[ MP ] Nothing Left to Say - Imagine Dragons

**Trigger warning: Abuse. ** 
 
 I lay in my bed, trying to sleep. I had school the next morning. Early morning. But I could clearly hear the argument coming from downstairs. My door creaked and I barely lifted my eyelids so I could see what was happening without looking like I was awake: but it was just my little sister. She peeked through the doorway, clutching her blanket, her tousled hair falling around her shoulders as she looked in at me. I sat up hurriedly and beckoned her in. She climbed in under my covers and I cuddled her close for a moment. 
 
 The argument began to rise in volume. 
 
 `` Tommy.'' she asked solemnly, whispering in my ear, `` Will you tell me a story.'' 
 
 `` Yes,'' I replied, just as solemnly, as per tradition. `` Did you bring the flashlight?'' 
 
 She reached into the front of her nightgown and handed it over. We draped the white sheet over our heads, making a tent we could make shadow puppets in. 
 
 A frog and a rabbit encountered each other in the woods. 
 
 We heard glass shatter and we both paused for a moment. 
 
 I continued the story, letting her add her own hand puppets as I invented reasons for a butterfly and a dog to enter the scene. 
 
 `` YOU GODDAMN BITCH, NOW YOU'RE GON NA SAY I HAVE TO DRIVE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL? GET SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT.'' 
 
 Then we heard a door slam and the car start, tires squealing as it pulled out of the driveway and roared drunkenly down the street. 
 
 My sister and I exchanged glances. 
 
 I was the one who went downstairs. 
 
 I called the police and ran back upstairs to my sister. 
 
 We went to the hospital. 
 
 Apparently I was in shock. 
 
 I think there should be another word for it. 
 
 Shock sounds short. 
 
 What I'm in is permanent. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 At the funeral, my sister wore white, and I wore blue. We did n't own any black clothes. We could n't go back to our house either. After we got bags on the first day, there were just a lot of police in our old house. Some of the attendees gave us strange looks, but they usually only lasted for a split second before they changed into pity. I could n't think of anything. My brain was full of static and my body felt like it was on auto pilot. It took a lot of effort to shape my mouth into words, much less politely thank the never ending stream of adults who approached, always looming above us in all black, sharing their `` deepest condolences.'' So my sister and I were silent. 
 
 As the ceremony ended, I sat beside my sister, trying to avoid looking at the granite gravestone stretching into the air over us. My sister cried, increasing in volume and panic until she was hyperventilating, her breath coming short and shallow in between sobs, hardly getting any air into her lungs. I finally pulled her as tight as I could to my chest and rubbed her back, whispering to her: `` It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay, it's going to be okay,'' over and over again, wishing I could say something true. Another shadow came over us, from a different angle, and I looked up. The man in the formal black suit with the name tag told us it was time to leave, and he helped me pull my sister up and bundle her off into his car. 
 
 In our first night in the new home, my door creaked open. I peeked out and saw my sister, this time with silent tears running down her cheeks. We pulled the sheet off the bed and draped it over the end of the bed, making our tent. I realized we'd forgotten the flashlight, but my sister pulled it out of her nightgown. 
 `` I put it in my bag when we packed.'' 
 I smiled, barely, and turned it on. We huddled together, and I tried to tell a story: 
 `` Once upon a time....'' but I trailed off. My brain could n't bring up any stories. It just kept bringing up different pictures of my mom… 
 
 
 
 the time when we were gardening and we found a huge knot of worms 
 
 holding her hand when we crossed the street 
 
 in the grocery store, begging her for popsicles 
 
 going to the park and swinging as high as we could 
 
 her glassy stare and the sticky, warm substance on my feet when I went downstairs 
 
 
 
 I felt my sister's hand curl around mine, and I pulled myself back into reality. 
 
 I had my body. Warm, and living, and strong, and able. And I had my sister. Alive, and real, and in need of me-but also supporting me. 
 
 And as we told our story together, the pent up tears streamed down my face. But now they were more than a lament; they were a release. 
 
 And the story we told that night was of two children. Who were brave, and strong, and though they lost their most faithful companion on the way, conquered every challenge that they faced. 
 
 And I knew that it *would* be okay.
