Learning to Live
A Scar and A Note
"Hey, Rach, it's Kyla. Uh.. I just wanted to let you know Shannon's having her summer barbeque on the 4th like she does every year.. You're invited, of course. I, uh, yeah I guess that's all. Call me back if you want to come."
I listened to the voicemail my best friend had left me for the 5th time. She was so unsure of what she was saying - like one slip up would cause me even more pain than I had been forced to endure. The truth was I had somehow forced it to the back of my mind - a tingling, numbing sensation would fill my body any time I stumbled upon thoughts of Ben.
The week after the shooting my parents had pulled themselves together as much as they could and had worked out a deal with the school so that I could finish up my studies for the rest of the year at home. If anything it was just harder for them to see the only child they had left sitting in her room and not leaving the house at all for weeks on end.
I started to get pale and I stopped eating. It wasn't a conscious decision so much as I purely forgot. I would sleep for hours and wake up to quickly rush through Geometry or English before drifting back into the darkness that somehow comforted me. I was on pills so I wouldn't dream because I had begun getting terrifying nightmares that wouldn't allow me any sleep at all. In those first few weeks, all I thought about was Ben and how he could have done such a thing. It wasn't until the month anniversary that I started understanding why my brother had done what he did.
I'm not sure if he intended on me taking so long to find it. Maybe he knew I wouldn't look in that album until I was completely ready. Maybe he thought I would go for it as soon as I found out. Whatever his intentions were, I eventually found the notes he had left for me.
On my 15th birthday Ben made me a photo album from pictures of us growing up together. Each section was a year in my life, and each one was filled with photographs filled with memories that now haunted me. From the picture of us sitting in the pool, me in my Winnie the Pooh checkered swimsuit and him in his Power Rangers swim trunks, to the camp outs we had in the front yard. Each moment frozen in time was a moment Ben would never be able to think about again.
But within this album, Ben had slipped notes into each section. I cried the first time I opened it and saw his cramped, fast writing on the lined paper. It was like he had left a piece of himself behind for me to find. I never told my parents, because I felt like it was mine and Ben's secret. Something he had done for me and only me.
It was the letter he had left in the "5 years old" section that was my favorite. When I was 5, Ben was 7. I think this was the age that we grew closest. I vividly remember learning to ride my bike, and it was the first time I had fallen off. I cut my knee open and needed stitches. Ben was the one who picked me up and carried me inside to my mother who had been calmly reading a book when she was interrupted by the screaming and crying of her youngest child.
Ben told her I needed to be taken to the hospital, which wasn't news to her since she was a pediatrician. He held my hand all the way to the hospital and made sure the towel was held tightly on the throbbing cut. Once inside the ER, he continued to hold my hand through the numbing of my knee and the stitching that followed.
It was Ben who encouraged me to get back on the bike a week after the stitches were finally removed, and it was him who held onto the seat and ran alongside me as I pushed off the curb and started peddling through our neighborhood.
The note he left in that section that marked a year in my life was one that would remain with me where ever I went. Even if I was walking our family dog I made sure the now folded piece of paper was securely in the right front pocket of my jeans. That way, I felt like I carried a piece of Ben with me everywhere I went. In the back of my mind I knew that I would eventually out grow the ritual, but I pushed it to the back of my head along with the pain that accompanied Ben's final decisions.
I listened to the voicemail my best friend had left me for the 5th time. She was so unsure of what she was saying - like one slip up would cause me even more pain than I had been forced to endure. The truth was I had somehow forced it to the back of my mind - a tingling, numbing sensation would fill my body any time I stumbled upon thoughts of Ben.
The week after the shooting my parents had pulled themselves together as much as they could and had worked out a deal with the school so that I could finish up my studies for the rest of the year at home. If anything it was just harder for them to see the only child they had left sitting in her room and not leaving the house at all for weeks on end.
I started to get pale and I stopped eating. It wasn't a conscious decision so much as I purely forgot. I would sleep for hours and wake up to quickly rush through Geometry or English before drifting back into the darkness that somehow comforted me. I was on pills so I wouldn't dream because I had begun getting terrifying nightmares that wouldn't allow me any sleep at all. In those first few weeks, all I thought about was Ben and how he could have done such a thing. It wasn't until the month anniversary that I started understanding why my brother had done what he did.
I'm not sure if he intended on me taking so long to find it. Maybe he knew I wouldn't look in that album until I was completely ready. Maybe he thought I would go for it as soon as I found out. Whatever his intentions were, I eventually found the notes he had left for me.
On my 15th birthday Ben made me a photo album from pictures of us growing up together. Each section was a year in my life, and each one was filled with photographs filled with memories that now haunted me. From the picture of us sitting in the pool, me in my Winnie the Pooh checkered swimsuit and him in his Power Rangers swim trunks, to the camp outs we had in the front yard. Each moment frozen in time was a moment Ben would never be able to think about again.
But within this album, Ben had slipped notes into each section. I cried the first time I opened it and saw his cramped, fast writing on the lined paper. It was like he had left a piece of himself behind for me to find. I never told my parents, because I felt like it was mine and Ben's secret. Something he had done for me and only me.
It was the letter he had left in the "5 years old" section that was my favorite. When I was 5, Ben was 7. I think this was the age that we grew closest. I vividly remember learning to ride my bike, and it was the first time I had fallen off. I cut my knee open and needed stitches. Ben was the one who picked me up and carried me inside to my mother who had been calmly reading a book when she was interrupted by the screaming and crying of her youngest child.
Ben told her I needed to be taken to the hospital, which wasn't news to her since she was a pediatrician. He held my hand all the way to the hospital and made sure the towel was held tightly on the throbbing cut. Once inside the ER, he continued to hold my hand through the numbing of my knee and the stitching that followed.
It was Ben who encouraged me to get back on the bike a week after the stitches were finally removed, and it was him who held onto the seat and ran alongside me as I pushed off the curb and started peddling through our neighborhood.
The note he left in that section that marked a year in my life was one that would remain with me where ever I went. Even if I was walking our family dog I made sure the now folded piece of paper was securely in the right front pocket of my jeans. That way, I felt like I carried a piece of Ben with me everywhere I went. In the back of my mind I knew that I would eventually out grow the ritual, but I pushed it to the back of my head along with the pain that accompanied Ben's final decisions.
♠ ♠ ♠
I finally got around to writing this.. I'm pretty sure of the direction I'm taking this, but I'd still like some feedback.