text: It’s raining outside, but it always rains here. I often wonder what kind of grudge the sun has against my hometown. My days are short and my nights long, and the dark sky matches my somber mood. Every morning when I wake up, I write my day off as another blue one. But I wasn’t always unhappy. At some point in my life, I used to like who I was. What I stood for. But now, whenever I reflect on my past choices, I just feel a sharp pain of regret. My happiness is like the sun, fleeting--and most days, just not there at all. Regret, my regret, is all consuming. It surrounds me. Devours me. From the faint, hidden cries of my Mom every night, to the empty look my father gives me every day. From all the hollow hugs, to the leftover pork roasts distant relatives keep sending over. My soul, my ambitions, my passion--they’re shattered. Completely, entirely, irrevocably shattered. School. School offers me no solace. No distraction. As I walked down the hall, I could hear voices shushing. All laughing stopped, and piercing stares began to follow my feet. An overwhelming fog of pity and polite condolences infected my air supply. It was fatal. I deserved anger. I deserved hate. I didn’t deserve pity. I reached my class room, breathed in deeply, and momentarily hesitated. A minuscule flash of hope appeared, illuminating the deepest crevice of my unconscious. Maybe today will be different. Maybe now things will be how they were. What a naïve desire. Upon my arrival, regular behavior ceased to exist. Mr. B, my teacher, stood up. He apologetically looked at me, sighed, and ushered in a new student. There was liveliness in his step, but his hands were shaking. I could decrypt a fake demeanor all too well. His forehead was covered with curling strands of black hair, and the corner of his ashen eyes crinkled when he smiled and said hi. His name was David, and as he was shuffling to his assigned seat in the back, our eyes locked. For the first time in months, for the first time since the accident, his eyes weren’t filled with sympathy. The gaze was held, and his striking grey eyes creased again as he smiled. He didn’t know. Not yet. My stare drifted towards the window, as my thoughts wandered away... for better or for worse. I was twelve years old, my sister fifteen. We were strapped into the sunken black seats of our family Tahoe. The sun was unmistakably out for that brief car ride, and the warmth was spread across half of my face. My sister was to the right of me, in her sweaty basketball jersey. It was spread across her body like paper clings to water, perspiring. Around her neck was yet another medal. The sunlight was bouncing and gleaming off the polished bronze, almost tauntingly dancing across the patterns on my shirt. Jumping from one stripe to another. My parents were happy, happy like they always were when my sister gave them something to be proud of. Soft smiles and bright eyes were painted across their worn faces. That expression was backhanded--because I liked to see it, but I could never give it. All I had to console me, in that moment, was my tattered journal. The pages were dog-eared, and the binding was falling apart, but it was something that accepted me for exactly what I was. With the warmth on my face, and the journal in my hand, I felt happy. Happy as I knew happy. It was third period. How could it only be third period? Looking at the clock, watching the secondhand tick, was maddening. If I didn’t concentrate on the time passing by, I would concentrate on other things. Other memories I didn’t want to remember. Whoever said time was fleeting was obviously very wrong. Because my second felt exactly like a second, and my minute felt even longer. It has been so long since my presence hasn’t drawn dismal reactions, that I can’t remember what just being a part of the background felt like anymore. As I watched the clock show another minute pass, making my day inevitably closer to the end, I noticed a curious stare peeking my way. David, the new boy, was staring at me. Without shame. My head tilted to the left, reflexively, as he began to speak. Asking about my name, my hobbies, how boring I thought Mr. B was. Small talk. Real, genuine small talk. I hesitantly started responding, and all too quickly he was dragged away by some classmates. It was like a scene from a film on mute. A cluster of people, making frequent glances towards me, with the same face that they always made--furrowed eyebrows, glossy eyes, and the corners of their mouth turned slightly down. That was it. He knew. The one person that could talk to me, without guilt or pity, was now gone. And who to think that my complete isolation was a result from their charity, not my wickedness. And exactly like I feared, memories resurfaced, like a boat pulling up from a crashing wave in the vast ocean. How could she? That was all I could think. How? Why? Did she have to have everything? It wasn’t enough that she had their approval and warm gestures, that she was the one they bragged about to family. That she was the reason I couldn’t thrive in my own talents and passion, because her shadow was always cast over me. It wasn’t enough for me to just be and enjoy, I had to win. Show results. Because if I didn’t, I couldn’t compare. I didn’t meet my expectations. So, I screamed. I screamed like I never had before. I told her everything. Everything years of oppressing emotions didn’t solve. Everything pages of journal entries couldn’t fix. Because why did she have to corner writing now too? Why did she feel the need to enter her writing in a contest to be published, when she was always better at everything else? And why did she have to win? I had this. Only this. And she took it away. My face was red, my eyes wide, and salty tears began falling down my cheeks. She looked at me, with a blank face, told me she didn’t know this was so important to me, and then she just left. Lunch was an okay part of my day. It meant I was halfway done with school. It meant I would soon be home, alone, in my room. Because when I was home alone, I could avoid the short, quick glances and shrugs. I unwrapped a sandwich I made myself this morning from its saran wrap, and smelled the bologna to check that it was still fresh. Shopping at my house has become a rare occurrence over the past few months. Scrounging for food is becoming a habit. As I was opening my mouth to take a bite, David sat across from me. Apparently he doesn’t know many people yet. His attempt at normal conversation was a ruse. I knew it was. He had become more withdrawn, more cautious. His words were thought out, as if he was running every sentence in his head first. I noticed he was careful to not mention his own family. I have had enough of people walking on egg shells around me. Without thinking, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time--I snapped. For the past few months I have had only one emotion. I was too emotionally exhausted to get angry. I was just tired. Gloomy. Sullen. Broken. But not today, not in this moment. Because right now my misery was replaced with rage. Was it not enough for my family to hate me? Did I deserve to be isolated at school as well? And isolated because of what? Kindness? Politeness? My wounds can’t heal, I can’t move on, if nobody else does too. With that, I walked away. I didn’t look back to see his reaction, but I imagine that was the last time I would see David, the new kid. It was about six o’clock on a school night, and my sister wasn’t home yet. My parents were pacing, worried. They had already interrogated me, asking me why we didn’t walk home together. Asking where she could be. My responses weren’t soothing to them, because they made sure to criticize my lack of judgement. Why were they so worried? I thought it would be nice having my parents to myself for a few hours, while she was off pouting, probably winning more awards. But I couldn’t even properly hang out with my parents. Because all they wanted to know was what happened to their other daughter. Despicable. Enough is enough. Because that’s what happens when you force my only therapy out of my hand. When you take away my pen and catharsis. I stared straight at them, and screamed as loud as I could. Would it really be that bad if she never came back? Because maybe then, for once in my life, I could have your attention. Your complete attention. I could make you smile the way she does. You can be proud of me. Proud of what I do, and what I stand for. And before they had any time to react, my Mom received a phone call. She held up her hand, pressed her lips together to ensure that I knew she wasn’t done with this conversation, and answered the phone. We never finished that conversation. Tears began spilling down her face, as she dropped the phone to the ground. Finally. Study hall. Thirty minutes of dreadful silence, and then I could leave. I did it. I will survive this day. I didn’t even have to count the minutes, because I actually had homework to preoccupy my thoughts. As I was working on my tasks, I heard a chair scrape back across the tile floor, and saw the outline of a boy sitting down across from me. I peeked up from my work, and I saw David. He didn’t say anything--not a word. He just smiled. That same, natural smile. And began doing his work across from me. My sister. How? How I could I do this to my sister? I was on the ground, and everything else was hazy. The only thing running through my mind, on repeat, was the last thing I said to her. How dare I get mad at her for taking my hobby, when because of my selfishness I took her life? The police dreadfully explained the whole situation to my now family of three. She went to the convention center featuring her poetry to withdraw her approval to publish it. On her way back, she was hit by a car. Only five thirty in the afternoon and she was hit by a drunk driver. What were the odds? It was as if the universe was punishing me--or rather, her. The worst day of my life. If only I didn’t scream, if only I didn’t give her a reason to leave my side. She would hate me. My parents must hate me. And I unquestionably hate myself. I survived another school day. I survived the melancholy stares. I survived the hushed tones. And now, I was walking home with David by my side. Walking right next to me. Talking about the rest of his homework and dissatisfaction with the school lunch. And then, we reached the stop sign. The point where he must go left, while I go right. He looked at me, smiled for the fourth time that day, and told me he would see me tomorrow morning. And with that, he left. One. Just one person. That’s all I need. Because to David, I wasn’t a victim. I wasn’t the girl who lost a sister. I was me. Just me. I am not okay. I am not fixed. I am not healed. But you know what? I will be. As I took the first step towards my house--not house, but home--I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I looked up to the sky for my sun, and it wasn’t there. But there was rain. And today, it wasn’t just a dark sky and accompanying storm. It was a new start. The rain poured, cleansing my hazy vision. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be different, because there will be one person that can see me for what I am... not a victim, but myself.