On Three (EDITED)

After Anne's Death

I was in the doorway to the bathroom for what must have been minutes with a crumpled piece of paper in my pocket. Anne was in the bathtub. Blood pooled around her legs and a red halo was painted to the left of her head onto the linoleum wall. Her hand dangled a foot above the pistol over the tub wall. It was as if she never touched it. The only way you could tell that it dropped from her grip was the hairline cracks in the tile.

Sobs racked my body as I looked at her resting in the tub. I reached out to her forehead, which was still warm. Other than the overpowering stench of blood, she still smelt like herself, so how was I to believe she was dead? I knew she was dead, but every part of me did not want to be without her. I was choking on the air itself because this sick reality could not be true without my sister. My sister was never to be without me, and I was never supposed to be without her. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. We planned everything so perfectly.

I heard the front door open and Dad walk in. He called me, but when he only got my sobbing as a response, he came rushing to the bathroom to see me streaked in blood next to Anne. He screamed like I thought no man could scream, and he placed his hands over his mouth before tears spilled down his cheeks.

It seemed like if you were to take too heavy of a breath near him, he'd break like a porcelain doll colliding with the floor. I wish I had been strong enough to comfort him in the twenty minutes we sat there crying with eachother before Mom came home. Her shrieks were frantic and frail. She stumbled about, screaming in a shrill, frantic voice. She was the one that called the officials and made the funeral plans in the following days because neither of us could bear to move from our tear-laden slump.

The house was a mess, but Anne's room remained untouched for the days between her funeral and death. The kitchen was cold without food being cooked in it, and the living room colder without Anne sitting in it. The front door was answered almost ten times a day with condolences and I'm-sorry-your-daughter-committed-suicide casseroles. Mom accepted every one of them, but as soon as the casserole met the fridge, the only other destination it was to embark on was the trash can. The neighbors sat in the living room with Mom and said that they would pray for her and that they'd never imagine Anne doing such a thing.

They might not have known it because they never lived with Anne. I was her best friend and knew her every secret. With that in mind, some days, I would do nothing but cry. There were also the days that I was as full of emotion as a statue would be getting shit on by a pigeon. I could have stopped the pain I was feeling; I could have stopped Anne from suffering alone.

But then came the day that I was throwing dirt into Anne's grave.

A/N: Hey, two thirds of the way done! How are you guys liking it? What could be better? Remember to vote and comment! :)

Edited