There are but a few hardships that leave one so morose as the death of a parent.  It is, indeed, for that reason that my days are spent in bed washing between sleep and wake.  I awaken in relief that my troubles were but a fabrication of my restful mind, until I turn and make out a stack of old dishes at my bedside: A product of the terrible sorrow I hold for my dear mother, who passed a few days ago. 

On account of her declining health, my husband, sister, and I had moved into the family house.  Tyler was ill-accustomed to living in such a large house, as he was born into a poor family.  My sister and I, however, had lived in it on and off throughout our childhood, skipping from house to house as we traveled through Europe with our parents.  Tyler and I were married a year ago and despite his not infrequent interest in my whereabouts, marriage is all I’d hoped for and more.  My dear Tyler is simply interested in my recovery.  He wants to assure I do what’s best for my condition.  Nonetheless, a hint of jealousy for my attention surfaces every once in awhile, and only to my annoyance.  I do not need such things in my state of grief. 

My condition only worsened after the unexpected departure of my sister.  It was the day after my mother’s death, and in her grievance, my sister decided it was best to leave without a single farewell.  When I discovered she had vanished, I was torn apart.  I was delivering a meal when I encountered her empty room.  I placed the food on the floor and studied her absence.  There was something off about it, as if she had packed in a hurry.  The sheets were torn from the bed and wrapped on the floor.  Various toiletries lay askew about the room.  The smoke from the candle at her bedside danced from its wick.  My stomach sank deep as it dawned on me that I had been abandoned by the only family I had left.  What circumstances could have brought her to leave in such a hurry?  And without so much as a letter or note?  I felt sad, yet nervous, as if there was something about her departure that I was supposed to know, but didn’t.  I wondered if there was some sign she left me, some hidden meaning behind the placement of her comb on the vanity or the shape of her sheets on the floor.  These are the types of things I was bound to think about during my slow and painful existence in bed each day.

In my sadness, my dreams were of nothing but my sister, and always of her hair.  As a girl, her hair was long and black and shined in even the dimmest of light.  My hair is brown and plain and never compared.  I remember seeing her brushing it, turning the brush into a shiny knot of obsidian.  So in my mourning, it was her hair that I dreamed of, and of my distant memories of our childhood together.  We played hide and go seek throughout the house.  I remember wandering down the hall outside the room where I now lie.  Looking and not finding, until at last, I checked under the bed and found her curled up, smiling, waiting for me to find her.  Then, in my slumber, the flies from my old food and dishes would jerk me from my fleeting comfort and I would realize the painful reality of my predicament. 

The only time I would leave my bed was to go to the kitchen for food.  I’d wake up, stumble to the kitchen, prepare some toast or a sandwich, and return from my pilgrimage.  My entire life seemed perfunctory, cyclical, like I had done it a thousand times and my focus and drive were absent.  A swollen area would be left on my mattress, I presumed from my sweat and weight.  Life was a blur, a fog that held me by the wrists and wouldn’t let me go.  I was unable to escape my dull existence, and was reminded of that dreadful fact every time I awakened.

The smell from my leftover food crumbs grew worse by the hour.  It was thick in the air, like rain during a storm.  You could almost feel it on the skin, the smell of mold and rotten fruit and whatever else.  I tried to ignore it, but it made my waking hours all the more painful.  Tyler, on his occasional visits to my resting place, would appear not to notice it.  I suppose that he ignores it as to not bring it to attention for the both of us.  Nonetheless, it is a smell I could not get used to.  It only grew stronger by the minute.  As dreadful and choking as it got, I had neither the inclination nor energy to go about fixing it.  I instead focused on deriving meaning from each individual aspect of my sister’s room.  Laying in bed, I pondered the placement of her brush on the floor, each individual black hair left on the carpet in the corridor, the sheets on the floor, and the wrinkles in her bed.  I couldn’t escape the feeling that my sister might not be as far away as I thought.  I wondered if she walked the halls of the house, creeping past my door and past John’s.  I thought of her loitering in some closet in the house, waiting, watching.  Was the meaning there? Was it real?  Is my sister closer than my senses had led me to believe?  I left my bed and peered into the hall, the gaslight growing dimmer and dimmer as my eyes traced to the end.  I stared for minutes at the thick blackness at the end of the hall.  Was she staring back at me?

I closed my door and fell back in bed.  I felt closer to her.  Was she really there?  Was she creeping past my door right now?  Perhaps my thoughts had been composed by my depression for both my mother and her.  Perhaps this all started from an idea that built itself too strong and is now rooted in my every thought.  It took over my mind, like a virus, and I couldn't escape from it.  My sister is near.  I knew it.  Her black hair, her pale skin.  It was close.  It lived with me.  I eventually faded into a deep rest, after obsessing over the thought for the better part of an hour.

I was jolted awake.  By what?  Not the flies.  Not Tyler.  A storm.  A deafening clap of thunder that shook the house and echoed up and down the dark corridor.  My fear knocked me out of bed.  I lay on the damp floor for a few moments, overtaken with confusion.  The smell was bad.  The worst it’s ever been.  It was stronger and thicker closer to the ground.  Choking on the smell, I grabbed my mattress and hoisted myself up.  The mattress slid, causing me to fall and hit the floorboards again.  I tried to realign the mattress, but something was caught on the frame of the bed.  Fabric?  I almost couldn’t see it, except for the pearly black shine of its fibers.  I jumped back with a horrific scream.  My sister’s ragdoll body was thrust out of a tear in the bottom of the mattress and hit the floor with a thud.  I was face to face with the decaying remains of my dear sister.  She was covered in flies and bruises.  Suddenly, over my screams and crying, I heard footsteps.  Tyler, from down the hall.  He paced from the other end of the long corridor.  I erupted with fear.  Shaking, as quickly as I could, I shoved the body back into the mattress.  More footsteps.  Slow, but still too fast.  He was growing nearer.  Her hair was left hanging from the bottom of the mattress as I threw it back onto the bed.  I jumped into it, covered myself in blankets and tried to slow my breathing.  I shut my eyes and waited, as the footsteps grew louder and louder still.  The knob of my door turned.  Had he heard my screams?  Did I actually scream?  Did my husband know I had discovered the murdered remains of my sister?  The door opened and a dim light entered the room.  My heart was thumping fast.  My breathing was deep, fast, and helpless.  He knew.  He had to know.  I opened my eyes and saw his torso just a couple inches from my face.  He was standing directly next to the bed.  Had he seen me open my eyes?  I couldn’t help it.  I had to look.  Trembling, I tilted my head up to see my groom looming over me.  He exhaled loudly, as if disappointed or angry.   I could see his dark silhouette from the lamps in the hall.  He touched my arm gently, and followed it down to my hand, which was clenched in a fist.  I relaxed it.  He gently caressed my finger with his thumb, then plucked a single black hair, a strand of my sister’s hair, from the center of my palm.  I had accidently pulled it from her body.  He held it to the dim light, studying it.  It glimmered in the light.  He put it back and grasped my hand tightly.  With the other hand, he fumbled with his jacket pocket and pulled from it a long knife.  Every muscle in my body was tight.  I looked him in the eye.  He looked back in mine.  We both knew what was coming.  He pressed his fingers against my back, as I waited for my sleep.  The cycle of my depression would be broken.  He stood the knife up with the tip pressing into my spine.  His hand squeezed mine tight as he inhaled deeply.  It was happening.  Now.  It had felt like forever, but now it was really happening.  My time had come.  I was crying.  I held it back no longer.  Me, and my sadness, were finished forever.