Autopsy of A Bedroom

It's been two days since she was taken to the hospital. She was nauseous, in pain, and she had failed. Despite her failure, my house is dead.  

This is not to say that my sister made the house alive. On the contrary, she locked herself in her room for hours, blasting music to drown out my parents' shouting. My mother's pleas for her to talk. My demands to see her.

My little brother had stopped knocking on the door a long time ago. 

But now that the ghost is gone, the house is dull. I have switched on every light, but something is missing. It can't be laughter; my sister rarely laughed. 

There is a list of emotions the household is allowed to feel. Grief, sadness, confusion are all acceptable. Anger is forbidden. Any outburst will be punished through my mother's tears.  

"Are you angry at us?" My mother will ask, her voice trembling. "You think we're the reason she did this?"

I want to answer: not just you. After all, my grandmother was depressed. Ironically, my sister was born barely clinging to life, choking on her own umbilical cord. Ever since, she's been a paler, thinner, quieter version of me. Our parents abused each other, and despite their denials, there were times they hurt us. When we were kids, my mother frequently threatened to commit suicide. My father played games with her until she snapped. My parents let a child molesting stepgrandfather into our home. A creepy man once broke in and terrorized my sister when she was four.

My mother tried to abandon us a little while ago. My father remained distant and exploded in anger randomly. 

So, there's a lot. But I'm not allowed to be angry, and the music is stale now. I can't focus on work or anything. I'm clinging to my friend's warmth at university, and it's the only thing keeping me going. 

It's everywhere. That deadness. In my clothes, burning my eyes and nose. It makes my heart thud at school, and out of nowhere makes me sick. 

So I do what I've always done when my emotions start building. I pick up the knife.

It's strange. My sister tried it with pills, but she's always been the weaker one. Mentally, physically, emotionally. She fears pain. 

Back in the olden days, people used to drill holes in their skulls to relieve the pressure. Not sure it worked out for them, but this is my trepanation, my therapy. 

I'm not suicidal; it just helps. Carefully, I slice red lines on my skin and watch them bloom. 

I can hear my parents quietly shuffling through her room. Stuffing dirty clothes into a hamper, picking up the crumbs and garbage of my sister's depression. They find the torn-up birthday cards she chucked in her bin. She's stupid and careless.

My parents count her pills; they try and deduce her motives. All I hear is their joint investigation to acquit themselves.

"We gave them money." My mom hisses. "They're privileged."

"And time. And love, what more do they want?" My father mutters back.

I continue my slicing. It's not a cry for attention or related to my parents. I mastered the art of being a psychopath a long time ago.

Some blood trickles onto my stomach, and I rush to mop it up. I always regret the scars afterward. 

But for now, I listen in to the shitty true-crime podcast that is my parents sorting through my sister's room.

It smells of her desperation, so they spray some Febreze. Oh, we're past the autopsy.

Did they figure it out? Was it her love of rock music? Of lacy clothes? Dark makeup? Secret LGBTQ identity? Her edgy paintings? 

What's the motive? 

It's not what they want, so like corrupt cops, my parents decided the attempt was just teenage drama. No, selfishness. How could she do this? 

And now, to the morgue to make the body look nice! My sister's bed is being made. Her discarded clothes are neatly put away.  

Books get sorted. The table is swept of dust and wrappers. What are we proving, covering the rot with fresh paint?

Briefly, I rack my memory. Is a social worker going to drop by, or is this some twisted version of sadness? 

My parents continue ripping out the disgusting parts of my sister. 

I rest my hands on the sink and run the small, sharp knife under the water. You know, I didn't start cutting because of a show. Or a movie, or a book or song. I saw the knife at the dollar store.

It was there, a sharp blade available for 2.50. And that same day, I wrote myself into my skin. Is it in our blood? This unsexy, unwanted mental illness? 

Usually, my trepanation leaves me light. But it's ruined by the sounds of my parents still in her room, just a few steps away. 

"Mahsa?"

That's them. I carefully cover the cuts with ill-fitting bandages and half-heartedly pat some aloe vera over it all. Tetanus shot has four years left, so I don't have to worry about that.

The shirt returns.

I watch myself in the mirror. Too sad, and I'll be a filthy traitor siding with my sister over my loving parents. Too neutral, and I'll look full of disdain.

I need to fix my face. Coldwater does the trick, and I add some cream. Breathe in, breathe out. Perfection. 

Now, my face is appropriately confused, grieving, and sad. 

My parents gesture at the room. Love what you've done with the corpse place! 

The dying sun forces sunlight into the room. My sister kept this room dark. So dark that you couldn't even find her in here. 

It's strange seeing the room in the light. My parents are clearly fans. It now looks like a well-adjusted, non-suicidal IKEA catalogue. All better. 

Fixed. Neatly arranged in a nonsensically rational manner by parents who don't understand.

I say nothing as the torn-up birthday cards are presented as evidence. It's not interpreted as proof of hurt and frustration but rather as a manifestation of my sister's disrespect.

Are they always going to miss the point? Are they always going to miss the signs?

I make some excuses about homework and carefully retreat into my room. It's right across from the pleasantly embalmed body. Reshaped according to my parent's wishes, and something they like far more than their daughter.

We still don't understand why she did it. Autopsy, inconclusive.