HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF

Short story from Creative Writing Class.

You remember the tightness of your chest as you coaxed yourself out of crying. You watched your sister slump down; you watched the light go out of her eyes. Your ears rang; no words seemed to reach them. You had this sickening feeling in your stomach that you cannot describe; you have never felt it before. You are too young to realize what loss feels like. You barely registered your older sister’s screams, the “I Hate You”s that echoed through the room. Your father slowly closed his eyes and your mother took a deep breath. Your baby sister looked on, too young to know the gravity of the situation. Your sister stormed up the stairs; the slam of a door played pinball through the air and hit your ears. You just remember a silence, a deafening silence. Like the kind that only occurs after a great loss. Like a bomb has gone off and everyone is waiting for the dust to settle so you can count casualties. You had shell shock. 

So you waited. You looked at both of your parents as they shared silent words that you could not yet translate. And you waited. You did not dare break the silence, but you had to know. But, you waited. You were too young to know a lot, but at this specific moment, you knew that time was not on your side; speaking a word is like playing Russian Roulette and you did not know if you would end up hurting more than saving. 

So you kept quiet. You stayed silent until provoked. You said your goodbyes to the little one that you loved. You left. Life carried on, but like every good soldier can say, we had lost a man that day. Not in the literal sense, but you did not see your sister smile for a long time. You grew up in a foreign place with new routines and unfamiliar faces. You moved on because you had no other choice. 

After a while, you started to realize why your sister cried that day. She took too long of naps and rarely smiled. She had been such a joyful girl and you would wonder to your little self if it was something you did; Olivia was becoming your favorite person to play Barbies with anyway. Summer was different there; the sun beat down on your skin and you envied those reptiles that shed their skin. Your sister eventually found some friends, but the smile turned into something more crooked. You started to understand those silent words between your parents, how you could see their concern for your sister each time she was around. 

You remember the tightness of your chest as you coaxed yourself out of crying. You slump to the ground; your little sister watches the light go out of your eyes. Your ears rang; no words seemed to reach them. You had this sickening feeling in your stomach that can be described perfectly; you have felt this before, seven and a half years earlier. Dread floods your veins and your voice feels dry and cracked as you try to grasp for purchase the words that tumble from your parents’ lips. It is robotic, almost rehearsed. You all have done this enough before. It should be systematic by now. You should know better, but you cannot help it; you run to your room and this time, you are the one who slams the door.