this is how i disappear

hiiii :) i wrote this about a year ago and it's a short story

im rlly proud of so i thought i'd share it here <3 

if its cringe pls dont make fun of me ill cry 

TRIGGER WARNINGS!

• mentions of suicide
• description of self harm
• character death mentioned
• 
  

I don’t understand why people felt they could judge my sister so much. Really, I turned out just like her. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But really, is the apple laid down gently onto the soft, dewy grass, or is it thrown into the hard dirt, punctured by jagged pebbles hidden underneath?

I was seriously considering smashing my phone onto the curb and stomping on it until all of the screen glass was embedded in the sole of my shoe. The buzzing was driving me mad. Trying to keep my composure as I stormed down the street, I gripped my phone and held down the power button, shutting it down completely. No notifications, no location. Only the bliss of passing cars and the striking wind. I bit down hard on my lip, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. My eyes were tearing up from the freezing gale that was lashing into my face. If I were any lighter, I’d probably get blown away. With the little sliver of vision I had after squinting my eyes, I took in my surroundings. This was the last I’d ever see of my town, and thank God for that. I couldn’t wait to pass through the welcome sign on the road and become nothing. I had never been far beyond my town, especially without the watchful, beady eyes of my parents looming over me. I bet my sister felt so free to cross this threshold, I couldn’t wait to experience the tonnage ascend off my shoulders and feel my collarbone cry out in relief.

Before I could cross the threshold, there was a detour I had to take. Beginning to feel a sense of dread inside, I had a moment of still to collect myself. This had to be done, I couldn’t leave without it. Have you ever had that feeling where your fingers interlock and your body contorts with each tense from your bones, and you freeze like a wet rag left out in the snow? That’s what it was like, especially as I approached the front gate. I looked up and read the sign. God’s Eternal Life Cemetery scrawled into the rusted ebony sign and held up by the winding bars of the gothic gates. My foot took a step into the cold dirt path, and I made my way up the hill. The wind was non-existent on this plane, as if it stood outside time itself. I nearly reached the top before crossing into a row of gravestones. It was then that my knees finally buckled and I fell before her.

Melanie Miller, beloved daughter and sister.  March, 1986 - September, 2003. 

She fucking killed herself right before my birthday, too. I know she probably wasn’t thinking about it, but I’ll always feel sour about that. Every time I think about my birth, I’m cursed to think about her death. Maybe she hated me, and did it out of spite. I was always the golden child, and I knew it, maybe it serves me right. But I loved my sister. She must’ve known that. I always went to her, I never went to Mom or Dad. They adored me, like I was a prize-winning pet. It was sickening; especially since I could tell they hated my sister, she was the complete opposite of me. If I ever had an issue or anything, it’d break their perfect image of me and they’d lash out. God forbid I ever shed a tear, they’d go crazy. “What are you crying about? There is no reason for you to be upset. We give you everything you want and you have the audacity to make yourself the victim?” But Melanie was imperfect, so I always went to her. Every little crack in her ceramic skin had its own story, its own voice. 

I traced my finger through the grooves of the stone, spelling out her name, and a streak of warmth ran through my blood. I wanted to say something, but what could I say to her? That I was sorry? She didn’t like apologies unless they came with rectification. I’d have to fix my mistake. How am I supposed to bring her back to life? Or no, jump off the pedestal I was laid upon? I guess I already had, running away and all. If she was still alive, she would’ve gone with me. I can picture it now.

“Mike, seriously? I didn’t think you’d ever have it in you,” she’d smile. “What the hell are we waiting for? Get your shit together-- we’re leaving tonight.”

“I couldn’t be more ready,” I whispered to Melanie. I took all of her in, eyes rising up and down like waves from her headstone to the grass bed above her; I made sure I was on the side of her grave too, not wanting to step on her. I really wished she could come with me.

“Let me know if she says anything back,” said a voice. I turned behind me, and there was Mr. Crowley. He was an older gentleman, a professor at the community college uptown. He did writing workshops and such, lots of kids went for help with their college essays. My parents had made my sister go to them. She hated going, but from what I heard, she was an amazing writer. She never let me read anything she was working on. I can only imagine what was in her head.

“Ah, um. I doubt it.” What was I supposed to say? Additionally, what was he doing here? He couldn’t have come to see my sister, at least I don’t think so. “With all due respect, sir, what are you doing here?”

“Just came to see my wife, Nancy. She’s over there,” he said, pointing to the row just past Melanie’s. I could see the grave. Nancy Crowley, forever with the Lord. August 1949  - May 1997. She was forty-seven when she died.

“I’m sorry, sir.” I can’t imagine what it’d feel like to lose the woman you love so young.

“That’s alright, she’s at peace now. She had leukemia.” I caught a sense of longing in his eyes before shaking his head with his incessant simper. “Anyways, your sister was a pleasure to have in my course,” he said. Every teacher says that. “Melanie had started reluctantly, but found her footing quickly. She wrote beautiful stories, I’m sure you know.” Mr. Crowley had inched closer to me, making his way to the other side of Melanie’s bed. He made sure not to step on her either.

“Oh, she… Well I’ve never really read anything she wrote. She wouldn’t let me see.” If I came into her room to ask her something, and she happened to be writing, she immediately saw me as an intruder and shouted at me to leave.

Mr. Crowley chuckled and shook his head. “That sounds like her, alright. I suggested contests, publications, and sharing to the class; she rejected every offer. I remember one piece in particular about a ballerina,” he said, a wrinkle in his brow but a smile pulling on his lips. “Dancers have to break their shoes, which I didn’t know, and they need to keep buying new pairs over and over. A vicious cycle. Essentially, you’re supposed to buy new shoes, then break them, then glue them back together, dance in them for a short period of time before they are beyond repair, then repurchase. You have to break them before you even use them, then throw them away once they’ve become worn out. Really, it’s self-sabotage. That was the essence of her piece.”

“Well, that definitely sounds like her.” I stared blankly into the grain of the stone. Melanie would argue just to argue. She saw herself to be so far gone, she found it uncomfortable to be kind. Sort of like you’d get the reaction, “Oh, so now you’re being all nice?” or just that she’d be met with no kindness in return because of the way she was. Kindness had become vulnerability. Callousness was protection. 

I felt my lip trembling, just picturing her. Her final moments. Her long, spruce hair cascading down her collarbone as the ends floated like feathers in the water. Red staining her fair and freckled skin, the deep gashes cried blood down her forearms. Oddly enough that it had matched the chipped red nail polish on her short uneven nails, with uneven ends and picked-at cuticles. I was breathing so rapidly, it took my whole body for the air to flow in and out. What would it have felt like, to graze the blade across her skin and find the strength to press down? Did her breath hitch, and did she bite her lip to keep from baying? I wonder if she could hear her heart beating in her ears, speeding up as it pumped every last bit of life out of her, desperately trying to get to the brain and tell her to stop. All the oxygen on its way to her lungs had found its way into the water. My hands began to rattle, I had no control over my muscles or my bones. What was she thinking as she saw the tub go red? Did she ever have the thought that maybe she didn’t want to go? Maybe she thought it was too late. Cleaning up would be a mess, and she’d get in trouble anyway. To ask for help with your last breath was a sacrifice she would not make. She would hold onto that air until she bled it out. She wanted to break the chain, but that had made her the weakest link.

“Mike? Is everything alright? Can you hear me?” Mr. Crowley gripped my shoulders with his hands. My chest felt tight, there were poppies sprouting in my cavernous lungs, I felt I was about to cough up the petals; complete nauseam. I looked Mr. Crowley in the eyes, trying to tell him I was alright. I wasn’t, I don’t think so, but a fate worse than death would be to admit I wasn’t okay.

You know how when you have an itch-- on your leg, let’s say-- and you don’t scratch it, eventually it becomes so intolerable that your body jolts your leg forward and causes it to spaz out until you scratch the itch? That’s what happened. My body forced me to scratch the itch, to remove the sharp, stabbing pain from my body. Crying stung my eyes, it was so cold that my tears turned to ice before they could reach my chin. Bright red petals shot from my lungs as a sob was expelled from my jaw. I couldn’t stop, my veins, my arteries, my bones and my heart held complete dominion over any action I could muster. I was possessed with a strength my mind could not control, but every single other part of me. The strength to ask for help.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I didn’t mean to— I just—”

“I know,” said Mr. Crowley. His arms overtook me into his embrace, and I didn’t even fight him off. “You miss her, that’s all.” More than anything in the world. 

I rested close to him, letting his warmth linger in my body for as long as I could. It was a peculiar feeling, this safety that I felt with him. Something I had been faking, yet missing, for years. “I think…” I held my breath, for there was a moment where I was unsure. “I think I should go.” The moment passed.

“Will you be okay? Do you need me to bring you home? I’ve got my car; if it’s alright with you, of course.” His brows frowned, his eyes softened just a touch; a contrast by from their usual certainty of the future

“I’ll be fine,’ I started. I wasn’t about to tell him that after our encounter I’d be leaving town, hoping to disappear and never be seen again. Though, initially, the plan was not just to disappear from town; I wanted to disappear forever, crumble to ash and slip into the cracks in the ground. I suddenly felt that it wouldn't be so simple. “I’m gonna get going. Thank you, Sir. It, um— it really helped a lot.” I clenched my teeth, trying to weigh down the grin lifting the corners of my lips.

I waved goodbye, and started down the hill. I felt momentum with each foot tanking into the steep dirt, it was a miracle that for each step I didn't tumble down the hill. Before I knew it, my head was level with the cemetery gates. It was still windy down here, but I felt the wind was beneath me now. I was gliding down the sidewalk, convinced I might take flight at any moment. I looked up, and saw the stars beginning to seep through the cornflower sky. Blue hour was hazy, sure, but I swore that I could see the stars befalling to Earth before my eyes. That is, until I felt a cold and wet sensation tickle the bridge of my nose, Then my cheek, Then my chin. Soon, it was all around me, and the whole world too. It was snowing. The wind blew snowflakes into these miniature flurries across the road. I was delighted to have watched those delicate crystals dance through the air as I reached the end of town. I hadn’t even realized I took my first step across the threshold as I was so entranced by the snow. Walking down the empty road, I let the flurries guide me, completely hypnotized. Somewhere down the line, I reached a cobblestone bridge with lanterns illuminating the mysterious street on the other side. The bridge was embellished with twinkling snowflakes, and as if there were iron within them, I started to give into the bridge’s pull. Nadine Village was scrawled across the weathered wood welcome sign. This was it. I hadn’t disappeared, not totally, but a part of me did. This was when I had realized life didn’t have to end in order to find peace. Really, you've got as many lives as you like, and more— even ones you don't want.