The Day She Died Part 1

I couldn't help but feel my heart shrivel as I stood in front of her grave. There was no grief, but a pit of anger that grew bigger each day. I should have known better. I should have known better than to trust her to stay alive. I consider the fact that maybe I should be relieved, but the steaming anger won't tolerate relief. All I want to feel is rage, and that is okay.

I could never pinpoint when the seed of darkness was planted inside her. If you knew her as a child, you would never suspect such a sweet face to succumb to such wickedness. As we became adults, there were days that I looked at her and I didn't recognize her. Who was she? 

That was a question I could never answer as she traveled incessantly, disappearing into shadows and leaving a trail of victims in her wake. I was counting down the days wondering if today was the day I would be a part of that trail. She became an enigma when she left home on our twentieth birthday. She had been acting very aloof for the past few days. I asked her what was wrong, but she would just shake her head and walk away. 

On our twentieth birthday, she told me that she had to do a favor for a friend after the party. She didn't say where she was going or when she'd be back. My gut told me to prevent her from going, but back then I trusted her. I told myself not to worry, she would be fine. She would tell me when she returned. A week passed and she hadn't returned. Finally, on the eighth day, she called me from a burner cell phone at a gas station. I'll be home soon she said. Look after mom she said. 

Two weeks later she opened the front door at two am, in clothes covered in bloodstains. My face had turned a sickly white, and I felt like I was going to vomit. She was almost unrecognizable. I couldn't form the words to ask what had happened. Before I was able to string syllables into words, she had told me that our friend was safe. There was someone who couldn't bother her anymore. 

Soon, this little routine became normal for her. After a few months, I gave her an ultimatum. I didn't want to get involved in the life she was leading and the underworld she was headed to every month. She didn't fight to stay, probably knowing deep down that I was right. Mom and Dad never knew; at that point they had moved into a retirement home, unable to take care of themselves the way they always could. Whenever they asked about her, I said she became roommates with a friend. I didn't care how far from the truth it was, I just wanted to protect them. I already felt like I was losing everything and telling them the lie made it believable that my life wasn't falling apart because of the person who was once my best friend. 

As time passed, I would get calls from her from God knows where. It was always on a burner phone or from a place she told me not to call again. The only two times I've seen her were mom's funeral, and then dad's funeral; they died a few years apart. She would always be the first I called, using an emergency number she gave me when she moved out. I made the funeral arrangements, and she would grace me with her presence at the actual event. Both times I saw her, she wasn't the lost girl who left the house. She became a woman of the world since it seemed like her job took her around the world. Instead of a hand-me-down shirt and ripped jeans, she wore faux fur and satin pants. I never asked her where it came from and she never told me. 

The last time I spoke to her was when she called me out of the blue. I didn't recognize the number, so I figured it was her. Even after everything she did, I still was ready to help her if she needed it. I still cared. She was my sister and nothing would change that, even if I wished every day that it would change. 

When I picked up the phone, she sounded raspy and exhausted. Like she had the flu for a few days. But she acted as if she was fine. She asked to see how I was, and how life was treating me, if I was with the same guy. To this day, I'll never know why I didn't hang up the phone. How dare she pretend like our life is normal? Like we're just sisters catching up on our weekly phone call? But for some reason, maybe something as stupid as affection, I stayed on the phone. I asked her similar questions, even though I knew all of her answers would be lies. But I didn't realize where the lies started and where they finished until I got the call.

A month ago, I got a call from a police station a few states over from where I lived. They told me my sister was dead, and they asked me to identify the body. From the minute I hung up the phone, all the way to the end of the funeral, I shut down my body and mind. Sadness and grief were switched for the blinding rage that made every part of my brain light on fire. She didn't have the decency to tell me something was wrong. She didn't have the decency to stop herself from going down this road. Furthermore, she didn't have the decency to try to live a normal life. She hid every secret and dumped the consequences on me. 

It was the same rage that drove me here to her grave today. I didn't know what it would do or accomplish. Maybe closure, or maybe I would start to feel another emotion besides anger. But deep down, I was looking for answers that weren't there. They died with her.

I stood there, looking down at the tombstone, when I heard someone else walking behind me. I didn't bother to look around to see who it was—I didn't care. Then the footsteps started to become louder, and they seemed to be directly behind me. Still, I didn't turn around. A few seconds later, someone was standing next to me. She looked ahead at the tombstone and laughed. 

I turn my head in her direction. My mouth goes dry and feel my eyes strain as they practically pop out of their sockets. I'm looking in a mirror of myself. Very few people could get over the fact that we were identical twins since we were little. 

My sister turns to look at me, wearing the same faux fur coat. 

"My God sister, you look like you've seen a ghost."

 To be continued...