My Other Half - Grief over death of twin sister.

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Fiction

My Other Half

     Fiction by Victoria Rowan
Some times it's amazing how the mind works. After Jessie's death I felt nothing for weeks-no remorse, no sorrow. I didn't cry a single tear until that night. Exactly two months, one week, and four days after that fateful night my sister's death hit me like a ton of bricks.
Jessie and me were more than sisters. We were fraternal twins. Born and raised in an old fashioned town - Heatherville, Utah. Nowhere, USA. In school we were inseparable, wore matching clothes up until eighth grade, took the same courses in high school, went on to college together.
But then the togetherness fell apart and I dropped out of school and moved back home. She finished college, dreaming of being wildly successful and marrying her high school sweet heart. They'd buy that fixer-upper on West Jefferson, have three kids, and take over the local general store when Mr. Right's parents passed. As for me- I didn't know where I'd be a week from Tuesday.
   Then came the accident. It was a snowy day, and driving was suicide. I was in bed with the flu, and it was terrible. Jessie called from her apartment and told me she'd be right over. We argued, just because I was home alone didn't mean she had to come rushing over to put on a pot of chicken soup. Mama and Dad were on a trip to the Caribbean at the time. Half and hour later she calls again. I was so relieved to hear her voice. She was home safe and warm, not coming to care for me. But Peter, her Mr. Right, was on his way over she said. To bring me there, so I wouldn't be all alone and sick.
Peter never made it to the house. He didn't make it past Main St., where they found his car a crumpled mess and his condition even worse. He died three hours later, from blood loss and exposure to the cold.
Jessie blamed herself, of course. I blamed myself for getting the flu in the first place, and not going to tropical paradise with my parents in the first place. Jessie told me much later on that she shamed Pete into coming to pick me up. So she said she could never forgive herself.
Jessie moved back into the house. For a while things were pretty good. Whenever Pete was off Jessie mind, she could be a lot of fun. Then, two years later, in the end months of summer, Jessie went for a speed boat ride with her new "good friend" Mike. Herman Lake was just minutes away, and Jessie and me grew up on the beautiful waters. I hate to think about what a horrible end my dear sister came to. It turns out her good friend Mike wasn't such a good friend. Jessie's body wasn't found for days. It washed up on the North shore of the lake, and two days later Mike was in jail. Two months later he was convicted to life behind bars, no chance of parole. Ever.
But I didn't cry. Didn't- couldn't- except the idea. My sister had to be alive. And two months, one week and four days later I was walking to the bathroom and stopped to peek in her room. There was her shoes, tossed on the floor. And her books, where she put them the last time she read them. Even her p.j's still lay on the floor where she'd taken them off that morning.
Then the tears came. An unstoppable flood of grief that kept coming. A wall of tears that would not stop falling. I must have sat there on that floor for hours crying, until my shirt, hair and face were soaked with my salty tears. I cried until I was exhausted, cried until I had no more tears to cry. And when I stood up that night, hours after I sat down, I felt a hundred pounds lighter. The sorrow had weighed me down for so long that I was used to the anguish. The ache in my heart, the emptiness in my soul. But now the ache wasn't so tormenting, the emptiness wasn't so hollow. I let my pain out, and let memories of the good times in. For the first time since my sister's death, I felt alive. I felt whole.

--Victoria Rowan, age 13 contact: Tlowe99@aol.com
Copyright 2003 Victoria Rowan
Reviews and comments requested
Posted 08/08/2003