the sun looks good on you - solangelo

16- yelling into nothing

"i don't understand any of this," i found myself saying.

after that was so much. it just was a lot. a lot of everything. crying. yelling. running. i think from me. it was me who did the yelling. my dad did a lot of the crying, though. his tears were silent, but they were very visible. he could hardly speak to me or even look at me. for once, he had run out of strength to give to me. there was no comforting me. in the end, they just let me yell at nothing until my throat was hoarse.

i pause. i felt like my stomach was twisting. i have to wait for it to subside before i can continue.

"it's okay if you don't want to elaborate. take everything slow. you don't have to keep going if you don't want to." i hear my therapist say in his gentle voice. it sounds so far away from me. no. i'm tired of doing that. i've already begun so much. this day won't end until i tell it to the end. i still see the flickering florescent lights of the hospital. my voice shakes, but i disregard my therapist. i don't even feel as if i'm talking to him or anybody anymore. just as i yelled into nothing, i speak into nothing. the nothing only listens and does not speak in return.

no one told me anything. they just kept talking to my dad. that drove me mad that everyone just looked at me the way they would a wounded puppy when i asked. i wanted nothing more than to walk in and find that bianca is okay, in her hospital bed. tired and worn but okay.

i sat in the waiting room, watching the snow begin to pile up outside. the snow is falling so softly, so gracefully. like ballerinas. the sky is mocking me with such a beautiful show. how can the world be so gentle when my mind is so turbulent? my breath fogs up the glass. i can't see the snow anymore. a part of me is glad. the other wipes the fog away.

finally, my dad sits next to me and put his face in his hands, saying nothing. and then i knew.

"i don't understand," i say, even though i do.

"i don't understand either," he says back. he never says that. he always prided himself in understanding. having answers. that was the type of man he was. but he said it so plainly and so brokenly, it had to be true. i wish it wasn't so bad.

"nico," my therapist says gently. i think he's beginning to notice that i'm shaking. like, shaking really hard.

"no," i hear myself say. it doesn't even feel like my voice anymore. i don't even feel like i'm controlling my words anymore. it's as if someone else is speaking through me. "listen. let me finish. please."

he relented.

days went on really weird after that. i didn't understand any of it. things happened. my dad was broken, but he tried to not be when he made phone calls to relatives and to the insurance company and to the funeral home. but i saw him holding his head in his hands at the kitchen table. i felt more sorry for him than i did for myself or for bianca.

he's lost so much. and now all he has left is his defective son.

i wasn't sure how to exist after that. my dad left the door to bianca's room closed. neither of us bothered to go inside. i tried to not even look at the door. i didn't know what to do. dad didn't make me go to school. i just sat on my bed and thought over and over again, but my mind had no explanations. only pain and confusion and anger. one at a time, all at once. a thousand times over. agony. confusion. rage.

funerals are funny. when my mom died, bianca was there. i made a fuss about wearing a suit. bianca tied my tie and crouched to be eye level with me. her eyes were tired and sad. she was wearing a black dress that she would normally think is atrocious. she hated lace. her face was somber. i stopped scowling immediately.

"for me, okay, nico? you don't have to do it for dad or our aunt or even for mom. do it for me."

but now, who am i going for? i hate funerals. the flowers look out of place in such a grim event. people will try to give me condolences and i'll have to say thank you because that's what bianca did for mom. they'll sing amazing grace. someone will make a speech. and i will just have to sit there and hurt a thousand times over. my dad ordered it to be closed casket, at least. i didn't want to see her face. mom's funeral was open casket and no one could bear to look at her for too long. it was as if she had turned into wax. i didn't want that to be the last glimpse of bianca's face. i wanted to leave my image of her as it was: a porcelain mask with dark brush strokes of wind blown hair. the vivid color of red against soft, white snow.

i hated her funeral the most. at least mom died from cancer. i understood that. john f. kennedy got assassinated. i understand that. my grandad died of stroke. i can understand that. but what words could possibly be said to comfort you when your sister had killed herself without a word of explanation?

"do you know what her suicide note said?" i ask my therapist, as if waking up from a trance.

startled that i addressed him, he shakes his head.

"i love you, dad.

i love you, nico.

-bianca."

silence fills the office.

i've never said so much before. i've never gone so in depth. this is strange and new for both of us. neither of us have any words left to say.

"but that's funny, huh? she loves me." i laugh finally. the silence is too immense for even my laugh to fill it. the laugh hangs in the air, without purpose. the room seemed to have gotten bigger.

"how do you feel?" he asks me quietly.

"much better, actually," i find myself saying, in spite of myself. i'm shaking so much. there are red fingernail marks in my palm. my hand is bleeding again. there's evening sunlight coming through the window. "much better."