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Delilah
Yellow light from the sun poured through the window as mother drew the shades. She never woke me with her words, or a touch, but rather with the brightness and warmth of the sun. She said it made you more optimistic to wake up to light, whereas waking up in the dark was dreary and made you a pessimist. I could never decide if that was true or not, until this moment. Last night, my sister Claire and two of her friends got into a car accident. Two of them survived, but neither of the two were my sister. She was one of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. Dark brunette hair cascaded around her head, constantly. This only made her hazel eyes seem even more interesting. She was 5’5”, average height, but she made average look like heaven on Earth. She carried herself in such a way that nobody ever saw her looking sad. When you thought of Claire, you thought of peace and sophistication on legs. Usually when mother draws the shades and the light filters through, I feel the sense of happiness and content she always speaks of. But this morning, the light makes me jealous of people that feel like I did before the accident.
“Good morning, Delilah,” mother said, soothingly. How could she be so calm? How is she always so calm when everything in the world is wrong? Bob pranced into the room, wagging his shaggy, golden tail.
Giggling, mother said “Bob, help me get Delilah out of bed!” She likes to talk to the Dog as if he were human. He jumped into my already cramped twin sized bed, put his paws directly into my stomach, and started licking my face with his horrifying breath. Normally, this would have an effect on me, but not today.
“Sit up, honey,” Mother requested with a more concerning tone. I inhaled as I followed her orders and propped myself up against my pillows, flattened by my head every night for 10 years.
With a sharp exhale, Mother sighed “The toxicology reports came back.”
“Okay” I replied, “And what did these reports tell us?”
“Her actual cause of death was drug overdose.”
“What? What drug?” I persisted.
Defeated, she told me “Heroin.” When I questioned her about how they crashed, she told me it was in an effort to cover up the fact that she had overdosed, and to preserve Claire’s reputation as a good girl. She also continued and told me Claire’s injuries sustained in the accident definitely weren’t her cause of death, nor did they contribute to her passing.
I don’t remember what happened after she told me. I only remember waking up, and what I thought about while I was out. Mother had left my small bedroom when I woke up, probably figured she should give me time. I walked over to the mirror, and looked at myself. I never was quite content with my appearance, having the most beautiful young woman in the world as my sister and all. I never had the grace that she always did. She was thin and dainty, and I’ve always just been skinny in some places and not in others. Awkwardly tall, and laughably clumsy. Not that I’ve ever laughed at myself for being a klutz. I guess that has become other people’s jobs, because now, it just makes me feel ashamed. I hate myself. I hate myself. You may not know what it feels like to hate yourself, but I do. I know what it feels like, and it’s not a good feeling.
When I was passed out, I saw fire. At first, I didn’t know what was burning, or where the fire came from. I didn’t know until it calmed down and I could wave away the smoke and ash with a slicing hand through the thick air. When it cleared, I saw my house, burning. My mother and I, inside. Her dousing my room with gasoline and throwing the match, climbing into bed with me and holding me as we burned alive. Telling me that Claire was everything she ever wanted in a child, and more. That I was a mistake that she had always regretted.
I woke up with tears in my eyes. I wouldn’t have known, but I did look at myself in the mirror, after all. My skin was parched, and my eyes were red. My stomach ached for nutrients. Walking to the kitchen was a feat, considering I hadn’t stood since yesterday. My eyes tried to lock on the refrigerator as I entered the room, but someone who looked familiar from behind blocked my view. That must be one of Claire’s other friends, Angelique, I thought. One that wasn’t part of the accident. She turned around when she heard my footsteps, and smiled. In that moment, I realized why she was so familiar. There, Claire stood before me, brunette hair, hazel eyes and all. Her features seeming more pronounced, as if her baby fat had somehow evaporated and contributed to her bustline.
“You’re here,” she stated.
“I thought you were dead!” I exclaimed, then asked “Where’s mom?”
“She wasn’t allowed to come here, Delilah,” she explained.
“What do you mean,” I laughed, happy to see Claire again. “This is her house!”
“Delilah,” she started.
“What?”
“You’re dead.”
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