Pure
Poison
My earliest memories were of us, together. We were so close when I was first born, even if we were six years apart, but aren’t most siblings anyway? Age never kept us apart. I remember you, pushing me in the stroller through Disney. I remember you, getting me into good music at such a young age. I remember us, being closer with every day, along with Cameron, who seemed so grown up to me. We bonded closely for years. It was only until you were a teen you began to change.
Maybe it was Cameron. He was so much older than you, and because of that, you began to fight more. I remembered being little, and you calling him bad names that got him angry enough to chase you down the hallway. Not the playful kinds of chases we had in the backyard as kids, but the scary ones. ones with yelling, pushing, and violence. I would have confronted him, but being so young, I was too naive. I just ran for my bedroom door to lock it behind me, not daring to even look to see if you were okay.
Turn around there's those eyes again.
Turn around fake indifference and I.
Watch their cold, dark silhouettes disappear.
Maybe it was the band. You joined as the bass player in the early years of Teendom. It all just seemed like a fun thing you did in your spare time, and a time to share the talent you hid most of the time.
But as you and Cameron fought more, you began to be home less and less. You would be out for hours, or even days at a time, with your band mates. The few times you did come home, all you did was fight with Mom in the kitchen and have a go at Cameron. Once he left for college, you and Mom argued more. It was like a Civil War, and I had to make the decision on which border I’d cross.
Once, Mom trusted you home alone with me. Being that you weren’t allowed to leave the house, you asked a few of your “friends” over. Friends, meaning fans and people I never even heard you talk about in the hour or two you stayed at home.
Only a few minutes into the party, a large barrel appeared. Being a child of only six or seven, I had no idea what this way. But soon enough, with the way everyone acted around it and reacted to the chemical inside, I caught on. I only went to confront you when something else arrived: a man, in a dark coat, handing out packets of white powder to kids, in exchange for money. You were one of the kids.
You caught sight of me as you stuffed the bag in your pocket. I ran up to you in a flash. “Cass,” I started. You looked down at me, cigarette, unlit, in hand. “What’s going on? Why is there alcohol here? Mom says we can’t have that until we’re of age.”
“Whatever.” you replied. You lit the cigarette and inhaled.
“Cass,” I cooed, “Why are you doing bad stuff l-like drinking, a-and smoking?!”
“Listen,” she told, crouching down to my level, “I’m okay. It’s no big deal. Only a few drinks? So what? Everyone experiments at my age. Hell, you will too.” She took another drag. “Just don’t tell Mom okay? She’ll probably kick me out. it’s our secret, okay?”
I nodded.
And with that, she walked over to her band mates and disappeared in the crowds. I looked around for a bit at the make up smeared faces roaring with laughter. I sighed, and went back inside.
A hundred bodies fill this room.
And all their faces overdone.
At the end of the long night, there was garbage everywhere. You and I had to hurry to clean, because Mom would be home any minute. There were several bags left on the ground when we had gotten rid of everything else.
“Cassie,” I yelled. She peeked over the table, which she was moving back to its original spot. I held up the bags. “I found these. What do I do with them?” Her eyes brightened, but then sunk. She turned to her bedroom quietly and shouted:
“Bury them. Deep.” And off she went to bed. For a second, I looked at the bags. Knowing what was in them now, I probably should have given them to Mom. But being the naive little girl I was, I did what Big Sister told me to do, and buried the drugs behind an overgrown bush in our backyard.
Pain is foreign, foreign to us.
Mom caught you after she got home, noticing the table was still in a different spot. She and you fought for hours. In the end, I remembered hearing her smack you, hard, across the face. Obviously, she found out our secret early. Well, one of them anyway.
For the next few years, with the band, you would come home wasted from alcohol and other poisons. I did research on drugs, to find out what you were taking, and try to understand you better. It didn’t work too well, but talking to you when you eventually sobered up did.
I don't even know you.
You won't even know I'm gone.
Was it something I did wrong?
One night though, I remembered sitting in bed at age eight, not being able to fall asleep. Suddenly, at about one in the morning, I heard banging on the doors. It sounded like someone was trying to kick it down. Only after a minute of hearing yelling did i realize who it was.
“Open the fucking door!” you screamed. “I’m Sorry!” Boom! “Come on Mom, open the mother fucking door, please!” Crash! “I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Bam! “Let me in! Let me in!”
I curled up under my blanket and cried. Unable to sleep for the rest of the night, I lay under my sheets, shivering, trying my hardest to shut out your pleas.
Roses, roses cold.
Roses, roses sold out.
Years went by, and you got progressively worse and worse. it got to the point where your band mates weren’t the only people you were using with. You started to use at home too. That made Mom more angry, and the Civil War got worse.
I would have sold my soul as a kid to get you to stop. I only realized how bad your problem really was after I took a drug course in fifth grade, required for graduation. We learned about different drugs and their effects there, and when they mentioned white powder in a bag, I stopped. I realized what you were using: heroin.
And, with my luck, it turned out to be one of the hardest drugs to quit.
But I kept asking myself: Why did you do it?
Turn around reds and whites again.
I'd sell my kicks for one more low tar.
Fevers hand in hand with shoelace bracelets.
Why are some girls so naive?
Drugs weren’t the only problem after another while. There was a new poison: Lust. You began to date more, and in the few hours you actually stayed home, you brought boys with you to be locked away with in your room.
I grew used to it after a while. It seemed like the only normal thing in our life now. I would open your door to borrow something or return something, and you’d be lip locked with a boy. I didn’t really notice after it became the norm. I just went in, get out put back what I needed, and leave. You didn’t even notice.
But one day, probably around sixth grade, I walked in to borrow a CD to put into my iTunes. I opened the door softly, careful not to disturb you. If the CD had been on the desk, I wouldn’t have noticed. But when I went to pick up the disk from the chair cushion, I had to restrain a gasp. You were indeed kissing someone, but from what I could tell, it was one hundred percent not a guy.
In shock, I left the room quickly, not wanting you to be mad or get upset at the fact I found yet another secret of yours.
He didn't unbutton your blouse to see.
A better view of your heart.
Oh yeah, can't blame you for trying.
You and Mom kept fighting over the years. Every night, all I fell asleep to was screaming. You fought about not only your addiction, but your sexuality as well. She seemed mad at first, but grew used to it over time.
You seemed so different to me at that point. You had piercings now. Your hair was different. You had tattoos. You weren’t in the band anymore. You had scars that showed every time you wore short sleeves.
But somehow, your sweet personality stayed. It didn’t show much when you were high, but it did show eventually. I remember sitting with you in the broken passenger seat of your car, and avoiding looking at your scars. But when I did eventually take a peek, I saw past them. A little while down on your arm was a tattoo which read one word: Hope.
Why my name, of all things?
I don't even know you.
You won't even know I'm gone.
Was it something I did wrong?
We got really close after I saw the tattoo. You took me to concerts of our favorite bands and got me to meet them. And even though I knew you were still using, it didn’t bother me. You never used in front of me. Only in the privacy of your own room.
Roses, roses cold.
Roses, roses sold out.
You quit the band after a long time too. You didn’t stop playing your bass though. You practiced, and got better and better. Hell, you even taught me. It was great, being close again. I just wish the time could have lasted longer.
I made more friends at school, and one of them, a girl named Maura, got me into singing and theater. You and I began to discuss the idea of having our own band. We knew it probably wouldn’t happen, between your job at the video store and my schooling, but the idea made us closer.
Why, of why, could these times not have lasted forever.
Sing it soft.
Make it slow.
Apples parachute
the boys back down.
One day, I came home from another boring day at school, and Mom was standing in the kitchen, coffee and cigarette in hand, waiting for me. I walked up to her and asked what was going on.
“Cass isn’t doing too good,” she told me. I thought back to a time when you told me you were trying to stop. What happened to that promise? “She’s gonna be in the hospital for a while. Jack and I took her today while you were at school.” My heart sank. I didn’t get to say goodbye? “I’m sorry Hope. It had to be done.”
I nodded and silently and walked off to my room. I locked the door behind me and sat on my bed, in utter awe, for hours. I tried to hold back the overwhelming amount of emotion boiling inside of my heart. I couldn’t cry. Not now. Another time, another place.
Never in my life, after all you and I had to go through, had I ever felt that much pain.
Fill it up.
Overflow.
A new, improved modern way to feel.
I stayed bottled up for a long time. Not like anyone cared. Maura tried to help me through it, but nothing worked. She only made me sadder. But strangely enough, she gave me enough courage and hope to go see you in the hospital.
I went in the middle of January. It was the first I’d seen you since Christmas, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. You were sitting in the bed, looking at me with empty eyes, with an IV in your arm.
“It’s meds for me,” you told me, “Don’t freak out. It’ll be out in two minutes.”
After a minute of sitting with you in silence, a nurse came and took the IV out, wheeling it out of the room. You turned to me after the door shut and gave ,e a hollow gaze and a weak smile. You looked different. Your piercings were out. Your hair was greasy, and you looked tired. Really tired.
I don't even know you.
You won't even know I'm gone.
We sat, not talking, for about twenty minutes. A question was eating at me like the emotion about to spill over. I looked up at you, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out my question:
“Was it something I did wrong?”
You sighed and pulled me into a hug. For about ten minutes, you sat there, as I pounded you with questions. “Was it my fault you did this? Should I have stopped you at that party six years ago?”
You pulled away and looked at me gently. At that moment, you sort of looked like the old Cass I knew and loved.
“It’s not your fault. It’ll never be your fault. It was my bad.” you told me. You leaned over the edge of the bed and handed me a folded up letter. “Open this when you get home. Keep it. And when you need a reminder that it’s not your fault or that I’ll be okay, look at it.”
I nodded, and stuffed the letter in my pocket. The nurse came then, and told me that Jack was here to pick me up. I began to walk out when you called me back. “Hope?”
“Yeah?” I asked, “What is it?”
“I’ll get better soon.” you said. “I promise.”
I nodded, and as I left, I looked back to all of the bad times. You, yelling at Mom at the top of your lungs. You, keeping us all up at night. You, taking everything out on the family. Sure, I loved you. I had to. You were my sister after all. But as Jack and I drove back to the house, I couldn’t help but wonder:
Had you been the bad guy this whole time?
Maybe it was Cameron. He was so much older than you, and because of that, you began to fight more. I remembered being little, and you calling him bad names that got him angry enough to chase you down the hallway. Not the playful kinds of chases we had in the backyard as kids, but the scary ones. ones with yelling, pushing, and violence. I would have confronted him, but being so young, I was too naive. I just ran for my bedroom door to lock it behind me, not daring to even look to see if you were okay.
Turn around there's those eyes again.
Turn around fake indifference and I.
Watch their cold, dark silhouettes disappear.
Maybe it was the band. You joined as the bass player in the early years of Teendom. It all just seemed like a fun thing you did in your spare time, and a time to share the talent you hid most of the time.
But as you and Cameron fought more, you began to be home less and less. You would be out for hours, or even days at a time, with your band mates. The few times you did come home, all you did was fight with Mom in the kitchen and have a go at Cameron. Once he left for college, you and Mom argued more. It was like a Civil War, and I had to make the decision on which border I’d cross.
Once, Mom trusted you home alone with me. Being that you weren’t allowed to leave the house, you asked a few of your “friends” over. Friends, meaning fans and people I never even heard you talk about in the hour or two you stayed at home.
Only a few minutes into the party, a large barrel appeared. Being a child of only six or seven, I had no idea what this way. But soon enough, with the way everyone acted around it and reacted to the chemical inside, I caught on. I only went to confront you when something else arrived: a man, in a dark coat, handing out packets of white powder to kids, in exchange for money. You were one of the kids.
You caught sight of me as you stuffed the bag in your pocket. I ran up to you in a flash. “Cass,” I started. You looked down at me, cigarette, unlit, in hand. “What’s going on? Why is there alcohol here? Mom says we can’t have that until we’re of age.”
“Whatever.” you replied. You lit the cigarette and inhaled.
“Cass,” I cooed, “Why are you doing bad stuff l-like drinking, a-and smoking?!”
“Listen,” she told, crouching down to my level, “I’m okay. It’s no big deal. Only a few drinks? So what? Everyone experiments at my age. Hell, you will too.” She took another drag. “Just don’t tell Mom okay? She’ll probably kick me out. it’s our secret, okay?”
I nodded.
And with that, she walked over to her band mates and disappeared in the crowds. I looked around for a bit at the make up smeared faces roaring with laughter. I sighed, and went back inside.
A hundred bodies fill this room.
And all their faces overdone.
At the end of the long night, there was garbage everywhere. You and I had to hurry to clean, because Mom would be home any minute. There were several bags left on the ground when we had gotten rid of everything else.
“Cassie,” I yelled. She peeked over the table, which she was moving back to its original spot. I held up the bags. “I found these. What do I do with them?” Her eyes brightened, but then sunk. She turned to her bedroom quietly and shouted:
“Bury them. Deep.” And off she went to bed. For a second, I looked at the bags. Knowing what was in them now, I probably should have given them to Mom. But being the naive little girl I was, I did what Big Sister told me to do, and buried the drugs behind an overgrown bush in our backyard.
Pain is foreign, foreign to us.
Mom caught you after she got home, noticing the table was still in a different spot. She and you fought for hours. In the end, I remembered hearing her smack you, hard, across the face. Obviously, she found out our secret early. Well, one of them anyway.
For the next few years, with the band, you would come home wasted from alcohol and other poisons. I did research on drugs, to find out what you were taking, and try to understand you better. It didn’t work too well, but talking to you when you eventually sobered up did.
I don't even know you.
You won't even know I'm gone.
Was it something I did wrong?
One night though, I remembered sitting in bed at age eight, not being able to fall asleep. Suddenly, at about one in the morning, I heard banging on the doors. It sounded like someone was trying to kick it down. Only after a minute of hearing yelling did i realize who it was.
“Open the fucking door!” you screamed. “I’m Sorry!” Boom! “Come on Mom, open the mother fucking door, please!” Crash! “I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Bam! “Let me in! Let me in!”
I curled up under my blanket and cried. Unable to sleep for the rest of the night, I lay under my sheets, shivering, trying my hardest to shut out your pleas.
Roses, roses cold.
Roses, roses sold out.
Years went by, and you got progressively worse and worse. it got to the point where your band mates weren’t the only people you were using with. You started to use at home too. That made Mom more angry, and the Civil War got worse.
I would have sold my soul as a kid to get you to stop. I only realized how bad your problem really was after I took a drug course in fifth grade, required for graduation. We learned about different drugs and their effects there, and when they mentioned white powder in a bag, I stopped. I realized what you were using: heroin.
And, with my luck, it turned out to be one of the hardest drugs to quit.
But I kept asking myself: Why did you do it?
Turn around reds and whites again.
I'd sell my kicks for one more low tar.
Fevers hand in hand with shoelace bracelets.
Why are some girls so naive?
Drugs weren’t the only problem after another while. There was a new poison: Lust. You began to date more, and in the few hours you actually stayed home, you brought boys with you to be locked away with in your room.
I grew used to it after a while. It seemed like the only normal thing in our life now. I would open your door to borrow something or return something, and you’d be lip locked with a boy. I didn’t really notice after it became the norm. I just went in, get out put back what I needed, and leave. You didn’t even notice.
But one day, probably around sixth grade, I walked in to borrow a CD to put into my iTunes. I opened the door softly, careful not to disturb you. If the CD had been on the desk, I wouldn’t have noticed. But when I went to pick up the disk from the chair cushion, I had to restrain a gasp. You were indeed kissing someone, but from what I could tell, it was one hundred percent not a guy.
In shock, I left the room quickly, not wanting you to be mad or get upset at the fact I found yet another secret of yours.
He didn't unbutton your blouse to see.
A better view of your heart.
Oh yeah, can't blame you for trying.
You and Mom kept fighting over the years. Every night, all I fell asleep to was screaming. You fought about not only your addiction, but your sexuality as well. She seemed mad at first, but grew used to it over time.
You seemed so different to me at that point. You had piercings now. Your hair was different. You had tattoos. You weren’t in the band anymore. You had scars that showed every time you wore short sleeves.
But somehow, your sweet personality stayed. It didn’t show much when you were high, but it did show eventually. I remember sitting with you in the broken passenger seat of your car, and avoiding looking at your scars. But when I did eventually take a peek, I saw past them. A little while down on your arm was a tattoo which read one word: Hope.
Why my name, of all things?
I don't even know you.
You won't even know I'm gone.
Was it something I did wrong?
We got really close after I saw the tattoo. You took me to concerts of our favorite bands and got me to meet them. And even though I knew you were still using, it didn’t bother me. You never used in front of me. Only in the privacy of your own room.
Roses, roses cold.
Roses, roses sold out.
You quit the band after a long time too. You didn’t stop playing your bass though. You practiced, and got better and better. Hell, you even taught me. It was great, being close again. I just wish the time could have lasted longer.
I made more friends at school, and one of them, a girl named Maura, got me into singing and theater. You and I began to discuss the idea of having our own band. We knew it probably wouldn’t happen, between your job at the video store and my schooling, but the idea made us closer.
Why, of why, could these times not have lasted forever.
Sing it soft.
Make it slow.
Apples parachute
the boys back down.
One day, I came home from another boring day at school, and Mom was standing in the kitchen, coffee and cigarette in hand, waiting for me. I walked up to her and asked what was going on.
“Cass isn’t doing too good,” she told me. I thought back to a time when you told me you were trying to stop. What happened to that promise? “She’s gonna be in the hospital for a while. Jack and I took her today while you were at school.” My heart sank. I didn’t get to say goodbye? “I’m sorry Hope. It had to be done.”
I nodded and silently and walked off to my room. I locked the door behind me and sat on my bed, in utter awe, for hours. I tried to hold back the overwhelming amount of emotion boiling inside of my heart. I couldn’t cry. Not now. Another time, another place.
Never in my life, after all you and I had to go through, had I ever felt that much pain.
Fill it up.
Overflow.
A new, improved modern way to feel.
I stayed bottled up for a long time. Not like anyone cared. Maura tried to help me through it, but nothing worked. She only made me sadder. But strangely enough, she gave me enough courage and hope to go see you in the hospital.
I went in the middle of January. It was the first I’d seen you since Christmas, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. You were sitting in the bed, looking at me with empty eyes, with an IV in your arm.
“It’s meds for me,” you told me, “Don’t freak out. It’ll be out in two minutes.”
After a minute of sitting with you in silence, a nurse came and took the IV out, wheeling it out of the room. You turned to me after the door shut and gave ,e a hollow gaze and a weak smile. You looked different. Your piercings were out. Your hair was greasy, and you looked tired. Really tired.
I don't even know you.
You won't even know I'm gone.
We sat, not talking, for about twenty minutes. A question was eating at me like the emotion about to spill over. I looked up at you, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out my question:
“Was it something I did wrong?”
You sighed and pulled me into a hug. For about ten minutes, you sat there, as I pounded you with questions. “Was it my fault you did this? Should I have stopped you at that party six years ago?”
You pulled away and looked at me gently. At that moment, you sort of looked like the old Cass I knew and loved.
“It’s not your fault. It’ll never be your fault. It was my bad.” you told me. You leaned over the edge of the bed and handed me a folded up letter. “Open this when you get home. Keep it. And when you need a reminder that it’s not your fault or that I’ll be okay, look at it.”
I nodded, and stuffed the letter in my pocket. The nurse came then, and told me that Jack was here to pick me up. I began to walk out when you called me back. “Hope?”
“Yeah?” I asked, “What is it?”
“I’ll get better soon.” you said. “I promise.”
I nodded, and as I left, I looked back to all of the bad times. You, yelling at Mom at the top of your lungs. You, keeping us all up at night. You, taking everything out on the family. Sure, I loved you. I had to. You were my sister after all. But as Jack and I drove back to the house, I couldn’t help but wonder:
Had you been the bad guy this whole time?