The Storm of One's Own Bending

Day 1.

I'm worried about my sister.

It's easy to get caught in the past

And, my, do we let that strangling last.

It hasn't been more than a year since the accident, but I had hoped Lucy would have healed by now. I had hoped she wouldn't have been affected. Not like this.

Raging, tearing, never ending,

Is the storm of one's own bending.

Although her physique had been marred, the bandages and casts came off soon enough. The scars remained, though, and her emotions, her psyche, have failed to recover.

Detrimental, never healing,

Is this endless, grinding feeling.

Lucy used to be extremely creative. She would whip the most whimsical thoughts out of thin air, putting them to paper in short stories, drawings or poems, and excitedly show them to our parents. Never was there a bare spot on our fridge.

Changes in thought, mind, and intellect

Are not taught--and hard to resurrect.

My sister used to prattle for hours on end about her ideas, pausing every so often to be sure I was still listening. I would nod or agree, and her bright emerald eyes would sparkle with the brilliant radiance of a thousand stars. 

What happened to the beauty mark

That used to define the light from the dark?

When I would doze off, purely by accident, her eyes would widen in indignant shock, and narrow into humorously dangerous green slits. "Oh, brother, you are going to pay..." she would whisper, giggling darkly. 

Time begins to blur

As though it never even were.

Or so I heard from others watching. Although I can easily picture the scene, the only part I experienced was waking up with my fingernails painted, or makeup smeared all over my face. Lucy would be standing nearby, prodding me awake with a devilish grin and a mirror in hand to show me her latest work. 

The sanity, what you once knew

Gets tossed from your world, too.

I suppose, being the older brother, I was required to pay attention to my little sister's needs--neglecting these duties meant that I would pay, and I would pay dearly.

The devastation, destruction within

Casts about a foolish grin.

Being a little over a year ago, it seems like this time is frozen in our history. As of late, though, Lucy has been very reserved. I haven't heard the relieving sound of her voice for the longest time, and she often slips away to her room to be alone.

For it is here, they do say...

The Lucy I know is changing.

That pain is endless--and here to stay.

Sometimes we have no words to speak

To the ones we love most.

They crumble, in your mouth,

Like the world crumbles before you.

Depression rears its ugly head

And casts a grotesque shadow

Across the floor of my bedroom,

Covering the brightly colored walls

In a hopeless shade of gray.

It swallows the knob to my door

And blackens the windows to my behind.

There is no way out--

Not through denial, anger, or pain

Not through sadness, hope, or gain

But through redemption, shown in self-sacrifice

Causing one to rise

To the skies

Forgetting the conflicting problems inside.

Let them battle each other.

The fight is relentless,

The victor is chosen,

And it's not worth the treasured trove or

The terrible result that losing reveals

Because, in the end, that's the reality of winning... that's how it feels.

My sister is still as artistic as ever-- a sign that some of her has survived. I found the above printed poem at her desk, along with several other works. I don't know what to make of it, other than to worry. What can I say to comfort her about our parents' deaths? The Lucy I know is in pain.

Day 2.

I'm finding more and more poems written by Lucy. She must be up in the late hours of the night, for whenever I go to wake her in the morning, the lamp beside the desk is still burning brightly. Normally, this would be of no concern to me--however, the context in her poems is becoming darker and darker...

It's a useless war

This fight for you

And I cannot take anymore.

I've written so many depressed things

Because I've seen what loss brings.

And yet, it's also bliss

The happiness that comes from this.

It's easy to get caught in the past

And, my, do we let that strangling last.

For when people lock themselves away

They can no longer speak the day

For time begins to blur

As though it never even were.

Changes in thought, mind, and intellect

Are not taught--and hard to resurrect.

The realism of your written word

Expands itself; makes itself be heard

Through invisible barriers--

Honed by invisible carriers.

And as the words do grow,

You feel your brain begin to blow.

The sanity, what you once knew

Gets tossed from your world, too.

When the clouds in your mind finally clear

You feel yourself giving up--the end is near.

What happened to the beauty mark

That used to define the light from the dark?

The doctors say it's normal to vent one's feelings in writing in some form or fashion. I wish I could help Lucy, but I'm not sure how. I'm beginning to get terrible headaches, triggered by something I'm not sure of. Although this doesn't hinder me too much, I can't help my sister deal with her trauma because I can't relate.

I wasn't there, in the car, when it collided with another vehicle. I wasn't there to witness the explosion, to see the last expressions flicker across the faces. I wasn't there to hear the sound of tires screeching, the screaming bystanders, or the metal searing, nor did I feel the burn from the hot flames against my cheeks... I wasn't there. The Lucy I know is grieving.

Day 3.

Lucy's getting progressively worse. As she buries herself deeper and deeper in her thoughts and writing, I feel I'm losing more and more of my sister.

Rereading old thoughts

Is often a waste of my time.

For my head gets full of clots

And I get lost in rhyme.

Somewhere, in the lines,

I lost my inner sanity.

The paper, a battlefield, is full of mines

Of complete calamity.

Where are we?

Where is my expression?

I have misplaced my glee

And forced upon this page my confession.

It's easy to say words

But difficult to reemerge

Without a reminder,

Life couldn't be kinder.

People's beliefs are strung along

Even when it seems like they might be wrong.

It's an act of desperation, the kindling hope

That buries itself in one's chest--if only one could cope.

Again and again,

So came the rhymes,

But it didn't matter, then.

We are no longer in those times.

Unshed tears and trickling drops of expression

Escape in more ways than one.

To the page, from these tears, which never lessen,

I've really come undone.

It's no longer a worthy fight.

I cannot see reason to stay.

It's incredible.

But it's inevitable.

Detrimental, never healing,

Is this endless, grinding feeling.

As I read her poetry this morning, Lucy woke up. All I heard at first was the scuffing of the bedpost and lighter breathing, but I knew at once she had awoken. She must have sat there, staring at nothing for an eternity, before finally taking notice of me.
For the first time in months, Lucy talked to me. "I wish I could forget that day," she whispered. Without speaking, I moved to the bed to sit beside her. She kept her eyes closed, with a grim expression set about her features.
"Reveling in sadness won't get you anywhere, you know?" I murmured after a long while, searching her face for answers.
"You're one to talk," she spit the words at me, her face a perfect picture of contempt.
I winced. "Yeah, I know."
"Why do you do it?" she inquired curiously.
"Huh?"
"Why do you torture yourself like this? I don't understand it," she opened her eyes, piercing me with an emerald stare.
"Torture myself? You're the one that can't forget." My flat tone held no emotion whatsoever.
She sighed, "Of course you'd say that," turning on one side and pulling the covers over her entire body. I began to reach for the blankets to question her further when the familiar aching in the back of my head started up again. I quickly left her room, searching the house for an aspirin. When I returned, she had fallen into a peaceful slumber.
The Lucy I know is misunderstood.

Day 4.

When I awoke this morning, I found bits of ripped up paper all over the house. Random letters were scribbled onto them, but of course none of it made sense in the mess that presented itself. Starting from my own room, the pieces made a trail throughout the house, all leading to Lucy's room. "Luce, are you doing okay...?" I spoke aloud, knocking on the door. It creaked open, leaving me open-jawed to stare at the room before me.
Piles of ripped and shredded paper carpeted the floor, blotted with black and red ink. Crudely written letters were strewn in lines across the walls, forming into words and stanzas:

Raging, tearing, neverending,

Is the storm of one's own bending.

When thought upon, the fact is true

It's not about what is merely a clue

Really, as the innermost winds do whip,

One sees their perspective start to flip

And in that timespan, lo and behold,

Is when the rain does cease to unfold

And as the storm comes to an utmost stop

Unlikely quiet resounds overtop

The devastation, destruction within

Casts about a foolish grin

For it is here, they do say

That pain is endless--and here to stay.

"Luce..." My eyes fell upon the little girl seated at the foot of her bed, staring at the walls.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she spoke clearly, without turning to acknowledge me.
"Why did you write that?" I gasped.
"Wait a second," her head flipped around to show me the disbelief in her expression, "You think I did this?"
"Who else would have done it?" My voice began to raise, irritation tinting the edges, but it calmed as I realized who I was talking to. Taking a deep breath, I began slowly, "You're unstable, Lucy. I can get you help--"
"The only one that needs help around here is you," she hissed, her emerald eyes narrowing, "Can you even remember?" An aching feeling shot through my temples and head, causing me to collapse onto the ground.
"What?" I rasped, twisting in agony.
"I haven't been writing these poems. This--" she gestured to the walls and floor, "is all your own subconscious undoing."
I didn't answer. I couldn't answer above the throbbing pain rising in my skull.
Lucy appeared beside me within an instant, cradling my pounding cranium. "I'm sorry... But whether you accept it or not, you're the mastermind behind this story. You were the driver that night, Peter."
I blacked out.
The Lucy I know remembers.

Day 5.

I fazed in and out of consciousness. Attempting to stand up, much less move, was out of the question. My mind began swimming with questions, but with each inquiry came another stab at the back of my head. I remained still, forcing my eyes to stay closed to keep the pain at a minimum.

"Did I not tell you that you'd pay?" Lucy's voice suddenly rang beside me, trilling with laughter.
"What are you talking about?" I squeaked, wincing at the sharp infliction it gave to my temples.
"Remember, silly? You'd fall asleep listening to me talk... I wasn't that boring, was I?" she sighed.
"I don't understand," I sighed as well, "Where are you?"
"Patience," Lucy snapped, then softened. "You'll find out soon enough. How's your headache?"
"Terrible," I managed a grimace, "But, hey, you know how to operate a phone. Could you do me a favor and, uh. Call an ambulance? Get me an aspirin, something? I'm dyin' here."
"No need. You're already taken care of."
"I'm lying in the doorway to your bedroom, Luce. With a headache so bad I'm surprised I'm even awake." I moaned as another spasm shook my brain, "My situation isn't exactly taken care of."
She snorted, "You're right about one thing, at least."
"And what would that be?"
"Well, you're not awake," she spoke simply. "You fell asleep on me again, dumby."
"Explain to me how I wake up, then?"
She squealed delightfully, as though pleased with my answer, but her positive response wasn't as pleasing, "I have no idea! You've been asleep for a long time."
"And you're telling me this now?"
"Well, when you're in a coma for nearly a year, how am I supposed to reach you?" her humorous tone gave off a hint of pent-up anger. So I'd been in a coma since the accident.
I didn't respond, and silence passed between us for so long that I was certain she had left by the time Lucy spoke again, "Open your eyes. It won't hurt like you think it will."
"Why should I? Why don't I just die like Mom and Dad did?"
"Because I need you."
Without hesitance, I opened my eyes.
The Lucy I know has returned.