My sister was hit by a bus
As many of the readers may notice, Elsa has already graduated and is at college already. However, Elsa’s passion for writing is something that will last a lifetime. The three featured stories Brown Eyes, Green Eyes, Mandy, and My sister was hit by a bus today are masterpieces. Elsa is such a prolific writer that I think everyone will enjoy at least one of these three short stories. Happy Reading!
My sister was hit by a bus today.
My mother isn’t the one to tell me.
My father tells me in a voice that does not break, and I wish she had.
(his eyes are dead, a pale grey that reflects nothing but muted pain.)
“She was dead when they picked her up.”
My world fades
what
“We don’t know exactly what happened—”
No this can’t be happening—
I wish I had screamed then.
Now that scream is trapped. I can hear it ricocheting off of myself, unable to escape.
Why us?
***
The media blows up.
I don’t see it on TV, because we don’t watch TV—
But my Chinese grandmother calls, and I know.
My mother watches the phone ring.
I sit on the couch, imagining the headlines.
“Mixed blood child killed by bus driver”
I imagine the Chinese mothers shaking their heads, saying things like “so young” and “too pretty to die”.
In my mind, they hold their children closer when they say goodnight.
—
My mother walks away, and the phone keeps ringing.
(sometimes, pain is only made worse by those who caused you pain before.)
***
I remember riding my scooter to school last year and counting how many near-death experiences I had every-day.
I want to slap who I was, because I laughed when I said, “A car just missed me today.”
China is safe, but we will jaywalk and scooter through red lights and cars scream by on the yellow—
Yet even when I tripped, and a car drove millimeters away from my leg, when I swerved out of the way of a bus behind me that did not stop—
Death never felt real.
How could we die, when we were so alive?
***
I walk around this house and all I see is memories of you.
Dad said that I should go to school soon, and not let life flow past me.
(If grief is a wave I would rather it swept me away than try to ‘go back’)
***
You took Mom with you when you left. You left an empty shell of a mother, and I don’t know whether to cry or disappear too.
You always said I was so strong.
(I am not strong without Mom; I am not strong without you)
***
Today I looked up at the sky and screamed.
“Why her?” I scream. “Why not me?”
“Why did you take her?” My voice breaks, but I still hear the scream echo back and forth between the high rise apartment buildings.
My heart beats too fast in my chest, and I want to kill the man who took you.
***
I walk around the yard, weaving my way through the buildings.
I miss you more than anyone has missed anything.
Nothing can make me smile anymore, all the things I wasted my time with you on—
(a movie voice plays in my head: go away, Anna)
(I’m on my computer, always saying no, no)
—those things are so damn meaningless to me now, and I cannot go back.
I walk through this yard, trying to outrun pain.
***
I stare at myself in the fogged-up mirror, and I realize—
You’re not coming back.
When I wipe away the fog, I can count each and every one of my ribs.
You’re really not coming back.
***
I start eating again.
I wake up early, a month after you are gone, and make pancakes.
When I bring the plate back, Mom is sitting at the table, eyes blank and glassy.
She does not see me when I set the plate down in front of her.
I turn to go make more.
***
The fruit lady at the store hands me a bag of grapes.
“They are going bad, just take them.” She says. “How is your mother?”
I know she is lying, but I take them anyway.
“Thank you,” I say. “She is doing better.”
Sometimes, the lies we speak are to heal.
***
I walk into the house and breathe in the stale air.
I am sick of being boxed in.
My mother is in her room, so she is not chilled when I open all of the windows and breathe.
(I miss you)
***
I walk slowly now.
I watch people, and I see who I was—
(always moving, one step in front of another so fast we trip on our own feet)
What were we walking towards so desperately?
(we were the ones who took you, with our desperate race to move through life.)
I walk slowly now, and I cry for you.
***
My father is getting ready for work, and he looks at me.
“You could go to school,” he says.
(all I can see is her backpack, they gave it back perfectly undamaged, thrown aside when—)
My eyes are rimmed red, but when I look up his are too.
I hug him, and hide my face in his chest, and say nothing.
(I don’t know when my answer will be yes.)
***
I never knew how beautiful mornings were. Before.
(Why does it hurt to be happy?)
I stop sleeping at 2 AM, because in the silence sometimes I hear cars, driving through the yard and—
(don’t think about it)
—and all I can think of is a crunch and her face and—
And here I am.
There is sunlight streaming through the window.
(The quiet is alive in the mornings, and it feels like the world is singing for me.)
***
The rain falls in waves outside.
(I remember—
“There’s a storm outside — do you want to go dance?”)
I take her hand, and it feels like letting go.
(I will not come back, but what we have is still alive)
I stand in the rain, and let it wash over me.
When I open my eyes, I can almost see my wet eyelashes in the rain’s reflection of myself.