If I stay

Three days ago, I was at home. Three days ago, I had parents. Three days ago, my sister had had full use of her legs. Three days ago, I had been happy.
In life, no one ever really asks you if you’re happy. They simply assume one thing or another but never come to you for confirmation. I had parents, two little sisters, and went to a private school. Therefore, I was happy. I had friends and got good grades. I played volleyball and danced. Therefore, I was happy. My sisters and parents loved me. My coach and instructor called me a star pupil. My teachers were proud of the hardworking girl I had become. Therefore, I was happy. But things are never really as you assume.
When they had died, my parents had been on the verge of divorce. God, that sounds weird. When they had died. Already it seems as if it was so long ago but in reality, it was only three days. Already the grief has turned into a numbing pain that I have no choice but to succumb to. Already my mind has run through tons of millions of ‘What if’s’. And already, I’m starting to get used to the fact that I don’t have a home. That I don’t have anyone but the small child currently asleep in my arms and the red headed believer lying on the scratchy hospital bed. I’m already used to the fact that I have to be strong for my sisters, that I can’t break down because if I do, then they will have no chance of hope or staying strong or even believing that we will come out on the other side of this long-winded disaster.
Three days ago, I had come home from a dance recital, which my parents had skipped. Three days ago, I gave them a dirty look and crooked hug as they rushed out the door to support Khrysty. Three days ago, I had thought that they didn’t love me as much as they always said. But that was three days ago and I’m much smarter than I was back then.
“God. Your life must be perfect, Adds.” That’s what my friends always said, what they always told me and tried to force me to believe. But they didn’t know anything and what they didn’t know was exactly what disproved their far-fetched theory.
Parents? Yeah. I had them. But they were always fighting, always leaving, always off somewhere so that they could find solace away from my sisters and I and their spouse. For my mother, it was the gym. The loud music and sweaty bodies reminded her of her past. That’s what she always said, the excuse that she always gave for never being home. The gym was where my mother cheated on my father with a black haired, tattooed man who also reminded her of her past. My mother lived for her past, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that she didn’t live for us.
For my father, it was his car dealership. The car dealership that held shiny new keys and shiny new cars. The car dealership that also held shiny new secretaries with bottle blonde hair and silicone boobs. It also held his office where I often went after school when I was little. It held the couch that I slept on after particularly hard days. It held the couch that I caught him on with one of his new ‘workers’. Only, at that time, I hadn’t known exactly what kind of worker my father had meant.
Friends? Yeah. I had those too. The thing was, those friends had never liked me. They liked my parents’ money. They liked my house. They liked the fact that I was athletic and they liked that athletic girls attracted athletic boys and that said athletic girl could only choose one boy. So yes, I had friends. But not the type of friends that I ever really cared about or the type that ever really cared about me.
Good grades? I had those too. But I only had those because being locked up in my room with textbooks and spirals was so much better then the reality I would have to face if I ventured downstairs. Memorizing and taking notes was easier to handle then listening to my parents constant fights. Reading word after word of small, printed text was easier and far preferable to sitting in the silent dining room while everyone ate, consumed in their own world and expecting you to be consumed in yours. So sure, I had good grades. But only because studying was better then the alternative of facing my reality.
Athleticism? Yep. That was a one word description for what consumed all the waking moments that weren’t spent buried in text books or keeping track of my sisters while my parents were off in their own worlds, ones where they didn’t have children to take care of. During volleyball season, I was either at school or at the local gymnastics center. I worked out with my personal trainer for two hours every day after school to become the best at what I did. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I was the best, my parents would notice me. Maybe they would acknowledge me. Maybe they would be proud of me. So I worked my rock hard butt off to become the best. A day did not go by when I did not do four hundred wall sets and two hundred plie combinations. A day did not go by when I did not focus on my dancing and volleyball. But it was all for them and in the end, none of it ever mattered.
So when people would come up to me and simply assume that I had the perfect life, I wanted nothing more then to slap them across the face and tell them that they knew nothing. When they would hug me and smile, telling me how jealous they were of me, I wanted to splash them with a cold bucket of reality. When they told me how happy I looked, I wanted to tell them that it was simply that, a look. A look I had practiced over and over so that I could be perceived in the best way possible. A look I had perfected so that no one would even think to guess about all the bottled up emotions that I held tight behind my carefully built façade. So back when people would come up to me and tell me how lucky I was, how great my life was, I wanted nothing more then to smack them with the truth. But now, I would give anything for them to have been right.
“Addisyn? Addisyn, honey, your sister is awake.” I slowly blinked a couple times, coming out of my daze and looking around. Ashlynn was asleep in my arms and Khrysty was now sitting up in her railed hospital bed.
“Adds? Addie, what happened? Why am I here? Where are mom and dad? I can’t remember anything!” My fire headed sister looked at me in confusion as I simply stared at her.
My sister was awake. She was talking. She was alive. And she was looking at me with an expression of utter pain, as if somehow she already knew what had happened but needed to hear it confirmed.
“Syn? Addisyn! God, you’re so slow. Just tell me why I’m here, okay?” It was as if her words were a trigger, sending me into action like a bullet pushed from its barrel. I was up as quickly as possible, taking care not to wake the sleeping child in my arms, and launched myself at my sister, crying harder in happiness then I had in grief.
Khrysty held me as I cried, quietly shushing me and rubbing my back. “Lilah. Lilah, you have to tell me what happened. You have to explain it to me. If you don’t do that, I can’t make it better.” This statement only made me cry harder. It was so like my sister to want to fix a problem she didn’t even know about yet and, if it had been any other situation, I would have let her try, but this was something that nobody could fix.
“Baby, mom and dad are dead. They died. You guys were on your way home from your soccer game. A drunk driver hit you. They’re dead, Livies. They’re dead.” My tears had slowed to a crawl as I relayed the information that I had already partly accepted. Slowly, my sister turned her head to look at me, a perplexed expression on her small, freckled face.
“Adds? Why was someone drunk at three in the afternoon?” It was then that I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it as loud snorts of uncultivated laughter shot from my open mouth. As I calmed down, however, I saw the look of pain on my sister’s face. Tears coursed down her dry cheeks, leaving trails of pain and regret.
“It’s my fault.” She told me. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t had a soccer game, mom and dad would still be here. If I had skipped, like they wanted me to, they wouldn’t be dead. I killed my parents. I killed my parents! Mommy and daddy are gone because of me! Oh my god. Oh my god! I killed them!” Khrysty’s cries punctuated the quiet room as I took her into my arms, doing anything to reassure her that it was in no way her fault. It was no one’s fault.
As I cried along with my sister, I noticed movement from Ashlynn. As I lifted the small child into my arms, she opened her eyes and gazed up at my identical, tear filled ones.
“Why sad? Why cwy, Lilah? Why cwy, Kissy?” Knowing I had no choice, I finally told my little sister what I had tried to keep from her.
“Because Mommy and Daddy are gone, baby. They went bye bye.” I told her, lowering my head so that I could look into her eyes.
“Dey comin’ back?” She wondered, gazing up at me with admiration. I fought to keep my cool, not wanting to alarm her.
“No, baby. They’re not coming back.” Tears welled in her small blue eyes as I pulled her farther into my arms and rocked her back and forth, keeping one arm around Khrysty as we all cried together.