here without you

04

I enter our house. As I'm making my way upstairs to my room, I realise that as usual, no one is there. Before her death this used to be different. But then, everything used to be different.

My father is the owner of one of the most successful hotels in America, which means he's always busy and works a lot. Ever since Olive has left us, it feels like he's been doing nothing but working, just like my mother, who is a writer. And although both of them are claiming to be working, I can't imagine how it is possible for them to.

While I know my mother isn't actually working, I'm convinced that my father is working since he's the type of person who likes to work. However, I must admit that I have secretly caught him coming home very late with a faint smell of alcohol more than once.

Still, he's handling her death better than my mother is. While he is drowning his sorrows in his work and alcohol, she is doing something which I don't quite understand, but which I'd simply call grieving.

She claims to be working, and my father and I don't question it, although we both know most of the time she's just spending time by herself in her office, doing nothing. She takes a lot of medication, which make it easier for her to go through the day as well as the night. However, they can't make less obvious what she's been through. Anyone can see the pain and grief she's dealing with. Her eyes are sunken, wrinkles have appeared on her face, and she seems hollow. My sister's death has caused her to age. As vain as my mother is, she tries to hide it underneath make up and expensive beauty treatments. Yet, it is pointless. You can't cover such damage.

Sometimes I wonder how, or if I have changed. Can you see the grief in my eyes, in my face? I have looked a few times in the mirror, asking myself that question, even though I guess it's hard for me to tell.

The only thing I saw was me, looking like I always have. Skinny, pale, black haired, and a pretty face. I know I sound arrogant and shallow, but that's what people see when they look at me. On some days I see it too, I'm not going to lie about that.

I look a lot like her, except for the much paler skin and the black hair which she dyed blonde. It's like whenever I look at the mirror I'm reminded of her, and I don't know if that's a good or bad thing.

People would often mistake my sister and me for twins. She wasn't even a year older than me, and we were both in the same grade. But even though we shared similar looks, our personalities couldn't have been more different. Olive was bold, outgoing and would say the things that were on her mind. She was confident and easily liked, whereas I am quiet, introverted and often self conscious.

I don't know how, but when I was with her I was less like that. Just by her presence I became someone different, someone I liked better. I looked up to her, and I often wanted to be more like her. And I still do. But I know I am not like her, and now she is gone.

After her suicide, a lot of people offered me help. They acted as if they cared about what happened, and as if they cared about me. What they didn't tell me is this: They don't actually want to make me feel better - they want to make themselves feel better. It's one of the reasons why I didn't want their help and still don't do.

The only thing I want is having my sister back, and obviously that is the thing no one can give me and which I won't ever be able to get. Whoever I was when I was with her doesn't exist any longer. That version of me is just as dead as she is.