46. Bash #2
I feel like I pray more here than I do anywhere else. It’s not the neat, churchy kind of prayers either. It’s the messy kind. Begging him to take it all away, the temptations, the memories, the guilt. It’s desperate and embarrassing.
My head is always screaming the same thing when it starts to go dark—
You could’ve stopped it.
You could’ve saved her.
If you weren’t so wrapped up in yourself, you would’ve seen all of the signs.
She’d still be here, enjoying the holidays with everyone.
You let him in.
You let him hurt her.
You did this.
I think about every single way I messed up and failed her.
Everything I could have done differently.
Protected her from him, forced her to finally tell me what was going on, tell someone how bad school was getting for her, throw away those damn pills she used…
the ones I kept after my soccer injury the year before.
I beg him to take the pain away. Tell him I can’t keep carrying this by myself. But every morning I wake up, and it’s still there. Still holding my head under water. Sometimes it makes me question if he’s really out there, or if the journey is supposed to be this painful…and if it is, why?
* * *
The house is full today. Family packed into every room.
The culture is rich on both sides of my family, so there’s always a lot going on and always a lot to take in.
Sometimes it’s overwhelming, especially years like this, when my parents are hosting everyone.
Normally, we just visit both sides, but bringing everyone together this year is…
hectic, in a good way, I guess. You would think with the contrasting differences between the two families that it would be weird, maybe, or feel strange, but honestly, they blend effortlessly.
Laughing, singing, dancing, and enjoying each other the entire time.
My dad’s family can turn any event into a drinking contest, so where there is alcohol, there will always be the Ramos family, and the Smith side loves to be a part of all the fun, too.
I love my family, I really do, but I only see them a couple of times a year.
And since being in college, only once a year now.
Yet every time we’re all together now…she gets brought up constantly.
It’s like they have to let you know that they loved her, too.
That they cared about her just as much as you did.
They talk about her like they have to prove some point to everyone.
I hate it. They barely knew her, but they’ll talk to you about her like they were the closest person to her.
No…that was me. She was my best friend, my sister, practically my twin.
They don’t get to claim and take that. It gets under my skin.
Makes me want to tell them all to keep her name out of their mouths.
That they don’t get to pretend like they knew her in some deep, meaningful way when they really didn’t.
They don’t get to play the grief contest when they don’t have to go home and live every day with a constant reminder of the huge hole left in their heart, like we do.
My cousin, Oscar, walks by, handing me a cup of what I can instantly tell by the smell is a drink with way too much rum in it.
None of them know my past with alcohol; not even my parents know how bad it got once I left for college, so it’s just a normal thing for them, something they don’t think twice about.
I take it without thinking, staring at it.
He lifts his up, and we cheers before he knocks his back and slaps me on the back, telling me happy holidays, and walks away.
The cup touches my lips before I can process what I’m about to do.
The smell is intoxicating, and the way my brain can taste it before it even hits my tongue is euphoric.
I quickly set it down before I take a sip and shake my head.
I can’t be here. I can’t listen to them anymore.
I can’t be around this amount of alcohol and easy fixes.
I just…I need some air. I hear someone call my name in a questioning tone as I’m walking out the front door, but I don’t turn to see who it is or to answer them.
I hurry to my car and drive off before I can even figure out where I’m going.
Somehow, I end up in the parking lot of my old high school—Ronald Reagan High School in San Antone.
A place that both built me and broke me.
The memories all flood in like a dam that I’ve been holding desperately against my back, not wanting it to break open—all the rumors that flew around this place, the ones that held my sister’s name in them.
The countless fights I got into whenever I heard guys talking about her.
The fact that most of those rumors started with my own best friend, and I didn’t even know.
The countless times she shut down after I asked what was wrong.
All the nights I heard her crying through the wall, and told myself she’d come to me when she wanted to talk about it.
How stupid I was not to keep pushing for answers.
Every choice I made feels like it was another nail I put in her coffin.
I fold over the steering wheel, sobbing in a way I haven’t in years. I pull back, hitting the wheel until my palms sting.
“When does this stop?” I yell, my voice coming out raw. “When does it get easier?”
I stare up at the night sky, breath ragged and painful.
“Why are you letting me go through this still? Why can’t you just take it away? Why did you have to take her away? Why does he still get to be out there somewhere, living his life?”
The questions echo in the empty car. I know I won’t get answers, but I yell them anyway, until my throat burns, until I’m too tired to keep fighting.
Because I don’t know what else to do.