Bits 'n' pieces

The Illusionist

              It's funny how the media says they're the voice of the people. But what people? The people in Australia? The people in Russia? Are these people young or old? Do these people even speak?

I'll tell you the answer: they speak for those that no longer have the life left to speak. I find it amusing because we all know the saying: "dead men tell no tales."

Your voice isn't heard until you've screamed you're whole life away, until there's nothing more left of you.

Then they tell your story; of how cruel the world was to you, of how you had nothing, no one! But does anyone do anything? Yes, they give your picture a meaningless, sad look before moving onto the next screen.

But I'll never forget you, Little Sister. I'll never leave you – not again.

I will always remember you, in all your innocent beauty.

I will always remember your golden blonde hair that I would braid whilst we caught up on each other's lives, tugging occasionally to get a reaction out of you.

I will always remember your faded blue shirt that I would comment on, saying it was old and too large for your slim figure.

I will always remember your sea-coloured eyes that I would stare into whilst I assured you that everything will be okay, that I will always be by your side.

But no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to remember that white powder of death, paradise, and pleasure or also known as The Illusionist. I don't know what this... person looked like to you but by the way you described them, they seemed like your best friend, like the light that will always be by your side. I had thought they would be the one to stand in front of the bullet for you, not be the one to pull the trigger.

Only now do I realise how wrong I was...

I should have been the one to stand in front of you. I should have been the one to protect you. I should have been the brother to make you happy – not a piece of lead.

Why? Why did you do it?

I don't blame you. I could never. I know The Illusionist was pushing you towards the edge. I know they were telling you there must be a kill, that the heavens were expecting a sacrifice. I know they told you that no one loves you. But, Sister, people do love you. I love you. I will always love you. That is why I stand here now, in the gardens you were buried in. I now stare down at your gravestone, reading what they had engraved in it: 'The girl dressed in blue. Died by addiction. Gone but not forgotten.'

Another one of their lies.

They have all forgotten. But Sister – Dear Sister – I will never forget. I will never forget what this love-starved world had done to you to push you into the arms of The Illusionist.

However, the clock advances, as does life. My pen runs along the paper in random patterns. I don't know if I'm writing or drawing or if I'm even moving.

Sister... I don't know anymore. Please tell me, Dear Sister, what must I do? I was too late to save you and upon losing you, I lost myself. Now death follows me, a naked rider on a ravaged horse, the hooves meeting my heels as I run. Or am I walking? Am I moving? I don't know. I don't know! I DON'T KNOW! I don't know...

Grey clouds gather above, mimicking my actions and letting the rain fall – a drizzle at first, gradually getting stronger. Now, here I sit against your stone, drowning, unable to swim any longer. There's too much pain. Sister, please! Help me! It's going to swallow me! Sister, it hurts. Please! I'm sorry, my dear little sister. I know I wasn't a good brother. I shouldn't have listened when you said, "I'm fine."