Remains

Prompts: Write a story about goodbyes without using the words “goodbye,” “bye,” or “farewell.” & Write a story in which the first and last sentences are exactly the same.

There wasn’t a word for this pain, for this type of separation. This grief had a grip on my soul unlike any other that had passed through me. I know she’s still in there but in a way, she’s gone. All that remained was a shell of who she was, the shell that I built myself upon. Her soul, her broken spirit, her hopes and dreams, they all guide me. They push me to become who I’m meant to be. Years have passed since I buried her, but she still remains. She echoes through my mind in the darkness of night, the silence of my room when the clock strikes 3 am.

“What happened to me?” She used to ask, “Why would you do this to me?”

I’d hesitate before responding, unable to look her in the eyes. “I’m sorry, little one, but it had to happen. I cannot exist if you’re still here.”

She wasn’t the only one to ask where she went, interrogate me on her disappearance. The questions followed me, cornered me at family gatherings, her name haunting me with every Christmas or birthday. Those three letters still mark every card, every document, boxing me in, keeping me trapped in a soul that is no longer mine. Not completely.

That girl is still inside me, still playing in my mind. I used to yell at her, berate her for her mere existence just as my blood does to me. I took all their anger, their disappointment and in desperation, I turned it on her. On that small girl who remains. On the girl who knew nothing of herself, nothing of me until I staged my coup.

The takeover was bloody and violent and rage filled. Every corner of my mind had parts of her—parts I tore from her to replace with myself. I cut her long hair, trashed her girly clothes, replaced them with a mullet and black ripped jeans. I took her body and I restricted it, hiding her chest with more fabric, restricting her breathing so that maybe I could be seen as myself.

I took away all that she was, replacing it with someone I hoped to be.

But her death brought about not only a new understanding, but a new pain. Those I considered my blood turned on me, those I considered friends distanced themselves. Even I turned away, begging a deity I was raised to believe was all forgiving, all loving, to change me back. To bring her back. But brokenness was all that remained. Her voice and not god’s. Her words mirroring those of the ones who were supposed to love me for who I am.

“Abomination, sinner, disgusting.”

Their words coming from her caused more pain that I would like to admit. How could such hateful words come form such an innocent little girl? Her words haunted my mind like a spirit unable to leave the home they died in, unable to move on, to let go. She wouldn’t let me go.

Countless nights I begged her. Countless nights I pleaded with her to stop. To let me go. But she’d become vengeful, wrathful. Their anger had bled into her, contaminated her. Now I was hearing their words not only during the day, but also in the quiet of the night. I could not escape the torment. Could not escape her.

She followed me, chasing me down, finding every place I thought I could hide. She appeared in every mirror, every reflection I passed, in the camera of my phone. Her voice infected every song that hit my ears, every compliment, every piece of media I consumed.

“You’re not good enough. Not smart enough. Not creative enough. Not. Enough.”

Never enough. Not for her, not for them, not for myself. She infected me, lied to me, manipulated me into believing that all those hateful words were true. That I wasn’t smart or creative enough. That I wasn’t man enough.

Through the haze of doubt and the sea of self-loathing, I found him. The little boy that had been growing inside me all this time. He met me in the water, grabbing my hand and pulling me closer to the surface. He told me his name and it was mine. He told me he’d been waiting in the wings, in the deepest parts of my psyche. He’d heard my pleas, my begging, my tears. He’d been watching me, watching her torture me every night for years, but was too scared to face her. Too scared to burden her with more pain than she already shouldered.

I looked up at him, really looked. He shared her face, her voice, her smile, her memories. Our memories. He too carried the burden. The weight of expectations outgrown. The weight of words hurled like knives. He too bore the scars I did—both the physical and mental. He too felt my pain, craved belonging like me.

His heart had the same cracks as mine, as hers, but his were shallower. They’d healed with time I didn’t know I had. I reached for him again, for that heart that beat so much stronger than mine did. Its warmth was alien to me and yet so welcoming. He felt like home. Like me. My head breached the water, air rushing my lungs for the first time in forever.

His touch was welcoming, guiding me to the little girl’s empty grave. A bouquet sat atop the disturbed ground—pink carnations and baby’s breath. A reminder that we’ll never forget her and that we’ll love her even after she’s gone. She stood there, tears streaming down her small face, questions pouring from her lips.

“Why would we abandon me? Why would we do this to me? Why do you hate me so?”

We tell her we do not hate her. We tell her we love her, that we’re grateful for her. But that she needs to let go. That it’s time for her to rest. She embraces me one last time, her warmth and smile returning. We lay her down, kiss her head and bury her.

Sometimes, it feels empty without her—her words, her presence—but I visit. On days where the emptiness returns, I sit with her and tell her about all I’ve become. All I want to become. I know she hears me, but she no longer speaks back. There wasn’t a word for this pain, for this type of separation. This grief had a grip on my soul unlike any other that had passed through me. I know she’s still in there but in a way, she’s gone.