I didn't think it would be this hard, you know? Well, no, that's a lie. I never thought about this at all.
Teenagers think they are immortal.
My mother used to tell me that all the time. Especially when I was turning fourteen. That was my reckless stage. I had this one friend, Jared, and he was slightly older. At sixteen he already had his license and a new car. We went out cruising one night and Jared got drunk and hit a light pole. My mom freaked out and forbade me from seeing him anymore.
'Teenagers think they're immortal, honey. They aren't. You can't go driving with that boy anymore. I don't want to lose you.'
Pay attention. Those words will mean a lot more to you later.
Her pain is my cross to bear.
She stuffs inside because that's what she thinks she is supposed to do. If crying is a sign of weakness in man and only a man, then she has the heart and soul of a man. She needs to deal with her pain. And she has so many people to lean on. She could turn to Max, her beloved brother. She has an assortment of female confidantes (Okay, so only three) that are completely available to her whenever she needs them.
She refuses to go to them, though. She won't let anyone touch her. She won't sit in the same room with the only people that could possibly understand her plight for more than five minutes. She thinks they can see right through, and they can. I can. She won't cry with them.
She does cry, though. She cries.
Every night in her room she cries and she thinks that she is alone. And she is not alone, because I am there, hiding in the corner.
It is a very dark corner.
And I am always there.
Her tears make patterns on the bedspread. It's actually a ritual now. She sits up with her knees hugged to her chest by her arms and she sobs with her head thrown back, staring at the ceiling. It takes a little longer for the tear to hit the blanket this way, but eventually they all do.
Last night I thought I saw a horse form from her salty tears.
That's ironic because she hates horses. She must have been eight years old when she developed her fear. I remember because I was there.
I am always there.
We were taken on a field trip to the rodeo. There was a small ring for children to take pony rides, and she was so excited. She waited in the long line for her first pony ride, but her brother was one place ahead of her.
The pony threw him off.
She screamed and could not go near another horse since.
Why is all of this significant? I could be saying all of this just to make myself feel better. Maybe it isn't her pain I feel, but my own.
Isabel?
Help me.
It just can't be my own pain. It really can't.
Because I died last week.
END