Time capsule

Prologue

  Delilah is the loved one. The one who people want to be around; be friends with. She is the one who can make a persons day, by just being there. She my opposite. She is kind, and loving, and caring. I am not. She is beautiful, and radiant. I am not. I am the one nobody knows much about; the quiet one, the pitiful one, the not as beautiful one, Delilah's sister. I don't mind it too much. This is how it is meant to be. After all, I was the one tiny being, fifteen years, and seven months ago, on the seventh of December, that destroyed the one life that meant so much to many people, who in a way, came down with her, collapsing the living foundation, that was meant to support me and my family.
  Yep; I killed my mother. The moment that is supposed to be the most ceremonious in a humans life; the first, became her last, and the moment that ruined everything. We never figured out what went wrong, in my birth, but it had to be let go. She is just dead, and so is my father. Not in the traditional way; his heart is still beating, he still wakes up every morning, goes to work, and feeds me and my older sister. Medically, he is still alive, but I, and everybody that knows him knows that the second my little mind came known to this world, his left.
  Usually he just sits and stares into space, mind void of thoughts. He will come home and make supper, and go to his room for the rest of the night. I see him briefly in the mornings as he leaves for his job as a website designer, and leave to go to my old, small town high school, ten minutes away, and he will say a quick goodbye, with a small meaningless kiss on the forehead. Even on weekends, when we are forced to be together, he hardly even tries to interact with me. He just sits, and stares expressionless at his iPad, or the television. Now and then, he will strike up a short conversation with my sister, Delilah, but I don't bother, because I know from experience, that it will just end with my disappointment.
  I'm not sure how Delilah does it. She was a child, six years old. She had a strong relationship with our mother. Sure, she went through a dramatic phase; running away from home, trying to start an argument with anyone, drugs. But when she graduated high school, it was over. She cleaned herself up, with seemingly little effort, and moved an hour away, to her new life at CU Denver, to become her lifelong dream; a veterinarian. I am positive that she thinks of our mother often, as everyone does, but she is stronger than my father. Strong for my father. Strong for him, so that he can have his conversations with his most loved child, where a sparkle appears in his eye; one that only makes its appearance for Delilah. When she comes home every weekend, he grabs her tight, and swings her around a couple of times before we all huddle around the table for sandwiches.
  I wondered often how it would feel to be this loved. I get hugs of affection from my grandparents of course, and friends, but it will never be the same as a parents' love. My father dosn't love me. Why would he? I killed his wife. He only gives me his very minimal, affectionless interaction because he has to. This is what I thought all my life. That is, until a small metal box's existence was revealed, unexpectedly, changing everything I had ever known about my father, my mother, and everything leading up to my existence.