"You were happy when your dead loved one came back to life.
Too bad they are not the same."
Imagine this:
Your sister appears in front of you, in a grocery store, only that's not the problem. The problem is that she's dead. She's been dead for three...
The morning was foggy in the harsh cold weather. It was the kind of weather that warned to stay indoors, the kind that bit if you did otherwise, but I needed to be out. I had ran out of groceries, again.
I hated grocery shopping, it was stressful, and I was a naturally lazy person, I procrastinate a lot and don't usually get it done until the very last minute, like today.
The cashier girl gave me a subtle insincere smile, as I made to pay for the bulk of things I had purchased today. She ran my card and handed me my receipt. I smiled, grateful and happy to be out of there. But outside the store Lay my hell.
The weather was unforgiving. For a moment, I thought if I had to haul vegetables and junk through that I might break.
I would break. Mentally I considered myself fragile. Why, I even had the petite figure to support that notion. I was shorter than average, and extensively lean. The two loads I carried on my shoulder looked like they would be the objects of my doom, apart from the weather.
Lips parted slightly, in my 'what the hell do I do' expression, I thought of my sister. My dead sister.
Instantly, a deep sense of loss attacked my fragile self, so intense, I dropped my shopping, just to wrap my arms around myself as if to protect myself from the hurt, from feeling so much. But this wasn't the weather, as unsure as I was to make way home through it, the weather I could at least protect myself from, albeit for the few minutes it would take me to locate my car. This feeling was internal, a bleeding heart no operation could repair, my arms were useless at protecting me.
Tears burned at the back of my eyes, tears that threatened to spill out, but I held them back, and only because I was sure if I let them fall, I wouldn't be able to stop the waterworks. People were already throwing me suspicious and pleading looks to get the move on. No need to alarm them further, by crying and labelling myself as something I wasn't.
Nothing screams crazy than a crying woman clothed in wool like Santa on a sunny day.
I needed to distract myself from the pain.
My gaze fell on the red rubber band on my left hand. I'd used that rubber for many things, most of the times to distract myself from my emotions. The skin around said wrist underneath the rubber band was a mess of black, purple and red, bruise upon bruises. I did this to myself. I did this to myself because I couldn't. . .
