The Silent Sister

One

I was always the quiet one. From my silent corner of life, I watched you grow up. Watched you become you. You have always had a soft spot for me; to every other human being, you were rough and calloused, like a fisherman's weather-beaten hands. To me you were always soft and gentle. You tell me everything-- especially your secrets. 
Me? I never speak. Your secrets stay safe in the recesses of my mind. But this last one... it might be bigger than the both of us can ever imagine.

•••

I could always tell when you had a rough night. You would come down the stairs with tousled hair and ink-stained hands, and you would always meet my eye with a look that said, "I'm breaking". You never showed anyone your drawings, not even me. But you did let me comfort you, and that was more than enough. 

On the day after these nighttime art sessions, you always would go out with friends. Drinking, usually, sometimes drugs-- or so we thought. Only I know the truth; one night you came in through my window, your hair still pristinely curled but your arms damp with sweat. You slept in my bed that night, because I was afraid if you went back to your own room, you would leave again. It was that night that you whispered to me in the dark, telling me what happened on the nights and days you disappeared with your friends. 

"Can I tell you something?" you whispered, your voice damp and quiet, barely shifting the dark silence enough to reach my ears.

"Anything." I hardly ever reply in much more than single word sentences. You never minded that, though. It was one of the things I liked about you. You never questioned my silence. 

"I don't drink. I know you and mom and dad think I do, but you're wrong. Drugs, too. I just watch everyone else do them, sometimes I pretend I have." Your voice was so serious, but I remember there was just enough light for me to see the funny little smile on your pretty red lips. Like you knew the secrets to the universe.

After that night, we would always share a knowing look when you snuck back in, and I never raised any questions. As long as I knew you were safe, I had no anxiety about your excursions. Besides, I liked hearing your stories about the crazy things people did while drunk or high. I would always quietly catalogue those stories in my mind, for future reference. I like knowing how people work, what makes up the clockwork inside their heads.

Your clockwork was more complicated than most. You were a multi-dimensional being, a twelve-sided die. Unpredictable. But the one thing I knew for certain about your clockwork was you would tell me your secrets. I have no secrets of my own, so I had nothing to offer in return. That never bothered you. You just told me yours, because you knew I would keep them to myself. 

That's why I was so confused, the day you left. Never before had you kept anything from me: this sudden, secretive exodus of yours felt like a violation of our unspoken code. 

Why did you leave, sister? And more importantly, why did you keep it a secret from me?