I Found My Sister’s Diary After She Disappeared
“Just shut the fuck up,” said the voice on the other side of the door. I stared at the door. I had only heard Emma use “bad words” on two occasions — once in middle school when she called Stacy Anderson a “stupid fucking bitch,” and once in her junior year of high school when she said Steve Connelly had “a fucking tiny little baby prick” (I remember their names because they had obviously said or done something very bad to cause my sister to use those words). She had never cursed at me. Of course we fought, she was a human being and did raise her voice to me and to our mom, and my mom and I also were human — more angry humans — and raised our voices, too. We cussed frequently, though. Emma…Emma just didn’t. I said she was kind. She was also patient. She didn’t curse at me because I insulted her collection of junk. She didn’t curse because the meatballs weren’t homemade. I didn’t know why she said those things to me. I was hurt. I went back into the kitchen and stuffed my face with spaghetti and meatballs. I ate while I cried. You have to say or do something very bad to get Emma Jane Quinn to curse at you.
I didn’t hear a word from Emma or from her room all night. I stayed home. I had time to think that, since Emma had said she was not content with her lifestyle, I noticed in her some sort of sad resignation, like she knew that she would one day end up discarded and useless like all of the broken lamps and torn pictures and ripped sheets she would take out of people’s garbage bins. I was channel surfing because I couldn’t focus my mind on any one program. I was mentally distracted. At around one in the morning, I turned the TV off to go to bed, and I heard laughter. It was coming from Emma’s room. I tip-toed to stand outside her door, and I listened. I heard a faint giggle, but then silence. I almost said her name, begged for her to explain what I did to make her so upset, but then I became angry and thought why should I beg for an explanation? Why should I say sorry? I didn’t fucking do anything. I bit my tongue and went to my own room. At least she was happy.
Emma did not come out of her room for breakfast. I woke up around 9 am, hungry, and hunger for me is a great motivator to get out of bed. I didn’t ask Emma what she wanted to eat, I just made us some omelets. I walked down the short hallway to her room, and was surprised to see her door was open. I knocked anyway.
“Emma?” I said softly. “I made some eggs with spinach and stuff. Are you hungry? Could we talk?” I stood there for a full two minutes until I thought fuck her privacy and I pushed her door open.