Chapter 1 #2
She’ll never hear me again.
I just want to talk to her. Feel her. Tell her everything I should have told her before she died.
“I’m sorry,” I say, louder this time. The two words keep coming out, growing in volume. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
I can’t stop it. They flow from my mouth, tasting like bile on my tongue.
Everything hurts so much.
My knees crash onto the floor. The bottle flies out of my grip and shatters by my feet. A shard of glass pierces my skin, but I don’t feel the slice or the blood that oozes out.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I cry.
I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
“I couldn’t save you. I didn’t do enough. I should have tried harder. I should have done better. I should have told you earlier. I’m so sorry,” I wail, choking on my tears.
I’d do anything to talk to her one more time.
I never told her that I don’t care about the shit I put up with at my job, or the extra hours I used to work at the fast-food joint around the corner to pay off her medical bills.
I would have broken my own back and carved the heart right out of my chest if it meant she got to spend an hour without pain.
I never told her how much I love her. How I’d do anything for her. How I’d walk the same path all over again as long as I was with her—my only real friend.
But Ella didn’t know any of that. On the night she died, I yelled at her instead. The only acceptable emotion is anger—it’s the only thing I’m capable of feeling besides the emptiness. Softness is a weakness, and I had to turn my skin to steel fast.
I was exhausted and angry that she wasn’t taking her medication, and pissed that she was trying to guilt-trip me into cutting my hours.
I’m the older sister, she told me. I should be looking after you.
But I didn’t care about any of that. I just cared about her—except those words never came from my mouth because I’m fucked in the head and there’s no fixing it.
It should have been me. I deserve to die.
She was the best of us.
The one with straight A’s. The one who everyone loved and adored. The one our grandparents used to brag about. The one who smiled prettily for the cameras. Attended church without complaint. Never hated our parents regardless of what they did.
She was perfect. Soft in the sense that she was regal. Hard because she was impenetrable.
The only thing I’ve ever been is not good enough. She was the one who was meant to live and make something of herself.
The fucking Grim Reaper should have taken me instead. I’d do anything to swap places. I’d give my life just to tell her everything I was too much of a coward to say.
The glass crunches beneath me, digging into my skin as I crawl back from the threshold of her room.
I haven’t stepped inside since she died.
The dam opens, and tears spill onto the floor as sobs tear through my chest. I collapse and curl into myself, crying months’ worth of heartache that I’ve been bottling up.
Grieving for my sister and the person I’ll never get to be.
Because I’m stuck here. Forever. I’ll never get out of this hole life has put me in or make friends because I can’t communicate.
I’ll never be able to get a better job because of my last name; never amount to anything because my parents fucked everything up, and my sister is dead because I couldn’t do more.
I wish I could be free of it all.
I wish I could see my sister. One last time.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And she’s still dead.
The tears slowly dry as I stare into the empty room, waiting for time to pass and for oblivion to take me.
Then I blink slowly, frowning at the dark shape beneath her bed. A box. I’ve never seen it before, and Ella was never one to keep secrets.
My joints click and the wine swoops in my stomach as I wobble up to my hands and knees. What the hell is that box? I helped her clean her room every week, and I’ve never seen it before.
I hesitate just as I’m about to crawl to it. No one has stepped into this room since the EMTs left.
“Pull yourself together,” I mumble to myself.
Ella is dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I drag myself across the floor and reach beneath the single bed. Dust catches on my bloody hand, and I sneeze before latching my fingers on to the corner of the box and towing it out.
My lips part as I stare down at the antique wooden… chest? Box? I’m not sure what to call it. It’s a foot wide and double that in length. Filigree and symbols I don’t recognize are carved into the lid and on all four sides.
She’s always been obsessed with her witchy shit, even though I’d tease her about it. Is this another one of the weird holistic things she tried to avoid incurring more medical bills?
I flick the latch and slowly lift the lid, holding my breath for the great reveal.
My stomach bottoms out as the memories hit. I thought the police took this—they took everything else. We were lucky to keep the clothes on our back.
My bloody fingers wrap around the handle, and I bring the antique object closer to my face. It still looks like it was made just yesterday, instead of hundreds of years ago. The silver blade glints against the light as shadows dip into each engraved symbol.
Ella and I never knew what the runelike writing on the dagger meant, and we never got the chance to ask Grandma before she died. We had a long list of theories but no answers. At the end of the day, it was nothing more than a family heirloom.
My sister lit up the day Grandma gifted it to her on her sixteenth birthday. The same way it’s been gifted to the firstborn Eldrith child for generations—or so she claimed.
Back when we still lived at the manor, I would sneak into Ella’s room at night to see her studying it before returning it to her altar with random herbs and stones.
It was her most prized possession because she loved Grandma more than anyone else.
She basically raised us. But she and Ella always had a special relationship.
I wipe the tears from my eyes.
Why did my sister hide this from me for so long? Honestly, I forgot it existed. And what else was she keeping from me? Why did she stop taking her medication and give up on herself when I was still fighting for her? Why—
I suck in a sharp breath as a tear drops onto the blade, mixing with the crimson stain from my hand. Maybe… maybe I can ask her… I mean it’s… What have I got to lose?
If it doesn’t work, then I’ve lost nothing but time. It’s probably a bunch of hocus pocus bullshit, but what if it is true…?
I lower the dagger back into the box, which I cradle to my chest before taking the grimoire from her bedside table. Ella and I have flicked through that book of spells more times than I can count, and there’s one in particular I remember talking about with her.
I leap to my feet and run to my room to get changed before grabbing my keys.
I’m going to try to summon my sister.