I don't know why I'm doing this, but this is an un-betad fic and in a completely new category. Please R&R and tell me how this could be improved, because I know it can be- and a lot. If need be, this fic will be taken down and renovated at a future date.
My name is Lindsey- last name, Salmon, like the fish. I was twelve the day my sister was murdered, on December 6th 1973. I didn't think she'd been murdered at first. Would anyone ever think that?
It was dark, and it was raining. I thought she'd gotten lost. But Susie was good with directions. Most likely she'd seen Clarissa, or Ray, and had decided to drop by their house.
Nobody ever thinks that death will touch them. Nobody ever thinks that the unbelievable can actually be believable.
I waited at home. I was reading Henry James' "Portrait of a Lady". I didn't really understand it, but I knew it was a good book, and I knew that it made me special. It set me apart from the others- I was, after all, gifted. What I didn't tell anyone was that I was secretly waiting for Susie. I was waiting for my big sister.
Here's one of the things that you never want to say to anyone, one of the things you never really want to believe. But out of my mother, my father and my brother, I probably loved Susie the most. I wouldn't tell anyone, least of all Susie, but I think that- at the time- that was true. There are things you can share with a sister that you can't share with a mother or a father, or a little brother who doesn't even understand the meaning of death. Not that I really understood death- not until Susie was gone- but I understood it enough. At least, that's what I thought.
I waited and waited, but she never came home. I pretended that I didn't care- sisters always pretend, they're experts at it- but all the while I felt something wasn't quite right. Surely Susie would have rung us if she'd just gone to Clarissa's or Ray's? And if not- she wouldn't be this late, would she? Even if she'd taken the long route she should be back by now.
But she never came.
That night, I lay in bed, hoping that it was just a mistake, or best still, a dream. But I knew that it wasn't a dream, and I knew that it wasn't just a mistake. Susie hadn't come home. And she hadn't run away. And she hadn't sent us word. And she was- she was my big sister, she had to come! She couldn't leave me, not here, not now. Not Susie.
Please, Susie, please come back, I thought.
Mum came and sat with me for half an hour. She just sat. She didn't say anything, didn't hold my hand, she just looked at me once, and I saw her face was pale and stretched with fear. Then she got up and left, and it was as though she had never come in the first place.
I waited for sleep to come. I don't know when it came, but it did, and when I woke,
I felt guilty that I had slept.
As the days passed by, my hopes died.
I'd always had Susie to lean on, even if I wouldn't admit it to anyone. I'd always had Susie to look up to, to whisper secrets to. I'd always had Susie to tease, to ignore, to fight with. And now I had no one but Buckley, and Buckley- well, he was too young to understand what death meant. I had to comfort him, hadn't I?
I wanted to hate Susie. Hate is more comforting than loss. Hate makes up for the pain and loss. Hating Susie meant that I could blame her for my pain, for Mum's pain, Dad's pain, for poor Buckley. I wanted to hate her so much.
But I couldn't bring myself to. I loved- love- her too much.
Goodnight, Susie, I thought as I undressed and climbed into bed that night. Goodnight wherever you are.
As I leaned over to turn out my bed lamp, I was sure I heard Susie, somewhere in the world. She was whispering.
Goodnight, Lindsey.
