sofia izar {eleven} fin

I used to be free from the whispers.

They kept their distance from me, little things on the breeze that didn't really matter to me. They'd be about someone else. Sometimes, I'd be the one doing the whispering. I know, I know I shouldn't, Pa always told me it wasn't good to gossip. But I did. It wasn't until these past few weeks that I started to wish I never had.

"There she is Mama, that's her sister!"

"Don't point dear, it's rude."

Heat would rise to my cheeks and I'd duck away.

"Isn't that an Izar? Isn't she that poor girl's sister? I heard she had a brother too, not sure where he went."

Emmanuel never was the social one.

"There she is, the sweet little thing. Shame, isn't it. She seems so sad."

Fire would burn in my belly and I'd push my thumb into the palm of the opposite hand, finger nail pressing into soft skin until it bled. Anything is better than this load of crap everyone's been giving me since it happened. Of course I'm sad. That's what people do when they lose something they love, they get sad.

I used to be free from the whispers.

Now, they follow me wherever I go, biting at my ankles, hanging on to my wrists, clambering up to wrap around my neck and choke me until I can't breath. People stare, people whisper.

Used to.

The words ring in my ears and echo around my head until it's all I can hear.

(She's dead, she's dead, she's dead.)

People don't like change. In the past couple of days, that much has become more than glaringly obvious to me. Nothing has ever changed in my life; I didn't know that people don't like moving, don't like switching schools, don't like it when their sister's freaking heart stops beating. I'm different now, and they don't like it.

(My sister is dead. She's dead, you bastards, and I get to be sad.)

I've earned at least that much, haven't I?

When I step back and look at things, I mean really look at them, I should've seen this coming. It was obvious, wasn't it. All this time, it's been sitting at my feet, baring it's teeth and glowering, and yet somehow I didn't see it until now: they were going to pick her name, she was going to fight, she was going to bleed, and then it was all going to stop. Her fire, her breath, her pulse, her heart. It all just went out like that, and I should've seen it coming. I should've seen the spear piercing her back, her life spilling out over her skin and on to the hot rocks beneath. I should've predicted the look of denial on the face of someone I think she would've called a friend.

(She's dead, she's dead, she's dead.)

It's all so obvious, and yet somehow, it can't actually have happened. It doesn't make any sense, does it? She was too strong, I think. No one could put out a fire that big.

Everyone asks me if I want to talk about it.

"No Miss, I think I'm alright."

"I'm fine, I just need a minute."

I just wish someone would realize I'm telling the truth. People expect me to lie, they expect me to fall apart into their arms, so they can put the pieces back together and say look, look how happy I made her. I've become nothing more than some twisted, broken flower for people to stare and gawk at. It sickens me, the way people watch me now. The way my friends cry and hug me and do their best to act like they give a crap.

You didn't know her. You didn't know what she was like, so don't you dare pretend you did.

But I hold it all in and keep myself together, because Pa told me to.

No, I don't want to talk about it. I'm sad, alright? Let me wallow in it for a bit and shut your freaking trap already.

Ever since she left, Emmanuel has shut himself up in his room and almost constantly refused to come out. Ma says it's cause he's a teenager, but I don't think that's true. I'm a teenager. I don't block out the world; at least, not as much as he does.

"No, Sofia, I don't want to play a game."

"I'm too tired to go to the market."

"I'm fine, So."

He's fine.

He's a freaking mess, not to mention a liar.

He's taking it harder than I am, I think. I can hear him at night. I can hear him crying, muffled up against his pillow because he doesn't want Ma and Pa to hear. But I can hear him. I've thought about going to knock on the door, when it's three in the morning and he's been going on for half an hour, but I'm too scared. Scared he'll lash out, scared he won't even answer. I don't see any positive outcomes.

(She's dead, she's dead, she's dead.)

The words echo within me, bouncing around inside my skull, over and over and over again. It's become so repetitive, it's practically monotonous at this point. I can almost shut it out. I can almost numb the pain out of existence.

Almost.

But then it comes back, sharp and clear, causing me to stop in the middle of the street or the school yard, clutch my stomach and lean against whatever I can while I try to catch my breath. It crushes my chest and shoves my heart into my throat. I wrap my arms around myself, tightening my grip, squeezing my eyes shut. Emmanuel may be falling apart, but I won't. I can't, not now, not when the money is slow and my family needs me, not when Ma and Pa need someone to smile at them with something other than polite sympathy. I don't smile a whole lot any more, but I will smile for them. I'll smile if it makes things better.

I'll smile even if it won't bring her back.

(She's dead, she's dead, she's—)

Go to hell.