My sister, Hannah, bought a bottle of vodka from some guy she met outside the liquor store. I doubt Hannah knew his name. She probably didn’t care. Hannah, by that point, didn’t care about much.
She was fifteen, which is why she needed this guy to buy the booze. Maybe he felt sorry for the girl with the crutches. Maybe he thought a drink would make her feel better. Maybe she paid him.
The police found the bottle. It was half empty and still inside a brown paper bag. What’s amazing is the bottle wasn’t broken. Not like Hannah. A kid with crutches is no match for the front end of a bus.
What was she thinking before she took that last step? Did she think about me? Mom and Dad? Did she wonder if it would hurt? Did she think about the mess she would leave behind? Or did she just take a deep breath and step out into traffic?
My sister took a lot of secrets to her grave.
I wasn’t there when Hannah stepped in front of the bus. In my nightmares, though, I stand behind her on the curb. Then, I push her.
The bus brakes squeal. I scream, “Stop!”
Every dream ends with me on a stage. I am naked. All I have to protect me is my poetry. I yell poem after poem at the audience, trying to make them understand.
I killed my sister.
She won’t let me forget.