The Day BeforeMature

The Day Before My Sister Turns Twelve

I want to call him. Tell him that I got his Christmas present. It’s in its box now, all concealed from the world. Underneath the little lid is the metallic surface, a mirror whose reflection is splintered by our date. I didn’t think about it like that till now. Like broken glass.

I’ve been up for about thirty-one hours now. I know that’s most of my problem. I’m over tired and I can’t think straight and all I really want to do is cry. That’s not an option, because then my mom would get involved, go on about all my emotional problems like last time. I don’t have emotional problems. It’s not a problem to love someone too much.

I know how you feel. You’re jumping into the middle of a story. You have no idea who I am, who any of these people are. You cannot feel my pain because you do not see me as yourself. For now, that is okay. Just know, somewhere within the emptiness you hide, that I am you. I am that dark little voice, always there to remind you that bad things happen. I call that life.

My last shrink wanted to put me on anti-depressants. I told her to fuck herself. Haven’t gotten a new one yet, even though both the doctor and I told my mom I needed to. A lot of people think I do, I guess, but not him. He tells me he loves me, and I know that he means it. At least somebody does.

I don’t do the diary thing. I never quite saw the point in writing down what had already happened. If it was severe enough to be written down in a pathetic little book, chances were I wasn’t forgetting anyway. This is not a diary or a journal or a confessional. It’s a reminder.

Tomorrow my sister will turn twelve. I don’t think I’ve seen her in over two months. She lives with her mom, and I live with mine. Sometimes she goes to see our dad. Usually I do not. She is a blonde tomboy with blue-ish eyes and a smile full of crooked teeth. I am a dark haired girl with too much eyeliner and a smile that cost eight thousand dollars. The only thing we have in common is that we both cry ourselves to sleep. At least, I do on the nights he isn’t there to soothe me.

Part of me thinks I should stop writing. My writing teacher would say that you cant give away the whole story right in the beginning. But then, that’s the great thing about life, isn’t it? It’s the only story that will never, never end. That’s sort of why I’m doing this, apart from keeping me as sane as whatever cruel God will permit me to be. Because eventually you have to realize that there is always something worth waking up to. Sometimes it’s the thought of seeing him, feeling his arms hold me and keep me safe. Other times it’s the littler things. A pan of brownies. A visit to my grandparents.

Whatever it is, it’s always there. Every day, no matter how dreary or frigid it may grow, is the day before something.

The End

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