Indigo

Read these first: Red Orange Yellow Green Blue

11 months and 360 days after the funeral

Andrea's Death Anniversary

My pen feels heavier than usual in my hand today as if it understands the weight of what it is about to write on these pages.

I feel my eyes already starting to water.

The sun had all but disappeared under the horizon when I pulled up to my mom's house for the weekend. The last of the beautiful oranges and reds were gone, leaving a sliver of indigo to blend with the dark blue of the night. I could hear the haunting vocals of Lewis Capaldi pouring out from Andrea's bathroom window as I hauled myself and a small duffel bag out of my car. Exhaustion from the long trip settled into my body, but I recall the excitement of seeing my family after a difficult semester away. Well, at least Andrea; Mom was working the night shift at the hospital.

I banged on the door, anticipating the sound of my little sister's clamorous footsteps coming to yank open the door open. She didn't come after ten seconds, so I tried again, yelling "Andrea. Your favorite brother's home!" Her typical response to that was a snarky "only 'cause your my only one."

I miss that. I miss a lot of things about Andrea.

When the door still didn't fly open, I reached into my pocket for my key. I could've used in the first place, but Andrea insisted on being the one to let me in.

Figuring Andrea went to sleep, I quietly closed the door and tip toed up the stairs, not wanting to wake her. I thought I would be the sweet brother, turn her music off, and check on her. But as I came up the stairs, I noticed her bedroom door was closed and locked.

The door splintered against my body as I slammed into it. Everything was in place except for a piece of paper on her bed. Calling out for her, I went into the bathroom and...the rest of it is a haze. Dr. Stanton says that sometimes the brain will block us from trauma in order to protect us, thus why I can't seem to recall the next few hours in detail.

I know I found Andrea, her wrists and the bathroom floor covered in blood. I know I called 911; I still have it showing on my caller history. I know an ambulance took my dying sister and I to the hospital where Mom works.

It was there I realized she wasn't contacted until I saw her face go from confusion to heartbreak as they were rushing Andrea into the E.R. Seeing her shift from the powerful, tough nurse hero to a terrified mother screaming and fighting through a horde of scrub donned people still haunts me.

That, a crimson tainted indigo dress, and "20:14."

Tears wet the pages of the journal I have written in for almost six months. But with them comes a release of carrying around such a burden for so long.

That day is a part of me, yes, but it doesn't feel like a chain around my neck anymore.

Word Count: 524 words

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Dear reader,

Whew! After an extremely busy week (and a weekend away without internet), I am excited to be back behind the keyboard and writing again, hopefully a little more regular than I have recently. I want to take a quick moment to say how much I admire those are able to publish often, along with caring for their families and working a part or full-time job. I don't know how you guys do it, but keep it up!

I greatly admire Gabriel for keeping up with writing in the gifted journal. I can only imagine that even after reaching the goal of writing down details of quite possibly the worst day of his life he would continue to do so. I have struggled to keep up such a habit time and time again, no matter how many times I or someone else has told me how beneficial it can be.

Now, you might notice the pretty specific time lapse mention in the beginning. There is a reason for that, one I am not going to tell you. It should become clear in due time. As I started to write Violet, I felt the need to make a slight change to the story to help explain the very specific time lapse.