Who says that you deserve this, and what kind of god would serve this?
* * *
“You know, you should really get a frame for that.” Wyatt says as I fling a blonde lock away from my face, my sea-colored eyes being caught off guard as the paper that contained photographic color on one side, and a blank image on the other, moved from its original place.
I rotate around to see the snapshot of my sister and me flailing around with the wind, due to the fact that our next customer had pushed the door a little too hard, and the wind continued to rush in like kindergarteners going to recess.
“I know,” I snarl lowly in an “I-know-he’s-right” sort of way and rush through the gate that led in and out towards the counter; I rush passed the open door to where the treasured photo lay flat on its back, sinking into the sand.
In the picture, we wore our favorite dresses: mine being olive green, hers being white. We had our arms wrapped around each other and we contentedly stood in front of our favorite place in the world: “our” rainforest in Hawaii. The picture brought such glee, but a wave of envy always overcame me when I even peeked at it: Cassie was abnormally gorgeous. Her beautiful dirty blonde hair and aqua eyes that matched mine were somewhat radiant, when mine were just normal. That was definitely one thing that we didn’t share.
Even as children we shared everything. If I had a toy, she had the same one of a different color. If I was sick, she’d be sick too. And, this being more recently, if I went out for a sport or club, she’d do the same one. For example: one time I joined the school club called “Dream” --and she joined too. It was a program for anybody and everybody that had anything to say to younger students. “Dream“ was about telling them motivational words and quotes that reinforced them being kinder to themselves and others. Surprisingly enough however, it never got bothersome because when I thought about it: she was just another player in the game, just another voice waiting to be heard, and just another remedy trying to cure the “sickness” and discontent of life.
I pick it up, look at it briefly, and then shuffle my Converse’s inside. Grasping the cold pipe-like handle I calm the door as if it were a lion and I was its tamer, grab another piece of tape from the lonely dispenser on the top shelf and then slam it down onto the countertop’s corner in an area I could call mine and moved on to serving my next fruity drink.
* * *
“Hey Mom, hey Dad,” I called out and walked through the hallway to my room.
Shutting the white door behind me, I turn to see two different colored beds, the white window curtains flowing freely along with the sea’s breeze, and a small pink-topped container that carried the rubber bands for hair in it. “Cass?” I drop my messenger bag and examine the trail of colorful ponytail rings, all leading to a closed door that uncovered the bathroom.
I knock three times, and by the fourth time, a voice chokes out. I twist the knob and see my sister hanging over the toilet like a leaf about to fall, drop, be non-existent and nonmoving.
“Cassie!” I exclaimed and ran to her, “what’s wrong? Did you eat something bad? Or did one of your friends get you sick?” I put a concerned hand to the small of her back.
“All I had was that wheat bread you brought home yesterday, and then a few minutes later I got really nauseas like I was going to throw up, so I tied my hair back just in case, and then I did.” she perks her head up, allowing me to notice that tears were streaming from her eyes, sweat pouring from her entire face, and that she was as green as Kermit the Frog.
I grimaced and pursed my lips in discomfort for her and walked out of the room after she’d told me to do so. I waited thirty minutes on my bed until she came out from the bathroom with a pasty looking complexion, deep frown and swollen eyes.
