You Grew Up Too Fast

You probably don’t remember me.

I was fifteen and you were thirteen when we met, and we only knew each other for four days. You had run away from your foster home and found family in a gang. You were addicted to ice, crack, heroin, and a bunch of drugs I had never even heard of. You were also one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.

You were kind down to your bones, if a little rightfully jaded, and you never laid a finger on me, even though the nurses warned me you would be temperamental. Your eyes were like melted chocolate, sweet and warm and completely at odds with the cigarette-shaped scars on your arms. Your bangs were crooked and your teeth were a little funny, but my heart shattered into pieces whenever you smiled. I remember thinking then, What kind of monster would hurt someone like you?

You taught me what anger felt like.

When I was younger, I knew sadness that cracked at the marrow of my bones, fear that paralyzed every blood vessel, insanity that scuttled beneath the skin and could only be removed with a blade—but I had never known true rage until I met you. I hated the way the nurses talked to you, the way they sedated you with syringes like you were a disobedient animal. I hated that they punished you for something that wasn’t your fault. I hated the way they grabbed you, jerking you around like a doll when your tone displeased them. Get off, I always thought, get off get off she’s just a child leave her alone get off of her—

When I was awake in the middle of the night, shivering with wet hair and thin blankets, something painfully foreign came alive within me. It was hot and sharp, lancing through my rib cage and twisting up in my throat. It didn’t feel like familiar black coil of emotion that often fixed itself in the pit of my stomach. It was brighter, sharper, and all I could focus on was what a nurse had said to you earlier. You’d borrowed a shirt from your friend down the hall, and she’d been upset.

“Sharing clothes is against the rules,” she said.

You told her, “I don’t see the big deal. Other people get new shirts all the time.”

“Other people have families to bring them clothes.”

My heart broke. I waited for you to cry or scream, but all you did was grit your teeth and hand over the godforsaken shirt. I’m still furious with that nurse. She didn’t know you. You had a beautiful singing voice and a contagious laugh. You asked me to braid your hair while you described what withdrawal felt like. We practiced our accents and impressions while you told me about the forty-year-old man that decided you would be an appropriate girlfriend for him. You snuck Play-Doh into my room when I was bored, and I stole you a few extra cookies when the nurses failed to bring you food.

On the day I left, you asked if I could leave you my shampoo and conditioner. It wasn’t allowed, but you said, “It’s the only thing that doesn’t smell like hospital.” One last disobedience, one last rebellion of ours before the very end. I could never say no to you.

I remember how you stood there, staring at me, before I left. You looked so sad and so young. I ran forward to give you our first and last hug. I wanted to take you with me. I wanted to promise that I would find you again someday, that you could live with me and my family. You could be my sister.

But even then, I knew, and you knew, that we would never see each other again.

I was spoiled with help, therapy, and medicine, but no one so much as offered you a kind word. And still you treated me with the respect of an equal—as if I could ever understand what you’d been through. As if you didn’t have every right to hate me. You opened your heart to me even though we barely knew each other. You changed my life, and I’ll never forget you.

I hope more than anything that you’re still alive, and it kills me that I’ll probably never know for sure. I hope that you’re safe now. I hope you’re happy. You are the strongest girl I have ever met. You deserve all the stars in the sky and all the wonders in the world, and I’ll miss you more than you’ll ever know.