I wish I could tell you I was strong about it. I wish I could tell you that I didn't cry the first night, that I haven't cried since then, that I'll save my tears for when we meet again. I wish I could say that I ran away as soon as it was over, that I chased after you and will keep chasing until we're back to the days of playfighting and sharing secrets into the night.
But you always knew I was the crybaby between the two of us, which is why I'm stuck writing this to you.
I paused in my writing and looked down at the paper, pen gripped tightly in my hand. Father Paul said that writing about my feelings would help with the "grieving process." Imbalanced emotions were a sign of the devil and, in times of duress, it was good to turn to God and deliver your worries to him. Considering the bastard retired right after giving me that advice, I should have taken a hint that Father Paul didn't know jackshit. My parents were probably behind the bullshit project, sending the message to him so that he could pass it off to me as "sage advice from a holy man." The paper joined the growing pile in my wastepaper basket with a dramatic sigh.
Despite your absence, the room felt smaller than usual. Constricting, even. The air was tight with the incense burning in the Master Bedroom, traveling through the vents with the heavy scent of something spiced and musky. Mom only burned them when she was alone, probably reading a book or studying scripture while Dad trained with Uriel outside. From my window, the grunts and thwacks of their sparring match penetrated the glass in muffled calls. If I listened closely, I could make out some of the directives.
"Back straight!"
"Knees bent!"
"Stay focused!"
"Thrust!"
Typical. The only way Dad would communicate with anyone was through combat, and even then speech was limited. Conversely, this was the only time Uriel would shut up, fully focusing on his form and rhythm while competing. Ezra was probably a little off to the side, heckling Uriel as he went.
"C'mon, you can do better than that!"
"Your feet are slippin'!"
"C'mon, back straight, Uri! Back straight!"
Dad would give him one glare and the heckling would stop for a few minutes, but always picked up once Uriel fumbled. Typical. Usual. Normal. The room was filled with the sounds of their normality. The sounds of them moving on. I looked at your side of the room, completely untouched since you left. Your bed was unmade from when you woke up that morning. The dresser was still in disarray from when you threw all your clothes in your duffel bag. Your posters and photos were ripped from the walls, some of the corners and details still fused to the plasters. The only signs of life that remained were the scattered drawings you kept pinned on the corkboard above your desk. Sketches of those same sparring matches, of Mom with her incense reading her books, of me sitting on my side of the room watching you. Sketches of the life you used to live. It had been three days now. These things should be typical. Usual. Normal.
"God only gives you the burdens that he thinks you can handle," Father Paul told me. "This too shall pass."
I looked down at the overflowed wastebin and felt contempt lodge in my throat. I should be able to handle this. I should be able to handle this. I should be able to handle this and yet I still get choked up every time I think about you. I should be able to not think about you at night, but seeing your bed across from mine makes me feel hollow. I should be able to go back to normal, go to school and do homework, eat dinner with family and pretend as if it's not weird that the chair next to me will never be occupied by the right person. I should be able to pretend you're dead the way the others do. But you're not dead. You weren't murdered and you didn't take your own life. You did the one thing that we'd been dreaming of since we were kids. You weren't a coward, unlike me. I paused and felt a burning sensation in my eyes. I lifted my hand to wipe at the tears that were forming and hoped that they stayed that way. The last thing I needed was to further prove how pathetic I was.
I thought back to how often you'd seen me cry over the years, the way your eyes observed me like a spectacle. You would study the tears curving against my cheeks, followed each movement because you couldn't understand an emotion that you weren't feeling. You would reluctantly wipe them, mostly to save yourself from discomfort. You didn't think I noticed, but I knew you were disappointed. The brave older brother and the demure younger sister, how cliche. If it was one thing you hated more than staying in this family, it was sticking to predestined roles. I was a shameful thing you were forced to call a sister, never able to get a backbone until it was too late. I merely fed you the words and forced you to speak for me, all the while dragging you deeper into my misery. No wonder you decided to leave.
I slapped my palms against my cheeks and allowed the pain to offset what I was feeling. The sting was invigorating, and I used it to distract myself from my racing thoughts. I needed to focus on more important matters. I needed to be useful. I had a test in Calculus that I needed to study for. We'd been going over derivatives and limits for the past few weeks. You were always bad at them so I was tasked with keeping my notes tidy enough for both of us. Now, I only had to worry about myself. I needed to look over the textbook again to see what kind of problem there might be. It sat on the bookshelf at the foot of my bed. I leaned over to grab it and noticed the grime on my fingertips. Thick clumps of dust were collecting on the book casings. It was supposed to be your turn to clean the room that day, but as always you left things half-finished. Soon I could feel the dust in the air, suffocating me, making the room smaller. I needed to clean so that I could do homework. I needed to do homework so I could take my mind off of what happened before. I needed to be useful.
Before my brain could try to remind me of earlier, I got up and walked out to the hallway for the broom set. It was stored in the closet next to the bathroom, seated against the shelves of towels. You liked to put it in random places because it drove everyone else crazy, and nothing was better than watching the chaos of your actions. I wondered if you were disappointed in how easily this house brushed you off. You used to rave and rage in the room when you didn't get the reaction you wanted. I wondered who would listen to your ramblings now. I wondered if they were as good a listener as I was. I grabbed the broom and froze. There was a shadow in the bathroom. It was a familiar frame, hunched over and rushed. It dashed into the room without a sound, though its vague outline could be seen through the mirror. Of course, you wouldn't just leave like that. Of course, you wouldn't just give up on your family. You were coming back to me. You were coming back because you knew you needed me. That I needed you. I busted in without another thought, chasing the phantom before it was too late.
"Isaiah!" My eyes scanned the bathroom several times. I looked deep in the shower and its curtains. I opened all the drawers and cabinets. I looked down each and every drain. I was alone. But then I looked in the mirror and I saw your face but not quite. The nose was the same, maybe a bit bigger, and the eyes were hooded instead of almond-shaped. Beneath them were pits of bags and dark circles that stood stark against the brownness of the skin. The lips were fuller but cracked and peeling in some places. The hair was longer, deep raven, cascading down to the knees. I needed to change it so it was right.
I tried rubbing at the eyes, pushing down the nose so it would be smaller, but those things were facts. Immovable. But then there was the hair, how it sat with random strands and bits sticking out from a lack of brushing. I let my hands run through the loose strands, feeling the softness of each pull. I recalled the days that you would help me braid each side of my head, the loose pieces that would jut from your sloppy handiwork. I never asked for you to help, it was just an unspoken rule between the two of us that if I were to braid one side of my hair you were to braid the other. Always the mirror since birth. Bunches of fingers scouring my scalp, endlessly touching and prodding in that distinct way that can only be understood as love. I needed to cut it. I needed to see you, or at least get close enough to think it was you.
I barged through the cabinet and haphazardly threw pill bottles and ointments around me. The mess could be cleaned later. I needed to cut it. By the time a pair of scissors were in my hands, my body felt alive with electricity. My hands were vibrating from the energy that exuded from my body. It left me in pulsating waves, each push bonding me to the earth until I could feel every ounce of this house in my body. You were so close that I could envision the scene of your arrival. Yes, we were disappointed that you left. Yes, we missed you greatly. No, we don't hate you. We could never hate you. I was going to right my wrongs. I was going to bring you home. With my unsteady hand, I grabbed a chunk of the hair and brought the blade close enough to cut.
"Ysa?"
I froze. The voice was yours but not quite. Less pleading and more confusion. Deeper in tone. Irritating. Ezra. I looked over to find him staring at me with his shoes draped over his shoulders and a large gash on his forehead. We met eyes and all connection with the world was lost. Your face became a distant memory wrapped beneath reality. I was back to the beginning. You were still gone.
If this was meant to be my divine punishment then God was truly as cruel as they say. Ezra and I sat in utter silence in the room, me frantically looking around for any secrets that happened to be out of place and him continuously toying with the bandages on his head. The air was tense considering the only words we exchanged were me screaming about ruining your space by sitting on your bed. I should've expected this outcome, but, Lord, was it unbearable to deal with.
"Fuck," Ezra muttered under his breath. His fingers had barely grazed the wound beneath his gauze. I released an annoyed sigh and went to stop his hands.
"If you keep messing with them, it'll never heal," I warned.
He dodged my hands and guarded the spot on his head.
"Bro, chill! I'm just tryna fix it. You tied this shit too tight!"
"You have an open wound on your head."
"Shit, if you think I look bad, you should see Uri. Gave 'im a fuckin' blackeye out there. Dad says I took it too far." He added scare quotes with a peeved look to his eyes, though I'm not sure why he expected me to agree with him. The last time Ezra and I sparred, I ended up nearly popping a lung with how bad he headbutted me.
"If Uriel has a black eye, why didn't he come with you to get the first aid kit?" Not like I wanted both my older brothers to witness my mental breakdown but the question still stood.
Ezra rolled his eyes and continued to mess with the gauze.
"You know damn well he's gettin' treated by one of those little clergy-girls. Probably tellin' 'em that my hit was nothin' when I know damn well I whooped his–Shit!" Another hiss of pain slipped from his mouth.
I quickly grabbed his hands and squeezed them in between my palms.
"Stop touching it, alright?!"
He observed the way my hands quivered the longer we held them in place. I shoved them into my pockets without thinking.
"Just...stop touching them, okay?"
He nodded his head without another word and began to actually take in the room. The stark juxtaposition between my calculated decorations and the disarray of your remnants. It was infuriating how slow his eyes went, how he observed every last detail around him and unraveled its significance. I wanted to steal his attention. I wanted to shove him out of our space and lock myself in my lunacy because anything was better than someone telling me what I already knew.
"So, you wanna tell me what you were doin' in the bathroom?"
The color drained from my face. Of course, he had to ask this question. Of course, it had to be right now. My eyes trained themselves elsewhere in the room, fearful of his response.
"I was trying to clean my room–"
"With a pair of scissors lookin' like you were bouta go full American Psycho?"
"I got," My chest tightened as I recalled my actions. "Distracted."
He gave me a quick once over, and I swear I could see pity reflected in those deep brown eyes.
"Look, I'm not tryna be a cop or anythin'. That's Uri's job," He joked. "I just wanna know what's up with you, alright?"
I thought about what Uriel would say. What Mom or Dad would say. They wouldn't have to say anything at all, just one look from their eyes was enough. One sneering gaze that told you everything they didn't have to say. Why do we have a disappointment instead of a proper daughter? Ezra and I looked at each other at a stand-still. Frustration was growing rapidly in his features as the signature twitch formed in his left eyebrow. I bit my tongue until I could taste iron.
"Ysa!"
I felt something in me bend.
"Look, it's nothing, alright?! Stop fucking asking!"
Creak. My heart froze in my chest. Footsteps treaded lightly across the floor. Mom lingered by the door, patiently waiting for more words. The musk of her room was stronger, trailing from her clothes in thick waves. Ezra and I couldn't even bring ourselves to look at each other, biding time so that we could return to normalcy. After a while, she slammed her door and signified her exit. I listened for any further signs of movement before returning to a much softer volume.
"Can we just drop this?"
Ezra gave me another once-over. I was certain it was pity this time.
"Alright. Fine. We'll drop it." He threw up his hands in defeat. "You wanna be crazy and shave your head bald like The Last Airbender? Go off! Not my problem."
Of course, he wasn't going to let this go.
"Not like I'm your older brother or anythin'. Not like I'm supposed to care when my little sister's havin' a fuckin' breakdown in the bathroom on a random Saturday."
"God, you're so fucking annoying!" I snatched a pillow from my bed and aimed for the gash on his forehead.
He caught it with his left hand and began to toss it in the air. There was a coyness to his smile as he did it, pleased with my reaction.
"Somebody's gotta do it." His words lingered as if there was more on the tip of his tongue.
I sunk deeper into the bed and thought about you. Again. Because of course, everything has to go back to you. Always the center of attention, always the one sticking out. It was no wonder you were the first to leave. Uriel and Ezra could be at each other's throats for as long as they wanted, you were going to be the one remembered in the end. A pain in the ass, even now.
"You wouldn't get it." I said after a while. A cop-out of a response.
Ezra saw the opening and rushed in before it could close.
"Gimme a chance."
I looked up at the ceiling and recalled the glow-in-the-dark stars you had hidden in your underwear drawer. After two months of toxic masculine shaming, Dad finally gave in and let you buy them. You, of course, didn't think to ask your roommate because you knew I was going to dismiss you and go back to studying. I always let you make decisions because you knew what you wanted. You knew what was best for you.
"I don't get it." I paused to let my composure crawl back to me. "I don't get how you guys can do it. Just every day, constantly moving forward. Constantly pretending as if it doesn't bother you that he's gone."
"Ysa–"
"Why does it always have to be 'poor Ysabella,' huh? You guys always act like I'm the only one. Like I'm the crazy sister who's still caught up on her dead twin brother, but he's not dead. He didn't die."
My voice dared to travel farther but I restrained as best it could. The sounds of creaking could be heard from down the hall, but the door never fully opened. I was dancing dangerously close to making her appear.
"You still think about him?" Ezra asked, not as if to mock me, but as the wording implies. As in, does he still cross your mind? As in, have you thought about him recently?
As if my answer was supposed to be the same as his.
It did not take me long to wander back into the memory of that night. Family dinner, a supposed celebration. We were congratulating Uriel for something because, of course, his achievements are the only ones that matter. Everybody was sick of it; Ezra was on his sixth glass of wine and was fighting to remain amicable. It was a textbook Maldanado-Contreras family event. The night was going to end with Mom giving a speech about how much God favored this family, Uriel would thank her and Dad like he was receiving the Academy Award, Ezra would try to start an argument but get silenced by Dad, who only spoke up if it meant reprimanding one of his kids, and we would narrowly escape being brought up in conversation. At least, that's how it was supposed to end.
When you stood up from your seat with that look of anger in your eyes, I should've stopped you. I should've dragged you back down and scolded you for going off-script. I should've told you that it was just two more years before we became legal adults, that we just needed to be patient for just a little bit longer. I should've done a lot of things differently. You always knew I was the coward between the two of us.
"Somebody has to remember."
Ezra sucked his teeth at the bitterness laced into my words.
"Ysa, you know it's not like that." He muttered.
The burning coil in my stomach urged me to yell.
"Like what?!" I insisted. "That right there is proof that none of you care."
He nearly jumped from his seat, back straight and eyes wide with oncoming anger.
"The fuck do you mean I don't care?! Who said I didn't care?!"
"It's not just you, it's all of you!" I banged my hand against the wall for emphasis as I continued. The pain melted down into my core and fed the flames. "Everybody wants to just go to work and train and eat dinners together as if nothing fucking happened. As if nobody fucking remembers," I pointed to your barren side of the room as tears burned my eyes. "He was my fucking brother!"
"He was my brother too!" Ezra towered over me, eyes blown out from rage and redness coloring his skin. "You really think I'm stupid or some shit, huh? You think I'm dumb?! You weren't the only one hurt when he left!"
When I looked up and saw Ezra's hardened face, I realized my mistake. The words hadn't even felt like mine, just seemingly slipping out from a collective conscious. Shame was the first emotion to strike, followed by the usual suspects–fear, anger, regret. But burrowed under those complex layers, was a new feeling, barely formed. The other emotions were too strong for me to recognize the new sensation, but some part of me decided to label it confidence. The walls had been whispering the words since you'd left and I was merely providing a voice for it.
"Since when have you ever cared about us? When was the last time you even checked in on us?! When have you ever stopped to think about anyone but yourself?"
"I've got fucking layers to me, y'know?" Ezra spat. "Just 'cause you don't give a fuck about me doesn't mean I don't care about you."
"If you cared, you would have stopped him!"
When I looked into his eyes, I expected to see a reflection of my own. I wanted to see regret, remorse, the realization that you were the problem all along. I wanted to be seen. Instead, Ezra met my gaze, unwavering.
"You didn't either." He did not need to raise his voice to say it. He knew the words were enough.
"Have we finished our bickering?"
Our conversations stopped as Mom stood before the door, arms crossed and face contorted in a look of contempt. I met eyes with her and felt those raw feelings slip through my fingers like ash. If I'm allowed to defend myself, I knew she was going to show up. I knew she would be listening to every word that I said, that she would wait for the moment where it seemed like I'd lost. And, if I'm being honest, I wanted her to listen. Ezra was just a soundboard; I wanted her to understand the pain she'd caused. I wanted her to feel guilty. But the feeling of her arrival was like the worst kind defeat. The bloody end to a brutal battle.
"Ezra," Mom said bluntly. "Your father is starting remedial lessons on the greenery. I suggest you join him."
Ezra's anger subdued.
"What about Uriel?"
Mom gestured further down the hall with her head.
"He's being tended to by the clergywomen after you mercilessly bashed his head and speared his stomach." Her viper tongue was targeted, unlike mine.
Ezra turned to look at me in exasperation. I looked at the gash on his forehead and saw the pink leaking through the white bandages.
"How come you only care about one of your sons?" I wanted to say.
"That was a sloppy match," She continued. "You need to learn some more discipline if you expect to serve this family."
When he left, I watched the way he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. The way his eyes started to water. The way he blunk back the tears that formed. A painful sacrifice, but necessary nonetheless. I thought back to our previous exchange and wondered if he could still care for me after being so merciless. I wondered how much I could push until my martyr complex was properly filled.
"I see you haven't finished your letter." Mom's eyes were drawn to the overflowing wastepaper basket.
I kept my gaze focused on her and dug through the ash of my previous confidence to find any remnants of control.
"Are you proud of yourself?" I spat. "Do you think you're a good mother?" I wish I could say my words had a biting edge to them. I wish I could say that my tongue was laced with poison and I managed to cut her deep. I wish I could say I was stronger. But the longer I looked into those cold, disinterested eyes, the more I realized that there were no winners or losers. There was only stronger and weaker.
"Let me make it clear that I have no issue with you grieving," Even if I couldn't muster the courage, she knew how to sharpen her words without saying much. "But the next time I hear you cursing this house or this family, I will make sure that you join your brother." She stepped close enough to me that our noses were touching and I started to see you again. The almond-shaped eyes, the pronounced nasal bridge, the natural frown on your lips. I wanted to rip your face away from this imposter. I wanted to bring you home.
"Understood?" Were her last words to me.
My voice wouldn't let me release any more sound so I gave her a pathetic nod. She accepted it with a small hum before closing the door behind her with a delicate snap. Her footsteps petered out until there was another door slam and the stench of incense burned through the walls. She would probably continue where she left off in her book, maybe even have a glass of wine for her nerves, while Dad began Ezra's remedial lessons. Each command cut through the air with its authority.
"Back straight!"
"Knees bent!"
"Stay focused!"
"Thrust!"
Typical. Dad's form of punishment was negligence, just like his form of love was ignorance. Ezra was quiet, for once, and Uriel did not care for heckling. He would probably be watching from his seat as the clergywomen fanned his injuries, some daring to use their mouths and blow bits of cold air. The image would drive Ezra to lose control, make him thrust his sword too hard and nearly injure Dad. The lesson would have three minutes tagged on for every indiscretion. Typical. Usual. Normal. It was time I joined them.
I stood up and returned to my place in the bathroom. Most of the mess was cleaned, save for a few scattered pills and drops of ointment on the ground. I crushed a couple under my heels and dug them deep enough into the carpet that my foot took its place. I planted myself into this space. I claimed it as my own. I looked into the mirror and counted the traces of you that were left before it all dissipated into someone else. Dissipated into me. But before the transformation could fully take place, the scissors materialized in my grasp and half of my hair was in my hands. The remainder sat unevenly around my shoulders, the slight slant pointing down to the stray pieces that adorned my shirt. Relief offset some of the fair intermingling in my chest. I let the pressure ease out from within me and felt my body become weightless. I leaned close into the mirror and welcomed you back home.
I wish I could tell you I was strong about it. I wish I could tell you that I stood up to Mom and made her pay. I wish I could say that I screamed until my throat went raw, that I finally let this family know just how much they hurt us. I wish I could have done a lot of things differently.
But you always knew I was the weaker one between the two of us, which is why I'm trapping you here with me for as long as I'm forced to stay.