Chapter Two

The worst thing about grief is that one person you need help from is the reason you need help. All I wanted was to sit in Audrey's bean bag and pour everything out, let her listen as I bawled, to be able to completely break down in front of her because she was the only one I could break down in front of. 

No one else knew me did, and no one knew her in the slightest. No one understood her, everyone thought she was a freak. Everyone thought she was crazy. Quite honestly, she was. That was what made her so brilliant. She used to go on rants about things no one understood. Eventually, she stopped going on rants around anyone else, she quickly realized that she could never explain her mind to others. Once she said, "Insanity is far too complex for sanity to grasp."

Now she was gone. Nothing felt the same, the rain that had one felt like the skin of a dream touching me a thousand times, cleansing me, was now hundreds of iron shards, cutting open my cheek. My mattress had turned to rock, and the food was dust that drained all moisture from my mouth and throat.

Sleep is now an old friend I wish I could see again. Every time I close my eyes I relive the time between when I opened the door to when the doctor confirmed her death. Most of the evening is fuzzy, but I remember one moment very clearly. Before the ambulance arrived, while no one was looking, I took a picture. I'm not sure what part of seeing my twin holding a gun to her head made me want to save the moment, but I did. Now the picture sits on my phone waiting to be discovered.

Another reoccurring question banging behind my forehead is why she did it. She was never suicidal.

She was happy.

We both were.

Now neither of us are.