Still Here

1

There is no rain.

You think there would be at least a drizzle, the day I shoot myself in the head. Cloudy skies with light showers, maybe. Possibly overcast. Even a ten percent chance of rain. You think there would be something.

But I get nothing. The sun shines brightly, pouring light into my dark bedroom. I squint after I fully draw the curtain. It's breathtakingly gorgeous. A brilliant orange streaks the sky, followed suit by vibrant yellows and glorious pinks. It's quite possibly the most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen.

And it pisses me off.

I'm going to blow my brains out today and it looks like God is throwing a party to celebrate. Wow, Audrey will finally be gone from my precious, polluted little earth! Hurray! Let's have a beautiful sunrise! We should throw in some red so it looks like the blood that will stain her mother's pavement this afternoon!

Gee! Thanks, God.

I find myself thinking about hell and shiver as I stare out the window. The thought makes me want to crawl back into bed and bawl my eyes out. But I'm afraid I've been doing that too much lately.

And I need to get ready for my last day at some point. It's a good distraction - better than thinking about burning in hell, anyway. I open my closet, which creaks loudly, and smile at its contents. A flouncy summer dress hangs before me.

It's winter.

I throw it on, fixing my hair and doing all my regular morning shit. At some point, I end up in front of my mirror, judging the girl inside it. She already looks dead. Ridiculously large bags sit under her eyes - so large that they're practically comical. She is so heavily flawed. It would take far too long to pick out every single thing that's wrong with her. Maybe everything is wrong with her. But there is one word that anyone would easily use to describe her.

Broken.

I have to force myself to look away. Self hatred is blinding.

Before I head downstairs for the breakfast that will put an end to all my future breakfasts, I face my room one final time. I've put the gun in the backyard so that I don't have to return to this room after school. I can't risk seeing family photos or something.  Can't afford backing out for my weak sentimentality. I've even take the precaution of flipping my picture of Cara around. It's sat on my bedside table ever since we moved here. I don't know if the photo would motivate or discourage me, but, like I said, I'm not taking any chances.

Since they can't look to Cara, my eyes wander before finding themselves fixed on my empty desk. I take uncertain steps toward it, but stop before I ever reach it. I feel like kind of a dick for it, but I am not leaving a note. I can't leave permanent words to haunt my family - not on paper. Besides, I have nothing worth saying.

And apparently, neither did Cara.

My room quickly becomes too much for me to handle anymore, much like my reflection. I close the door behind me and bound downstairs, every step feeling irrevocable. I move quietly, not in the mood for waking up a hungover mother or tired father.

I'm betting that Porter's already up the moment before I see him on the couch, watching the news and eating cereal in silence. He's not exactly your average 12 year old.

"Hey, Port," I say.

"Hi, Audrey," he replies, his eyes glued to the muted television.

"How's the news?" I ask. I don't really care about the news, but I definitely care about the kid. If I could, I would talk to him all day long. But if I did that, there would be suspicion. Not to mention what a distraction it would be. I would never end up alone with the gun I so hopelessly need.

So I'm giving myself this. I'm giving myself now, to speak to my little brother who will soon lose the only sister he has left.

He answers with a soft voice, hardly paying attention to me. I don't blame him; I'm usually full of shit. "Horrible."

I laugh, ruffling his coffee brown hair. "It usually is."

He looks up at me for the first time, curious. I'm clingy today. He knows this. Hell, I'm convinced the kid knows more than I do. "Okay," he says carefully, "the news sucks. Do you?"

I grimace and catch myself a second too late. He's noticed. I try suppressing every emotion I feel with what I hope somewhat resembles a smile. "Do I suck? Nah, I'm alright."

I'm also a complete and terrible liar, and you know it, I think.

His face is questioning, maybe even a little bit frightened when he says, "You sure you don't want to change your answer?"

This is a reference to our father. Every time any of us got in trouble, we were given a thousand year long lecture in the living room. Dad always closed it with a single question, which we were expected to answer correctly. If we didn't, he'd ask us if we wanted to change our answer. It became a joke, one that Porter used all the time. Still uses. He thinks it makes him seem more mature.

It doesn't, really. I grin at him. I want him to grin back, but his face remains unchanged. Frozen in that worried, childlike expression. "I'm good, Port. Really."

Dad only ever asks that question once. Porter sighs and turns back to the television, unconvinced. He starts eating his cereal again and forgets all about me. I hope the same goes for everyone's reaction after today. They can simply go back to whatever they were doing before they got my death phone call and forget. Just forget.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I, myself, want to forget so very much.

Desperately.

I dig my nails into my palms before opening my eyes. I force myself to stop staring at Porter and head into the kitchen. Nothing looks appetizing. Any desire I had for food has vanished, leaving behind only a desire for Porter. I want to hug him and tell him how sorry I am. I want to make him forget I ever existed. I want to magically turn into the good witch from The Wizard of Oz and give him a kiss that will protect him from the evil of the world forever.

I'm thinking up a million other things I can do for Porter when he comes in and it all slips from my mind. My heart sears with pain when he looks at me, his big brown eyes holding nothing but fragility.

He'll be the only one left.

I didn't know it would be possible to hate myself even more, but here we are. I just want to be gone. I can't take this. I can't look at him anymore, the kid who so closely resembles Cara and me. The kid with the terrible parents. A mother who doesn't care and a father who won't let himself. The kid who has no friends because everyone he interacts with is afraid that they'll make him start crying. The kid who keeps no photos of his dead sister. The kid who doesn't fully trust anyone anymore.

The kid I'm leaving. Consciously. Tears spring up in my eyes that I simply cannot blink away. I wrap him in a hug so he can't see me in this state. I want to tell him that I'm sorry. That it shouldn't be this way. That he should know that none of this was his fault. That just because I can't grow up, he still can.

But it's a lot to say. And I only have so much time - we all do.

So I say what Cara didn't say to me, the thing I wish I could've heard, one last time.

"I love you."