Searching for Eve

Misunderstandings

Misunderstandings

Drew

Saturday, August 18th

11:32 pm

To: Diary

From: Evie

Subject: Hate Tastes Bitter

Dear Diary,

Have I ever told you how much my brother used to love me? The words "I love you" never came out of his mouth, of course--that was an emotion he couldn't express. But I knew. I knew he would protect me from the monsters and pick me up whenever I fell. I knew he would tease me, but nobody else was ever allowed to but him.

We used to be the cutest set of siblings, despite the age difference between us. There's almost four years. People thought we would never get along because of it. But they didn't know that he taught me what he was learning in school. We would spend hours together, him teaching me multiplication facts and how to write in cursive. That's one of my favorite memories, the day he taught me cursive. We were in the backseat of Mom's car, and he wrote out the entire alphabet on an index card. I tried so hard to copy each one, but it was so much harder than it looked. Each time I messed up, he would simply ask for the pencil and show me time and time again.

I miss that side of him. That loving, patient side that had a soft spot for his baby sister. I want to know where it went.

Now, he yells and slams doors. He lets me know he's frustrated. There's no patience. No love. Only the empty shell of the person he used to be.

I need my brother back. I need him to save me from the monsters. I need him to pick up the pieces from the mess I've made of my life.

E.

Oh, my God. Was I the reason she left?

The thought kept running through my mind. She thought I hated her. She thought we all did. She thought she could only trust her diary.

How had I been so blind? How had I gotten so wrapped up in having to follow in my father's footsteps that I forgot to notice she needed help? More importantly, how selfish was I to pour my problems onto her without even asking how she was?

I mean, she had always seemed so happy. She was always laughing, busily typing away on her phone. She was constantly out with friends and never missed a piano lesson or basketball practice.

There were days she would be tired, but I assumed that was to be expected of a seventeen-year old who juggled basketball and piano while maintaining a 3.8 GPA and holding the title of Class President.

"I'm exhausted." She would say. "And this headache is killing me."

"You always have a headache." I would reply.

And it's true. She did always seem to have a headache. She would have to lay in the pitch black with absolutely no sound most nights to keep from getting sick.

"It's migraines." Mom had told me one afternoon. "If you dare bother her, I will tell your father."

At the time, I couldn't help but think that she always got what she wanted. They had moved her into her own hallway, so she wouldn't be disturbed. When she had a headache, I wasn't allowed to do a number of things in case they woke her up.

I would get so mad. "Why does she get special privileges?" I would yell. "I could be dying, and you'd still let her blare the crap she calls music. But Heaven forbid I even walk past her bedroom door when she's got a tiny headache."

None of it was true. It was all a big misunderstanding.

When I found her, I knew I had to tell her.