smoke

what we were - sequel to 'clinomania'

Dear Heather,                                                                      22nd of January, 2007

I wish I could've told you earlier.

I understand that it probably wouldn't have changed a thing. You wouldn't have believed me. I don't blame you, though.

We've always been different. Both physically and morally. You had platinum blonde hair, courtesy of our mother, and I had light brown hair, courtesy of our father. You had brown eyes, courtesy of our father, and I had blue eyes, courtesy of our mother. 

I had the popularity, you didn't. I had friends, you didn't. But isn't it funny? How I lost all my friends - who I realized weren't really my friends in the first place, so fuck them - and how you suddenly garnered the sympathy of the whole fucking school? I'm not trying to sound spiteful. Honest to God, that's the last thing I want to come off as. Everyone should be feeling sorry for what they did to you, no doubt about that. But that's the thing. They don't. Feel sorry, I mean.

The fucking bastards. It wasn't a tragedy to them. It was purely a topic of discussion, something new to gossip about. I couldn't make my way down the entrance hall without sensing the eyes of the entire school trained on me, pointing at me, judging me. I was no longer known as Evan Clarke, but merely the boy who failed to save his sister. 

The day after you died, Joey came up to me, Scott and Noah trailing behind. "Dude," he'd said, "I'm glad you got that burden out of your life. She was a bitch."

I beat him up. I'm sorry. I know you hated violence, but I couldn't help myself. When they saw the two of us, Joey and I, bloodied and bruised on the floor, clawing at one another viciously, they simply pulled us apart. I don't know what happened to Joey, and I honestly don't give a flying fuck. But I was sent to the counsellor; her name was Mabel or Myrtle or something like that. Do you remember that crazy old hag? Wait. Of course you don't.

You're dead.

At least to the world you are. Dead, I mean. You're still very much alive to me. 

You know what they say about twins being able to feel one another's emotions and whatnot? Right now, more than ever, I wish that were true. Because if I had been able to feel your pain, to feel your struggle, you wouldn't be dead right now. 

I'm not saying this isn't my fault. Because it is. And I'm not saying I don't feel guilty. Because I do. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for humiliating you at school. I'm sorry for ignoring you at home. I'm sorry for not saving you. Everything I wanted to say to you but didn't echoes in my head and drives me insane.

I decided I needed to find peace. Mom and dad have been taking me to this shrink for the past two or three months. The guy wants me to tell you everything that is on my mind. He wants me to talk to you. I told him I feel better writing about you, not to you. He told me to try it just once. So here it is. I'm writing to you, Heather.  

I wish I could've told you earlier. Told you how beautiful you were. How beautiful you still are. 

I love you, sis.

                                                                                                                   Sincerely,

                                                                                                                          Evan.

A/N

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