Counting Backward

      Final Draft: February 25, 2021

      Lucia’s throwing up again.  You stand in front of the bathroom door, emotions raging inside of you. You close your eyes and count backward from ten before pushing it open. The smell of bile swims in the air, and you resist the urge to cover your nose. Your sister assures you she's alright, but you know she's not. 

        You just stare at her, the silence suffocating. 

        She breaks first, mumbling, “I’ve been trying. You know nothing of how I feel.”

        “Then tell me.”

        She's quiet for several seconds before saying, “I’m drowning. I’m drowning in an ocean of shame and hate and there's still nothing there to convince me to try and swim,” she says, tears spilling over her dark lashes and onto her flushed cheeks. 

        You open my mouth to tell her to take a step back to see how this thing that's consumed her isn't just contained to her anymore. To tell her how it's infected you and why can't she see that? Why can't she see that she's killing you too? But the words stick in your throat, unwilling to hurt and lay claim to a reality you promised not to speak of. 

         “I love you, Lou,” you say instead, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. 

        She doesn't look at you for a while, but when she does, her eyes look dead.

        “I love you too.” 

        You don't believe her. If she loved you, she wouldn't be doing this to her. To you. 

        You step into the dark hallway, away from your dying sister, away from your other half. 

        “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice hoarse. You just stare at her face, taking in the way her skin stretches tightly over her bones. It feels like staring into your own grave. 

        “No,” you say. “No, you’re not.” 

        You leave her there, bent over the toilet, the last of her life swirling down and away. When you get back to your room, one of your ceiling stars has fallen onto your pillow. You pick it up and clutch it in your hand, the plastic edges cutting into your palms. 

        Sometimes love isn't enough. 

                                 ⚞⚟

        You no longer go to her in the middle of the night, knowing it will only cause you both pain. Somedays, you can't look at her without feeling guilt and hate pressing on your chest. When she purges herself, you count your ceiling stars. Notice one barely hanging on, the adhesive fading away. You ignore it. Tell yourself you'll fix it later. Wonder how much time Lucia has left before she wastes away completely. 

        Your birthday is tomorrow. You and Lucia turn 20. You are surprised Lucia is still here to celebrate it. She looks like a walking skeleton. You wish she would let you help her. You make a rum cake, Lucia's favorite, and wonder if she’ll even consider taking a bite of it. 

        “Is that rum cake?” she asks. 

        “Yes.” 

        “I love rum cake,” she says, her eyes seeming to shine from hunger. 

        “It's for us,” You say and when she smiles, it lights up the room and darkens your heart. 

         The next morning when you checked on the cake, over half of it was missing.        

                                 ⚞⚟

            As you lie in bed a week later, you wonder when things went wrong. Wonder when Lucia started hating herself and the body she was given. The body you were both given. 

            Something hits your cheek, making you flinch and clearing those thoughts. You reach up, grab it, and bring it close to your face. It's one of your stars. You look up at the ceiling, confused. Another one lands on your shoulder.  Your stars rain down on you, all fifty of them, falling from the ceiling. 

           Dread curls in your stomach. Something is wrong. 

           Irrational fear has you going to Lucia. You stop just outside her door, emotions raging inside of you. You close your eyes and count backward from ten before pushing it open.

           Lucia is laying in her bed, tucked in tight. 

           You stand in the doorway of love and pain, of shadow and light, your star clutched against your heart. 

           “Lucia,” you say as you stand inside her room. 

           Nothing. 

           “Lucia.” Again, no response. 

           You finally go to her, your head full of static. 

           You lay your head against her hollow chest, your ear against her heart. You hear nothing, not one single beat of life. 

           It takes you a minute to grasp it.  There's only silence in your head, such emptiness in your chest, your soul, as the realization hits you. At the lack of her, the lack of life -

           And her eyes. 

          Her eyes stare at you, the blame and the nothingness in them have you weeping. 

           You begin rambling, your heart not wanting to catch up with your brain. “Lucia, remember when we put those stars up on my ceiling? Do you remember? You told me that whenever I got sad just to count them backward and everything would go back to normal by the time I counted the last star,” you say, voice breaking.

       “Please, Lou. I tried to ignore it. Your problem. I tried to pretend it wasn't you, but it ate at me until nothing was left. What you did to yourself, Lou, it was killing me too. When I saw you getting thinner, my heart started cracking until it shattered and there were too many pieces for me to try and fix it. But I’m here now, I’m listening, please, wake up.”

        You sob even harder now, on the verge of hyperventilating. 

       “I-I lost hope in you, Lucia. I gave up on you. I'm so, so sorry.” 

       Lucia is unmoving, undone by herself, by you.

       You hold her in your arms, the grief and regret overwhelming as you count backward from ten over and over, your star pressed into her palm. Lucia is dead, and a part of you died right alongside her.