No title.

No title.

She passed me in the hallway. Her name was Sam, and she walked ahead of me
quickly, faster than usual, clearly irritated. Everyone always stayed out of her way during school. The sweat was pasted on her forehead. She had dirt wood brown hair. It was really nasty and oily and extremely frizzy. She had green eyes, a pale itchy green, the kind you see on pine trees. The two things together didn’t make a pleasant combination. She was as finicky as a weasel or a scaredy cat or something. It was sort of annoying, actually. Except, she was really shy and timid, too. Everything you said she had something to “declare” about it. That was before the deaths, though.
Someone came in the classroom one day and told her she had a phone call in the office. She walked through the light wood door that looked like it was about to topple over. She was wondering what was wrong. She picked up the phone, put it to her red nervous ears. “Hello, Miss Roberie.” She heard the police officer say sorry profusely. She just waited for him to finish reiterating the same thing over and over again. “I’m so sorry I have to be the one to say this dreadful news. I-” he stuttered continuously. Once he was done, he slowly and painfully said, “Both of you parents are dead. I do have the most remorse for you, Miss Roberie.” That was the phone call that destroyed her life like acid destroys mildew and mold on shower walls. That was when she just stopped talking…she stopped living. She was simply a dot on the planet; not wanting to be there, but not wanting to get off. She never raised her hand in class. She never went to school functions or anything like that. Seeing her every day act so differently from how she used to in middle school was painful. I know I didn’t mean much too her at the time of her parents death, but I tried to make her days at school a little bit easier. I didn’t tease her like I used to. I didn’t prove her wrong in class when she actually gave an answer. And when we passed in hallways, I said hey, and asked her what was up. She never did answer, but sometimes she gave me a little nod with her shoulder twitching. Sometimes, when I was up late at night playing on my computer, I would think of her, and wonder what she was doing. Was she crying herself to sleep with black puddles of mascara flowing down her cheeks? Or would her lips be all chapped and her hair all tangled? Maybe she would be just lying there, reading, or thinking of the long lost memories with her parents. No one in school knew what her life was like… or what it must be like to have both of your parents gone…forever. And to know that they’re never coming back.
There were not many rumors about her since this did happen three years ago. When it did first happen though, the gossip obsessed teenagers could not stop talking. And even the students’ parents talked about her too. Then they told their thoughts to their kids and then their kids told their friends and it was all over town in no time. And it was so easy for this to happen, too, because it was such a small town. Everybody knew everyone. However, when it did first happen, the rumors were tormenting to even hear. “Like, I think she killed her own parents!” one of my old friends was telling me one day. I told her to shut up and that wasn’t true. We weren’t friends anymore after that. “I think, that she planned the entire thing. She clearly just wanted some attention. I mean, she probably sent someone to kill her parents for her, so that she wouldn’t get in trouble. I get that, though. I mean, if you really wanted to kill somebody, you wouldn’t want to risk
your life to do it, would you?” I slapped her. We weren’t friends anymore either. And after that I realized how stupid I was before Sam’s parents died. Now, I know how mean and cruel I was to her. I ruined parts of her life. Her parents’ death really taught me something. I think it taught everyone something, though. The typical, probably, about how, “Death is so unexpected! And it’s so horrible, too! But it will never happen to me, I mean, that’s so rare.” And even thought that’s not true, I guess it counts for something.
One day I saw her with a book in her hand. It was blue, and there was a red rose painted on it, perfectly. The petals curled like they were supposed to and the thorns came up at the right spots. And the colors were all good. I wish I knew what was in it sometimes. Maybe she’s writing a magical story to distract herself from the troubles of her own reality. Or maybe it was a book someone else had written that helped her in overcoming her parent’s death. It could even be a journal, her just scribbling down thoughts in her head. One day, I was in the restroom and I saw her. I said my typical hey and she ran out, leaving her book on the cabinet. I opened it and saw the last page filled. The ink was smudged, as if she was writing so quickly that her hand smoothed over it, pulling the ink across the page. The last three words read, “I miss them.” I kept the book for the rest of the day. And I could not stop reading it. It was some amazing writing. I’m not any fancy writer or anything, but I know good writing when I see it. I read it even when the teachers were hovering over me telling me to put it away. It was filled with poetry and drawings. She drew a lot of hearts, but not the typical ones you usually see. She did shadowing on them and drew different colors. She drew all kinds of trees and flowers and various forms of nature. Exploding volcanoes and raging tsunamis and rapid
rain falling on all of this. It was astonishing. There was lightening too, striking trees and silver shiny poles.
“One day, a sunny, serene day, my parents died. 9/9/06. I cried my body out like a river. Like the estuary flowing out into the river. It’s like someone put oil all over me and lit a match, throwing it into the air and for some reason, it chose to land on me. I never did recover, really. I still feel like I’m on fire. Like a lightening bolt hit me. The rain keeps coming in heavy storms, hurricanes, causing my head to blow up like a volcano. I saw the fire balls being spit up into the air. I saw the steaming black coal thrown randomly into the air. And the source of all this chaos is, in fact, me. Everyone makes fun of me at school and there are rumors everywhere. Maybe some of it was true. Maybe I did kill my parents. They never found any evidence of how exactly they died. The cops just found them, lying on the road, not breathing, and ceasing to exist. They found them at seven thirty eight that morning with no wounds to be found. They searched the insides of their bodies, looking for poison, bullets, injured organs, anything. But there was nothing, nothing at all. Day by day I don’t know how I make it. Every breath I feel like I’m going to pass out and everywhere I look is blurry. Nothing is ever definite in my vision. And people wonder why I don’t speak. Every time I talk I get nauseous. I write because it distracts me. I know that one day someone will find this and they’ll finally begin to understand. But no one can know what I’m going through. Because all deaths have a reason. And my parents’ deaths do not have a reason. They do not have a purpose.
My aunt and my uncle are not a part of this story but I must mention them for all they have tried to do for me. They have supported me largely. Every day they come home, running to my room to make sure I’m not crying or I haven’t committed suicide, yet.
My mother was beautiful in the most feminine of ways. She had very long red hair like the color of fresh strawberries in the summer. She matched this color on her lips with the most red lipstick. And then she wore turquoise eye shadow and charcoal black eye liner. Then she wore lots of purple. That shade of lavender purple that was identical to the color of her eyes.
My father had brown hair like mine. He had my color eyes and always wore bleak blue. An ugly neon blue. The color didn’t suit him. He was very messy and very selfish compared to my goddess mother. If he ate a pizza when we weren’t home, we’d come home and it would still be there with flies all over it and then we’d find him sleeping in my mother’s bedroom. And with his shoes on, too. I loved him, but he was very arrogant and displeasing to the eyes.
My parents are gone now. I wish I could change it. I miss them.


Sarah Roberie Johnny Roberie
6/16/67 – 9/9/06 8/19/66 – 9/9/06
R.I.P”
That was all I got to read before she came up to me in the hallway, and said, “Give it back.” Tears were strolling down her cheeks and her eyes were swollen red. I gave it back to her, said sorry, and she started walking quickly away.