Portrait: Ysabella Maldanado-Contreras

Portrait of Ysabella

I wish I could tell you I was strong about it. I wish I could tell you that I didn't cry the first night, that I haven't cried since then, that I'll save my tears for when we meet again. I wish I could say that I ran away as soon as it was over, that I chased after you and will keep chasing until we're back to the days of playfighting and sharing secrets into the night.

But you always knew I was the crybaby between the two of us, which is why I'm stuck writing this to you.

I paused in my writing and looked down at the paper, pen gripped tightly in my hand. Father Paul said that writing about my feelings would help with the "grieving process." Imbalanced emotions were a sign of the devil and, in times of duress, it was good to turn to God and deliver your worries to him. Considering the bastard retired right after giving me that advice, I should have taken a hint that Father Paul didn't know jackshit. My parents were probably behind the bullshit project, sending the message to him so that he could pass it off to me as "sage advice from a holy man." The paper joined the growing pile in my wastepaper basket with a dramatic sigh.

Despite your absence, the room felt smaller than usual. Constricting, even. The air was tight with the incense burning in the Master Bedroom, traveling through the vents with the heavy scent of something spiced and musky. Mom only burned them when she was alone, probably reading a book or studying scripture while Dad trained with Uriel outside. From my window, the grunts and thwacks of their sparring match penetrated the glass in muffled calls. If I listened closely, I could make out some of the directives.

"Back straight!"

"Knees bent!"

"Stay focused!"

"Thrust!"

Typical. The only way Dad would communicate with anyone was through combat, and even then speech was limited. Conversely, this was the only time Uriel would shut up, fully focusing on his form and rhythm while competing. Ezra was probably a little off to the side, heckling Uriel as he went.

"C'mon, you can do better than that!"

"Your feet are slippin'!"

"C'mon, back straight, Uri! Back straight!"

Dad would give him one glare and the heckling would stop for a few minutes, but always picked up once Uriel fumbled. Typical. Usual. Normal. The room was filled with the sounds of their normality. The sounds of them moving on. I looked at your side of the room, completely untouched since you left. Your bed was unmade from when you woke up that morning. The dresser was still in disarray from when you threw all your clothes in your duffel bag. Your posters and photos were ripped from the walls, some of the corners and details still fused to the plasters. The only signs of life that remained were the scattered drawings you kept pinned on the corkboard above your desk. Sketches of those same sparring matches, of Mom with her incense reading her books, of me sitting on my side of the room watching you. Sketches of the life you used to live. It had been three days now. These things should be typical. Usual. Normal.

"God only gives you the burdens that he thinks you can handle," Father Paul told me. "This too shall pass."

I looked down at the overflowed wastebin and felt contempt lodge in my throat. I should be able to handle this. I should be able to handle this. I should be able to handle this and yet I still get choked up every time I think about you. I should be able to not think about you at night, but seeing your bed across from mine makes me feel hollow. I should be able to go back to normal, go to school and do homework, eat dinner with family and pretend as if it's not weird that the chair next to me will never be occupied by the right person. I should be able to pretend you're dead the way the others do. But you're not dead. You weren't murdered and you didn't take your own life. You did the one thing that we'd been dreaming of since we were kids. You weren't a coward, unlike me. I paused and felt a burning sensation in my eyes. I lifted my hand to wipe at the tears that were forming and hoped that they stayed that way. The last thing I needed was to further prove how pathetic I was.