Martina is my sister. She was five and
a half years older than me when she killed herself. I think it was the fact
that she killed herself that made Shaynne think that it was the only thing to
do when his problems got out of hand. I was the one who found her dead, when I
was nine. I remember her limp body on the white and turquoise bathroom tiles.
There was a jar of pills on the ground, the few leftover pills spilling all
over the tiles, under the blue furry shower-rug, under the white wooden
shelves. We were finding those pills for weeks after Martina’s funeral. I kept
every one I found. I have three in a box with Shaynne’s suicide note. Little
white, oval-shaped pills.
Martina didn’t leave a note. She had a
message scrawled across the bathroom mirror in black marker. That writing
wouldn’t come off. Mom wanted to replace the mirror and she did. When it was
taken off the wall it fell though. It broke, so me and Shaynne (then alive)
picked up all the little shards of mirror-glass and pretended we were throwing
them out, when we really put them in a little pink and brown paper bag that the
hair-clips I’d got at Accessorise had been put in when I’d bought them.