Tears are not something I am used to.
As a child, if somebody saw me crying, it meant something was terribly wrong. I watched my grandmother be buried with indifference. My dog was run over and had to be put down; I shrugged.
But now, walking underneath the cathedral arches that cast shadows on the floor, I’m fighting back tears that growl for release behind my eyes. The silent whispering of shoes is the only thing to be heard beyond the pounding of my heart.
I don’t want to do this. No, I can’t do this. This is the last thing Mom would’ve wanted - a somber occasion, the shimmering black garments defying the sadness behind the wearer’s eyes. It’s like they want to admit she is gone forever and give up, say goodbye, forget. I can’t do that.
The synagogue doors open with a dull slam. I flinch in surprise, diverting my eyes from the front of the procession. My sister, Isabel, is shuffling beside me. Her rich brown hair, much like mine, has come undone in the back. Isabel doesn’t seem to notice, though, and I realize it’s because she’s crying.
The sight of tears streaming down her face nearly unleashes mine. I blink furiously and glare at the ceiling. My gaze almost catches sight of the coffin leading the procession. I refuse to look at it. Nobody even asked me what I wanted for Mom, and what I want certainly isn’t this. Displaying her body for everybody to see? How sick is that?
They will be able to see her hollow face, worn from years of battle. Her beautiful brown hair will be gone, covered with a scarf to make it seem like her body hasn’t been torn apart by chemotherapy.
I remember the first day we learned of her illness.
“It’s going to be alright, Tori, I promise,” my mom had said as she reached forward to hug me.
But I backed away and shook my head. My vision was blurring - I didn’t know what from. I forced myself to take a breath, nearly choking on the scent of pine drifting from the adorned Christmas tree.
“No. It won’t! You can’t die. What’s going to happen to Isabel?” I stuttered, suddenly realizing what the blurriness was from. Tears. I took another breath, forcing myself to calm down.
“I’m not going to die. It’s just a benign tumor in my pancreas. Please, don’t freak out, Tors.”
But I could tell, despite her calm-enough tone, that she was terrified. With my father having died two weeks before I was born, I knew it must scare her to think that if she died her children would become orphans. A twenty-year-old and a fifteen-year-old, alone in this cold world.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
But her promise hadn’t been enough. Two years later, she had done just what she was afraid of doing - left her two daughters as orphans. As we enter into the domed room, lined with pews full of silent friends and family, I find it hard to breathe. Subconsciously, my eyes are scanning the pews of people. In my head, I’m judging them. They don’t deserve to be here, to honor my mother. None of them knew her.
I see a woman coddling a wailing infant. She doesn’t seem to notice, or care, that her child’s cries are disturbing the rest of the people; disturbing me. I want to yell at her to take her cursed child out of here, but I hold my tongue.
After I walk two more steps the baby calms down. It begins to suck on the pacifier and stare at its mother with such adoration that my heart cracks even further. My mind flashes back to a day, long, long ago.
I’m a small five year old, sitting in the middle of our living room floor with my arms crossed. My face was contorted in a pout.
“Don’t want a sister! I don’t want - no, no, no!” I screamed.
My mother, who was curled up on a rocker with a small, white bundle in her arms, turned her gaze toward her tantrum-prone daughter. Her face was drawn and dark bags were creeping up underneath her eyes. Flyaways that had escaped her bun fanned her face like a dark cloud.
“Well, Tori, there’s nothing to do it about it. Isabel is here now. You will love her when you’re older, I know you will. When life changes, you just need to go with it. Isabel is not the end of the world.” Each word was strained at the end like a rubber band stretched to its limit.
At that age, I had no idea just how strained she had been. There had been a man, nine months before this moment, who visited Mom every week. A rosy smile stretched across her face whenever he entered the house. But something changed. I didn’t know what was different, at that innocent age, but I did remember the fear as I watched him shout at Mom. When she tried to respond, he shoved her into the wall and left, slamming the door behind him. The sound was so forceful that my precious doll - sitting precariously on the edge of my bed - fell and shattered. Shattered like my mother’s heart.
I wiped my nose and blubbered about for a moment until I found my words. “So, there’s no way we can give her back?”
Mom’s laugh was like cotton candy to my small ears. “No. I can’t give her back. Come here, come look at your sister.”
I stood up, counting each step that it took to walk to the chair. I glared at my mother for a second before looking inside the tight bundle of blankets. My face immediately stretched into a grin as I reached down to pat Isabel’s velvety curls, my fingers curling around her cheeks.
“See, Tori. She isn’t that bad. Sometimes, when life throws something at you, just take it in stride. You’ll learn to deal with this - you will learn to deal with anything that comes your way,” she leaned forward to tap my nose, “because you’re strong.”


(It's actually around 3,000 words, but I couldn't find a place to end it so I just did it here. It's not complete, either lol)

Okay, so I'm gonna post all my short stories here lol… This one is not for the SWC contest, unless you are able to do to more than one, and if both combined are still under the word count? If that's possible, I'd like this one to be judged, as well. But idm.)

I killed myself last December.
I had been told to stay strong, keep fighting. But what they didn’t realize is that I’d already lost.
It hurt, yes - very much. I never expected death to hurt so bad. The pills slid down my throat with ease, but the pain that came afterwards was, ironically, like hell. Finally, the cold darkness engulfed my mind, sending the agony somewhere I would never recall it from. I didn't know where I expected to go, but when colors began to seep back into my vision and take forms, I never thought I would see my living room. There was a sort of terrifying calm around me, everything was silent - too silent. I turned my head and caught sight of myself, lying on the floor. I was pale, much too pale. Suddenly the feelings came back in a rush.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t redo it as I watched my parents run into the room and scream. The lights of the ambulance. None of it I could change or fix. Just watch. I couldn't even move; stuck in the same spot I died. Is this hell? I wondered. Is this my punishment?
Time passed in a blur. I didn't seem to process it, though. And that Christmas there was no tree. I sat, still on the floor of the living room, wishing that just one of those beautiful lights we strung across the boughs would be illuminated. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it, the music playing. No family dinner full of smiles and laughter, the one day of the year that I truly felt happy. Loved.
As I watched my mother, frail and pale now from lack of sunshine and food, walk into the living room and stare at the spot near the window where the bright green tree would be, I heard her whisper.
“Why did you kill yourself, Lexi?”
A million emotions, trapped, unable to burst, jolted through my mind. I remembered how much pain I was in, every single day, every single moment. The constant loneliness, the anguish, the darkness. The hatred for myself.
Because you told me to be happy, Mom.
Somehow I could see my friends in their rooms, some sort of spiritual vision. I had never realized how much they cared for me until the moment I saw them screaming into their pillows, tears streaming down their faces. Until the moment I saw my best friend curling up on her bed, rocking back and forth, struggling to put down the pills clenched tightly in her hand.
And I frowned in confusion because I had thought that people didn’t care for me. That they would be happier without me. That I would be happier without me. That they didn't need to know how I was feeling. But as time passed in this reality between life or death, I realized that I had tried, day after day, in every joke and smile, every “I’m fine,” and “It’s okay,” to tell them how I felt. But maybe I hadn’t tried hard enough.

Five months after I died it was April. The leaves were turning green, the flowers were blooming. Spring was starting. But I still hadn’t seen my friends and family smile like they had when I was around.
Again, from my unmoving spot on the carpet floor, I saw my sister. She was sitting on a rock near the lake, staring at a carving of our names that her and I had made when we were little. Rubbing it with a finger, she closed her eyes and bit her lip.
“Oh, Lexi. Killing yourself doesn’t stop the pain. It just passes it on to somebody else.”
And I realized, right then, that she was right. And there was nothing I could do to change what I had done. I started to think that maybe people had loved me. Maybe I was the one that made their lives worth living. Maybe I had been the only one to make that boy in math class smile everyday. I told him jokes because I knew what it was like to not be able to be happy, and now he had a reason to smile.
Maybe I was the girl that talked the others out of suicide. That truthfully reassured them how lovely, beautiful, wonderful, precious they were, because she didn’t feel the same about herself; quite the opposite.
Maybe people did miss me. Love me. Need me.
Maybe there could’ve been hope.
Too bad I only realized that when I was already gone.

What's this SWC thing? And link to thread?

Hex4Nova wrote:

What's this SWC thing? And link to thread?

SWC Is ‘Scratch Writing Camp’, but the sign-ups are already closed. There will be another session in November, so maybe you could join that. It's a month-long writing camp with activities and cabins and such, and a contest <3

I like them!

Heyyy it's one of your judges, the late one lol
would you like a personal critique?

kathylaura wrote:

Heyyy it's one of your judges, the late one lol
would you like a personal critique?

'Sup! And yes, go ahead!

kathylaura wrote:

Heyyy it's one of your judges, the late one lol
would you like a personal critique?

Can I get one? *raises eyebrows repetitively*

TheEnderQueen wrote:

Can I get one? *raises eyebrows repetitively*

boi this is my personal critique XD

TheEnderQueen wrote:

kathylaura wrote:

Heyyy it's one of your judges, the late one lol
would you like a personal critique?

Can I get one? *raises eyebrows repetitively*

Oh no