Scarves

Sisters will always be there for each other. Right to the very end.

You were really pretty. You had long black hair, so silky and shiny and great big blue eyes that went on forever. Perfect skin which was always warm and smelled nice. Prominent cheekbones and a straight nose. Whenever the old rellies came over they always said how beautiful you were. With me they said how much I had grown. They don’t say that anymore, of course. You have changed so much. But you’re still breathing. You’re still alive. You will prove them wrong.

We no longer do each others hair in the morning. Well, you still do my hair but I can’t do yours. I loved doing your hair. Running my fingers through it was like running over silk. I would plait small braids in it and tie it into a ponytail. But when it started I chose the scarves you would wrap around your head like a turban. I chose scarves from the multitude of them in your room, purple and blue were your favourite colours. You didn’t like the wigs that the hospital had given you. You said that they itched like hell and that they made you look like a dork. It was true; those wigs were nothing like your hair before. I remember when it first fell out. It was Monday morning. And the loudest scream in the history of loud screams ran throughout the house. We were all at your door in a millisecond. You were in your bed staring at your pillow tears running down your face. Clumps of your beautiful black hair were clinging to your pillow like giant furry bugs. There was a large white bald patch on the side of your head where your hair had once been. You had looked up at Mum, your face blotchy and red and said “look at my hair.” Mum snapped into action. She shooed me and Dad out and shut the door. Me and Dad stood on the landing staring at the door like it would open and everything will be alright again. It didn’t. Dad snapped into action. He told me to get ready for school. When I protested he looked at me and said, “Just go.” His eyes were burning with some unknown emotion so I didn’t say another word. You didn’t come down and I went to school alone.

Until that day it hadn’t really sunk in. Your cancer was some dark cloud that seemed faraway on the horizon. Nothing to really worry about. When we first found out nothing really changed. Between chemo sessions you and I would go out. Like before. We always went out somewhere cool and fun. We would go bowling or to the pictures. When we had the money we would shop. We sometimes went round Harvey Nics find the most expensive thing and try it on. I have never giggled so much in my life. We made dares to go up to creepy, fat old men and say that we love them. You always made the best dares, ones that would have rolling on the floor laughing. Even after your hair fell out we still went out.

We can’t go out anymore of course. You’re so weak but that doesn’t mean its over yet. I am holding your hand. It’s so cold and frail because of the poison they pumped your body with. We are in your room. You’re lying in bed. You’re all connected to monitors that are all bleeping away, telling me it’s all ok. You’re asleep as usual. I am looking at your scarves; you have so many now I have lost count. All of them, the colours of the rainbow a reflection on the person you once were. Some of them have sequins sewn on them. You were always glamorous. You put on make up that look perfect and jewellery that jangled around your wrists. Before you fell asleep you said I could have all of your clothes. You looked me straight in the face and said “When I die you have take all my clothes and wear them. I don’t want them dumped in a charity shop; I want my little sister to wear them. If you don’t wear them I will come back to haunt you, ok?”

I look at you and wish I could remove the word ‘death’ from your vocabulary. “Don’t talk like that, you aren’t going to die,” I whisper hoarsely.

“Do you promise?” you demand again, your eyes burning.

“I promise,” I whisper to make you happy.

“Good,” you say before flopping back onto the pillow, your last words are, “and stop denying the fact that I am going to die, you dipstick.”

Why is God cruel? Is He doing it on purpose? Why is he taking my sister? You don’t want to go. I am not ready for you to go. I am lost without you. You are the only friend I really have. You will always tell me the truth. I need you. Please don’t go. I can’t bear it. People are already talking like you’re dead. People look at me with pity at school. They say they’re sorry. Hollow words said by hollow people. They say they understand what I am going through. LIARS! Stupid liars who understand nothing. They didn’t know you the way I do. They haven’t even got a millionth of the pain I am going through, knowing I can’t make it better. Nothing will be the same again and there is nothing anyone can do about it. I heard Mum and Dad talking the other day. They were saying something about councillors and my name was mixed in there. You’re not even dead yet and they’re already talking about whether I am already bonkers. I’ll tell them where to put their councillor. I won’t need one because I promised you. You made me promise not to mourn for too long. You don’t want me in pain.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Maybe if I keep saying this you will get better. Maybe. It’s possible. The machines are beeping loudly now. Sounds like something’s gone wrong. Someone’s hand is on my shoulder. Someone is whispering something in my ear. Someone is tugging on my hand, the hand that is holding yours. I want them to go away. I can’t look away from your face. You’re still breathing. You’re fine. You’re not going to die.

“Rachel.”

“Go away,” I growl my, voice hoarse.

“Rachel it’s almost time. Be ready ok?”

“But she’s not going to die!” I would have wailed it but it would have woken you.

“Rachel,” I look up to see my mum. She’s been crying. She takes my face in her hands and strokes my cheeks with her thumbs. “I am sorry Rachel she’s not going to wake up. You can stop waiting.”

“But-” I was cut off by a loud wailing beep. I look angrily around, tearing the grip from my mother, trying to find the offending noise. I see the monitor with its flat lines. I see you. You’re not breathing.

The room has gone grey. The colours are leeched out because you have taken colour with you. Your scarves aren’t beautiful anymore. Nothing will be beautiful anymore.

© 2010 The Blue Faerie

Author's Note

This was entered in for my Imaginative writing course work for GCSE. We were told to centre our story around one object. Can you guess what that object is? What do you think?