Evelyn's Pendant

2.

The memory doesn't fail to come crashing down on me every single day.

I remain at the bottom of the shower, still allowing the water to fall over my hair and my face. I don't cry anymore - I don't see the point. It's been over two years now; I'm done with crying over it. I've turned to other mechanisms of my mourning process.

    I look over my shoulder and see a bottle of my favorite coconut-scented shampoo. I pick it up to expose a razor blade hidden underneath it. I pick it up carefully and examine it closely as the blade glistens from the water. Guilt immediately rises in my throat after picking it up. I haven't even done anything and yet I still feel wrong for even resorting to this - but the guilt isn't enough. I look forward, swallow the guilt back down and glide it over my thigh and watch the water turn an opaque crimson. I wince at the pain, but it's a familiar feeling.

I tightly grasp the pendant hanging on the necklace around my neck. It was Evie's favorite necklace that was found with her body the day of the crash . I decided to keep it in memory of her, and haven't taken it off since. The guilt I had built inside slowly releases, as does the blood oozing from my thigh. It may be released for now, but always comes creeping back like a pesky blemish that keeps getting picked at, but it's all I know. As the guilt releases, it it replaced by a euphoria of actually being able to feel something other than emotional pain.

    I lost the closest person that I had in my life. Not just my sister, but my best friend... and it was all my fault.

    I turn down the heat of the shower, hold onto the handrail and slowly stand up. I feel dizzy and the water rolling down my body stings at my thigh. Slowly, I wash my hair and body, ridding myself of the stench and dirt that I've accumulated from last night. The soap burns even more, but, in my head, I picture it cleaning out my wounds so I don't have to myself.

I finish my shower and turn off the water, I grab my black towel to wipe myself dry and lightly dab at my wounds. I step out of the shower and quickly move to the medicine cabinet above the sink and grab my gauze and medical tape. I sit on the toilet and tightly bandage myself while taking deep breaths, still feeling lightheaded. I get up, wrap my towel back around me and wipe down the mirror with my hand, revealing my face in front of me. I look paler than normal, black bags accumulate under my eyes and my lips are thin and beige - normally pink or red.

I exit the bathroom and get a breeze of cool air on my still-damp skin and tip-toe my way to my room. After closing the door behind me, I pick my cell phone up off my bed and see that I have a text from Hannah.

    Well, did you die?

    I try to force a smile at her text.

    Nope. All good over here. I respond.

I guess that's good enough reason to go out and celebrate tonight :) She texts back.

She always manages to put me in a better mood. It's like she knows when I'm feeling terrible, no matter if we're together or apart. I respond that I'm all for it, as usual. Any distraction from life at home is welcome.

I walk to my closet and pull out a low-cut black shirt, dark-washed ripped shorts and blue booties. I toss my outfit of choice on my bed as I go to my dresser and pull out an oversized t-shirt and panties to wear for now and lay down in my unmade bed, still feeling aches in my body from my hangover.

I find my pack of cigarettes in my purse on the floor next to my bed, light one and open the window to my right. After Evie died, this became another one of my many unhealthy coping mechanisms. After a long drag off the cigarette, I ash it in my ugly ashtray and blow the smoke out of the window above my bed. I made this ashtray for mom back when I was in a pottery class in high school. She was never a smoker and I was never very good at ceramics, but I thought it could maybe be something for her to put her car keys in or some jewelry... but I ended up taking it once I picked up my habit after I found it untouched and unused in the attic.

I look around my room at my other creations; my walls are covered with my own, actually decent, artwork, compared to the ashtray. I was an award-winning painter in high school. Painting was more than just a hobby, it was a passion of mine. I stopped immediately after Evelyn died, as she was my biggest supporter and my own personal critic. This one needs more color, she would tell me. This one has a smudge here. The line work on this one is interesting. This one has way too much color now. You made my nose look too big in this portrait.

Those are just a handful of comments she would make on my paintings, but whenever I actually took her advice, they did seem to come out better. We worked well together; I had the talent and she had a keen eye and appreciation for art. I feel like my paintings wouldn't be as good as they were without her help, which is one of the reasons why I stopped - along with the constant reminder of her in my mind if I had ever decided to try it again.

Without her, I don't think I would be any good anymore.

Sometimes it would piss me off to be critiqued on my painting all the time. It caused a few arguments, actually. Looking back now, I know Evie only had my best interests in mind. I wish I would have appreciated them more.

I put out the cigarette in the ashtray when it reaches the filter. My mouth is dry and has a gross aftertaste left in it as I smack my lips together and my stomach rumbles. I look at the digital clock on my nightstand, it's a quarter past three; the growl in my stomach makes me realize that I missed breakfast and lunch.

I get up, put on some sweatpants and head downstairs to get a drink and a snack along with it. I pass my parents in the living room as I make my way to the kitchen. It smells of bleach mixed with Macintosh apples coming from the burning candle on the stove top. I hear my mother sniffling as I make my way to the refrigerator.

"Lillian..." my mom says lightly and raspily as I search the refrigerator. I grab a bottle of blue Gatorade, close the fridge and make my way to the pantry to look for something to eat.

    I huff. "What?"

    "I think you're forgetting something."

    I quickly grab a bag of pretzels. I'm not planning on staying down here any longer. I try to just ignore my mom while hunger pangs in my stomach.

    I make my way back to my room but stop in the living room as mom clears her throat loudly. I turn to her quickly in annoyance. Her and my father sit on the grey leather couch that sits adjacent from the fireplace. Above that is a large, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Their faces are slightly shaded by the sunlight peeking through the window behind them. I squint my eyes at the light. My mom motions her eyes towards my father a few times, who's looking at me - no, analyzing me with his dark bushy eyebrows that are furrowed with concern... and possibly sadness?

    Oh.

    I clear my throat. "Oh, yeah. Happy Birthday, Dad," I say monotonously and turn back to the staircase.

"Lillian!" mom yells at me, but I continue ascending the hard-wood stairs and ignore her. I hear her let out a loud sigh as I reach the top of the stairs and she starts talking to my dad. I don't bother eavesdropping on their conversations anymore. It's always the same thing after the other. "Do we call Dr. Lewis again?", "When was the last time she took her meds?", "She looks awful.", "She was never like this before.", "What did we do wrong?", "I can't get through to her." Blah. Blah. Blah.

    I sit on my bed and sip on the Gatorade, then move my attention to the bag of pretzels sitting next to me and lightly snack on them. They're hard to get down, but I know I need something in my stomach besides Gatorade. Otherwise, I know it's all coming back up.

    I can't stand being inside these walls anymore. This isn't a home anymore. This place has ceased to be home since Evie died.

Now it's just walls that could crumble at any given minute.