Girls of Death

We sat in silence for our last night with her. She was miserable for so long. We all sobbed and cried. She didn’t deserve it. I was the only one that was intelligible enough to tell her what was happening. “Sharni,” I managed to whimper, “This may be your last night at the dinner table.”

She was 6 years old so it makes sense that she wouldn’t understand. “You mean I have to go back to the kids table with my little cousins!” She sounded frustrated and upset. I start laughing while tears keep running down my face. She notices my sadness and comes over to hug me. It only made me cry more.

“That’s not what I mean. We won’t be able to see you anymore. You won’t be able to stay.” I whimper and groan trying to hold in my tears. Her eyes widened and she realized what was happening.

“Is this about when I go to the hospital? Am I going to… Die?” She whispered to herself. She sounded so sad and I didn’t want her to know for the last few moments of her life.

“No… No! You’ll just be moving to another life.” I smiled at her, though still unable to stop crying.

“Will I ever see you again?” She started crying.

“No, but you’ll be happier this way. We can stay with you for your last days. I won’t go to school. You won’t be suffering anymore.” I started letting my tears roll down my cheeks. 

“Okay,” she accepts my explanation, “What do we do next?”

“Whatever you want.” I smiled at her, tears finally stopped coming down. She grabbed my hand and started leading me to her room.

“Don’t you want to finish your supper first?” I laughed and exclaimed.

“You said whatever I want! This is what I want.” She starts running.

“That’s fair,” I admit to her while plopping down onto her bed. She opened a drawer on the very bottom of her dresser and pulled out a thin binder, nothing much. It had plenty of pink and purple unicorns covering the front.

“This is my bucket list. Whatever I want to do goes in here.” she explained, showing me her glorious items of enjoyment that cost a lot of money.

“Let’s start with small ones that don’t take a lot of time.” I suggested it to her. “Ooh! What about this one?” 

I pointed to one that said, “#124 Make a tower out of marshmallows and toothpicks.” 

“Have you really never done that before?” I looked at her skeptically.

“I’m 6 years old, what do you expect?” She talks back to me sassily. I laugh and look back at her.

“Wait here. I’ll be back with the materials.” I explain to her and struggle to get off the fluffy bed.

She looks at me with confusion, “What are materials?”

I smile softly and explain, “It’s stuff that you need for a specific- You know what? Don’t worry about it.”

I go to the kitchen and laugh quietly. I look back at my parents and they’re mad and sad at the same time, hugging each other on the couch. They turn their faces toward me, but their faces are… made of bones. Right down to their skull they have nothing but hair and clothing. I drop the toothpicks and screech.

I fall on them and poke my thigh. I look back at it and it’s BLEEDING! I run to the bathroom and scramble to get a band-aid. My vision goes dark and my hand starts shaking. I drop down onto my knees and close the door in the act.

I close my eyes for a minute and when I open them I can see clearly again. It must’ve been a panic attack, though I still feel my heart jumping out of my chest. That’s never happened before. I take a wet paper towel and wipe the blood off of the floor and my leg. I put the band-aid over it and sigh hesitantly.

I open the door, my hand still shaking, and head back to the kitchen. When I got there the toothpicks were picked up and my sister was finding the marshmallows. “You didn’t have to do that,” I leaned against the doorway tiredly.

“I did, though. It was really no problem.” She smiled.

“If you say so. Thank you. Lets head back to your room and continue?” I smile with squinting eyes.

“Lets! Race you up!” She starts sprinting up the stairs.

I gasp and start running after her, “You’re not getting away that easily!” I start running up the stairs but see something come out of the stairs to the attic. I hear a large thud from my sister's room and run as fast as I can to her.

“Shami? Shami?” I shook her while she lay face up on her back on her floor. She didn’t answer. I check her pulse… none. She’s gone.

I solemnly carry her downstairs and place her down on the low table in front of my parents. “WHAT HAPPENED?!?” Dad yelled at me.

I started sobbing. “We were trying to complete things on her bucket list- sniff- and then I hurt myself and she picked the toothpicks up and then we raced up the stairs and I saw something and she fell down on her floor. She doesn’t have a pulse and I don’t know what to do!” I responded to my dad, talking quickly.

“So.. she’s really dead.” Mom whispers to herself.

“Look what you’ve done to your mother!!” Dad continued yelling at me. He raises his hand and then all I feel is a burning sensation on my cheek. “Now GO TO YOUR ROOM!! You’re grounded.” He violently yelled at me. I’m just glad my sister didn’t have to see that. Though, it isn’t the best way to honor her memory.

From that month on they didn’t talk to me directly, only texted me, forced me to walk to school in the cold, and never went to work. Just to keep from starving I had to get my own job. I worked with my friends as a witch, going to work for men who didn’t care about who did the job as long as it gets done.

We always found a way to have fun but it wouldn’t last for long. My parents decided to speak to me for the first time in 5 years. I was 16, the age where they were able to sell me at a high price. “We’re replacing you. We found a child worthy of loving. We’ll sell you to the highest bidder. You’ll leave tomorrow.” My father said in a harsh yet pleased voice.

The smell of the room was of lavender. Mom was wide awake now and happier than ever. They were happy to get rid of me. I went up to my room and quietly shut the door, too afraid to slam it. I guessed I should pack but my knees started shaking and I fell down onto my butt. I was afraid that my father might be listening and heard the slam. I wasn’t able to focus on anything, my vision was getting dark, trailing to the middle like breaking glass. I packed, I worked, I was sold. My creativity didn’t pay off and it was supposedly my fault that my sister died. Who would want a murderer as a servant? Apparently a lot of people. They probably made a smart choice getting rid of me. I’m not good for anything else.