Being Shot

P h o t o #59 - Tearing Down My Walls

P h o t o #59 - Tearing Down My Walls

"We held the funeral a few days later. A lot of kids from our school showed up, even a lot of relatives I'd never even met before flew in for it. Not too long afterwards, my mom decided to send me to live with my grandmother after I refused to return to school. A couple of names were thrown around and investigated, but we never really figured out if anyone pushed my sister to do what she did. They ruled it out as underlying depression due to our father's absense, but I knew better than to believe that was the entire story." I stared at my fingers as they trembled in my lap, shaken up as I relived the day through my wavering voice.

I'd come to terms with what happened long ago, but I never truly went through the motions of forgiving, of abandoning the wish to fill her place. The memory of my sister's corpse will forever be burned in the back of my eyelids, and that was just how it was going to be. No amount of therapy or counseling can change that, that's why I opted out of wasting my grandmother's money after moving here halfway through my freshman year, deciding to make myself useful by getting a job instead, secretly hoping keeping my hands busy will do the same for my mind.

The lump in my throat bobbed, trying to recall what happened after that day. It didn't take long for my mother to make the decision to fly me out a few states away, to drop me off at my grandmother's house in order to cope, to get away from her other ill daughter.

The last thing I remembered from my old home, the white paneled, cookie-cutter house at the end of a cul-de-sac, was throwing away my sister's gift, my belongings in grocery bags, my mother still mute.

I was aware that what I'd gone through was something that ruined lives, and for a time I was adament on allowing just that to happen, but now I realize I can not be shackled to my past.

This realization was the only thing keeping me from unraveling entirely.

I was honest through and through, but that doesn't mean I didn't leave out the finer details for my best interest. There was no reason for my friends to know that my mother dropped me off at my grandmother's because she couldn't stand to look at my face, reminding her of the child she lost, nor that I grew out my hair and never wore contacts in hopes of filling the void my sister left. They didn't need to hear about how I practically didn't start holding real, full conversations with people until I'd met them. They didn't need to understand that soon after I came here my mother tried reaching out again, and then my father too, and all I could do was shut them out for three years out of fear.

A sob filled the still air, and my heart lodged into my throat, thinking it was mine. The woman I'd stormed away from adjusted her glasses in the corner of my vision, peaking over the counter, as she'd heard the sound too. I'd almost forgotten we were in public, praying that my words hadn't left the empty waiting room.

A hand fell over mine, ceasing the slight quiver in my fingers. I studied its bubble gum pink nails, noticing just how hard they shook, how white its knuckles were.

Before I could even look up, Kayla pulled me close to her, my head upon her colar bone. She hid her face into my short black hair, the muscles in her neck bouncing as she cried. She apologized into my forehead, hot tears running off her cheeks and onto mine. My breath hitched.

Again she choked out a warbling apology, rubbing her hand along my shoulder. I grabbed at her other arm with my left palm, the one that wrapped around my front, biting my lip as she carried on. I couldn't recall every being comforted for what happened; the funeral was a blur of pitiful looks and stiff handshakes, and my mother was too distraught to offer more than an empty glance whenever I addressed her. My grandmother tried when I first arrived but I wouldn't let her, brushing her off and hiding in her spare guest room - my room - until the novelty wore off.