sarah huffed as she retreated from my bedroom leaving the door open.
"Close the door!" I instructed.
"No!" Sarah shouted from the kitchen as she ran off. Her voice echoed through the hallways.
"Oh, come on!" I screamed, as lacerations still spilled, "You can't..."
"Turn it down up there, Cindy!" Mom said. I didn't respond.
For the last time, mom. Cindy's gone. My name isn't Cindy. It's Carla. But if you can't get over it. Why not admit it? Because it would be useful. Thoughts invaded my brain.
