F O R E I G N E R

a girl who struggles to find herself

I’m awake, I tell myself, to convince myself that this is not a dream. That I am not imagining this. That my sister is real. And that she is currently jerking and squirming around in bed, in fear of another one of her nightmares. Usually, I would caress her in my arms and reassure her that I was there. This time, however, I just watch her roll over to her side to face the wall. 

As the storm ceased to a silent drizzle, I close my eyes and try to dream. I try to distract myself. It’s just another night, where the first few waking moments were spent pondering about the dangers outside these walls. I think about the rain, pounding against the window, the way it sometimes trickles down the windowpane, drop by drop. I accidentally trick myself into rooting at the tiny raindrops that were constantly being put to race against each other. But I knew, I was long gone for acts as childish and immature as those. I tried forcing myself to go back to sleep, but I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of falling into oblivion, or waking to the same nightmare of life itself. Sleeping beside me, my sister throws her blankie across her eyes and shoves the pillows into her ears, shielding her from the whispering voices of the night and the tapping footsteps of the unknown. I shared the rest of the sheets with her to remind her of my promise; I was not going to let fear conquer us tonight. Not tonight.

I quietly slid off the bed and tip-toed away, keeping myself from looking back in an attempt to prove to my sister that I was the brave one. That I could be the person she longed and admired to be. As the floors creaked below me with each step, I walked towards the dresser. I look into the mirror and pretend that the person staring back at me is someone I would feel content to be. But I can’t help but stare at the tousled hair, crooked frown, and baggy eyes that adorn my existence. I despise what reality has made of me, and so I try to fix it in any way I can by imagining to be somebody else.

I look over at the floor beside my feet and picked up one of my sister’s old scrapbooks as I blew the dust off the front. Inside were pictures of our mother and father, both likening to my sister’s beautiful image. She painted each and every picture with her magnificent smile. There were more pictures of our grandparents, our aunts and uncles, the whole family. I felt frustrated; there were no pictures of me. I sifted and searched through the scrapbook twice or maybe three times, and in each picture was my sister and her smile. In one particular photograph, I see her creating angels in the snow. If only I possessed her innocence could I see myself running outside, to spin in circles with my tongue sticking out in an attempt to taste every unique snowflake falling out from the sky. I would have grabbed my sled and slid down a narrow snow cliff, the snowflakes caught in my face and the freezing breeze clouding my better judgment. I would’ve been ready to fall and for it to all end. Before I knew it, there were tears falling onto the pages. I snap out of the daydream as if the wind rushing behind my ears and the laughs and giggles I haven’t heard in years evaporated into thin air, as if that child, the child I imagined myself to be, never existed. I remind myself that I’m no longer little anymore. I couldn’t be. My sister needed someone strong, someone brave. I come to a conclusion: I would never wish adulthood upon anyone. 

I step out of the world illustrated with my overreactive imagination. I grip my hands in a fist and force myself out of this mindset defined by childhood distractions. I thought I already had taught myself how to suppress these worthless temptations. I stood up with a fresh mind, and looked once more at the mirror. There it was, a face that I did not recognize. A face with no smile. I ponder through all of the memories that led me to this unfamiliar stranger standing before me. I wipe my face and take in a deep breath as I tiptoe my way out of the room, only to feel drawn to that same pink door at the end of the hallway. Usually, my temptations never got the best of me. My sister’s faith in me kept me strong. However, the room called to me and I couldn’t resist any longer. I sneak up quietly down the hallway, as I stare at the faded pictures on the wall, forcing flashbacks of a life that no longer exists. As I slowly make my way there, I felt my heart skip a beat. Once I entered, I wasn’t sure what I was more afraid of: that all of the feelings would come back to me again, that the stranger in the mirror would finally become familiar, or that the stranger would remain unknown, but still act as a haunting reminder of a past I still regret, but long to remember. I’ve always fantasized about walking into that room at times, imagining the stranger finally with a familiar look on her face. 

I cautiously inch closer to the door. But before I enter, I reminded myself of my sister. I imagined her face locking eyes with mine, terrified with fearful thoughts running across her mind. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her worried expression spoke a thousand words. She stretches her arm and holds out a helping hand whilst grasping her blankie, praying for me to take it. At this point I was struggling between reaching for my sister’s imaginary fingertips or reaching for the knob across from me. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be more disappointed in myself for not choosing my sister, or for not uncovering one of the deep dark secrets hidden behind that door. But the thoughts of the stranger haunting me from behind the room grew louder than the words screaming out of my sister’s mouth. I breathed harder and harder, and my hands grew colder and colder. I wanted to choose my sister. I wanted to choose her. But as I stepped towards the door, taking her hand, I turned the knob, pushing the barrier between me and the wanderer among the walls.

I have imagined this moment for what seemed like years now. I thought I planned it all out, but instead I stood there, in shock as the bright pink wallpaper was sliding itself from the confinements of the room. I stared at the pink bed standing beside the flickering lights of the window, covered with a variety of playful trinkets and enamored with a choking amount of dust. I sneaked into the middle of the room, observing each corner, every last hanging photograph on the walls, and all of the other little things that reminded me of who was that figure dominating my dreams. This was my room. 

With my blankie clutched in my hands, I stared out the window once again, hypnotized by the raindrops radiating against the sunrise, and befuddled by my long years of absence. I think quietly as I stared into the mirror on the wall. My eyes grew wide open as the smile, the smile that I memorized, melted into existence. Instantly, I realize that the brave young girl I found myself to be was nothing but a disguise to hide me away from the fear that haunted me each and every night. There I was, finally in the reflection staring back at me. I was no longer a product of my overreactive imagination. This room was no longer a home to a ghost that was once there. I felt naked as the disguise peeled off of my body. After nights where my mind was at war with itself over the thought of ever entering this room, I was at peace.

I peeked around the corner, walked across the hall, past the familiar faces, and even past the room that gave birth to my many years of deception. I was no longer tied down by this persona I created. With the rain finally subsiding and the sun rising behind the horizon, I took a deep breath, tightly squeezed my blankie with my left hand, and reached to open the front door with the other. 

I’m awake, I tell myself, to make sure I believe that I am truly.

Author's Note

This story went through many revisions, and churned it out of the drawing board as soon as I could. Although not my most impressive piece of writing, its themes of identity, acceptance, and courageousness are worthy enough of the plot itself.