To Natasha...

My sister was an angel. Not characteristically but physically. She had the looks, the charm, and the brains that lured the metropolis hive. Like bees, men and women followed her scent, trying to flatter or batter her- metaphorically speaking. Her face was on every magazine cover: some flashing her flawless skin, others chasing the glimmer in her eyes, like a predator gazing at the prey. I remember, two weeks before the fall, I picked one of the magazines sitting on her desk and turned to the particular page. Natasha stared back from the photos, boasting her perfect pale skin. She had- or perhaps needed- no clothes on. A single layer of black tape covered her breast. 

"What do you think of the other photos?" 

I turned to find her smiling, peeking at the photos from behind. Spinning back to escape her gaze, I turned the page to find another photo in which she wore a sparkling mauve dress- hollow in the center and only connected by delicate hinges. 

"You know what, you need to get rid of those oversized hoodies of yours and learn something from your elder sister..."

 She went on and on while I looked at the photos, quite stunned, finding the sultriness increasing with the turning pages. I knew she was a model, quite lustrious even, but what she showed me and my parents was nothing this explicit. 

"...luckily you have a lady's body...use the god-gifted charm."

I shut the magazine and turned to look at her; a conceited smile adorned her face. 

"No, thank you. One whore is more than enough to disgrace the family." 

The smile was gone now; instead, a streak of irritation beamed through those eyes. 

"You better mind your language!" 

"Oh, excuse me. Only if you could mind your actions too. How many boys have conquered this body of yours? One, one-hundred..."

I heard the sound of a smack and realized what had happened only after my left cheek burned. 

"This body is a miracle; never let a man's ill intentions fondle it. Not even a fingernail."

Before the words, she had slapped me hard across my face. 

"Don't you ever talk to me like that again! I do what I love. When you find something you love, only then dare to judge me."

She left the room, smacking the door behind. 

Two weeks later, she was found dead in the Brooklyn waters; the magazines called it the "Last high of the supermodel" referring to the notion that she used to do drugs and was apparently high when she fell from the Brooklyn bridge. No suicide notes were found however, on her desk, there rested a paper: To Sasha, my closet, and my heart.

I, of course, made sure that the entire closet including her favorite Nightingale gown was burned to ashes. Nothing could stop me, not even her untimely death or the pompous note. They say all's fair in love and war; the mountain of hatred I had cultivated inside of me was not easy to dismember. How could someone be drenched in attention and still want more? Her attention-seeking self, obviously, had made her choose death over life. It's not possible to have everything and let it all drop into the toxic waters of New York. 

We stopped talking about her, but the ghost of memories lurked in the closet of my brain, and, in disdain, I did exactly what she advised me not to do. "To hell with the miracle!" I slept with numerous men, some I don't even remember the faces of. Not that I became a supermodel, desired by all, I became a slut (mind my language), available to all. 

For three years, I lived in this void. Nothing stirred the blood in my veins or thrilled my young years. I was surviving on the bare minimum of everything until a group of travelers brought me to Everest. While my fellows were busy taking photographs, kissing, or rolling a joint, I stared at the highest peak in the world. All kinds of emotions were released simultaneously, bringing life back into this body. Daydreaming, I imagined myself on top of the peak, looking at the world below. How would it feel, the air, the emotions, the world from up there? Excitement filled my lungs leaving less space for oxygen. For a long time, the mountain of hatred was keeping me alive. At that very moment, I wanted Mount Everest to become that reason. 

I went back home and told my mother about my plans. 

"I want to become a mountaineer."

A tough woman who has kept her heart packed in a trunk after Natasha and later my dad's death, mom smiled at me. 

"Just take care of yourself, I have no one left."

I gave her a warm hug. 

My journey as a mountaineer began, and for the first few years, I climbed mountains nowhere near the altitude of Everest. It took the arduous climb of seven mountains to reach my dream. When I reached the top of the seventh mountain, Mont Blanc, something communicated the feeling of completeness in my veins. I had passed the number seven: the number of heavens and hells, sins and gifts, virtues and human lives. I was perfect after the seven, perfect to climb Everest. 

With three fellow mountaineers, I stood at the same place where I started breathing again. Everest called me to its arms, a home I was looking for in my emptiest times: I'm back. My partner Nick started climbing at approximately the same time as me. Leaving a satisfying job in the financial district, Nick turned to the mountains at the age of thirty-three. An avid horror fan who wanted to pursue a profession in filmmaking until he met his wife, and both decided to go to business school together. Mountains were never in the picture, but neither was his wife's death. After the plane crash at the same spot- in which he survived injuries but lost his darling wife- Nick decided to summit the highest peak in vengeance: "to show who the boss is!" 

After three weeks of clear weather, which aided our journey, we saw the clouds engulfing the peak. Bad weather was approaching. The Sherpa assisting our summit sent signals asking us to return to the base camp. It was, however, too late. None of us, Nick or I, was ready to forego our dream. When we were too close to the endpoint, thunder struck the mountain, and hail started pouring from the skies. Mist covered us from all sides. Nick, who had lost his goggles to the freezing temperature, was now wearing sports sunglasses. The signals were already killed, but the last thing the sherpa said to us was "it's impossible'' and it was, no lies in that. But, the flame of love and envy is strong. When you love something from all your heart and muscles attached, nothing can stop you from achieving it. The same goes for hatred. When the flame of hatred and envy burns under your skin, the piercing cold doesn't bother you much. For me and Nick, it was the mountain of envy and revenge that was far greater than mount Everest, and in our brains, summiting Mount Everest was the only way to dismember mount envy that throttled us every second. 

Could your luscious body climb the mountain, Natasha? 

Or, could you even imagine going this far for your passion?

My brain kept on placing these questions to the wandering soul of my dead sister. Losing all the sense of touch, I was on the last jump to the top of Everest when a gust of wind and snow bellowed and smacked my face. Sasha...Sasha...Sasha...Natasha...Nat...when you're twenty-nine thousand feet above sea level, you also lose your brain. I could hear the wind calling my name; and soon my dead sister's. Or was it my brain...Sasha...Sasha...I turned to look at Nick, who was hanging from the cliff, his right hand losing its might. "Sasha!" Not the wind or my brain, it was Nick who was screaming my name with his muffled speech. I tried to pull him back up while still situated at the near end of my journey, but the wind decided to bring another gust of ice toward us. Suddenly I heard it again: Sasha...Natasha...your...sister. I looked at Nick, who had now transformed into my sister, calling out my name hanging from the Brooklyn Bridge. I lost myself in her disappointed eyes and her scared aura; she dreaded death, but she dreaded life without a hand even more. She needed my hand. I went weak. "Sasha! Sasha!" Nick, who was losing his grip, called again. The wind paused. I came back to my senses. Stepping down from the last step to my destination, I turned completely towards Nick and pulled him up with all my strength. Landing over me, he panted heavily. His stare was that of a dead man who came alive. "Th..an...k..s," he said at last. I placed a hand on his shoulder "I let her fall, couldn't make the same mistake again." He looked confused, then conjured a smile. After waiting for the wind to calm down, we took our final step to the top of the mountain. 

When you look at the world from the highest point a human can step on, everything looks minute and worthless. For the first time, it was I looking at the world rather than the world looking at me. With every step I took to reach the top of Everest, I questioned myself as to why have I fallen for the most arduous of jobs. Standing at the top gave me my answer. Each one of us encounters mountains in our lives, and to walk past them, we must either climb them or dismember them. When Nick was about to fall from Everest, he was also going to let the mountain he created- the mountain of envy- overcome him. And, if I would've not woken up at the right moment, my journey to the top of Everest would've been valueless. 

"My wife can finally rest in peace," Nick smiled.

And I hope we can too. 

I marked on the Everest snow:

"To Natasha, my summit and my heart."