I Found My Sister’s Diary After She Disappeared
I stood at the threshold to her room, a shrine for unwanted things. She had leaned her new mirror against one of her walls, moving a small bookshelf to do so. From where I stood, her left profile was facing me, and she was sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror. It was shiny now. It was reflective like a mirror should be. The wood looked better, too, and I saw dirty Pledge wipes in her garbage can. She must have grabbed those from the closet when I was sleeping. She didn’t look angry — didn’t look like she would say, “Just shut the fuck up,” to her only sister with whom she had a good relationship, but she did look distracted. Maybe that isn’t the right word, but Emma looked like she was not fully aware of where she was. Although she looked content if not happy, she looked more like she was watching an entertaining movie than sitting on her floor staring into a mirror. But now I knew better than to insult her mirror, or anything else she owned. I watched her sit, with a smile on her face, for four minutes and 18 seconds (I was wearing a watch). Then I said, still gently, “Emma? I made breakfast.” She turned her head, slowly, and looked at me. No, that’s wrong. She stared through me. And she no longer looked like she was watching something entertaining. “Uh…Emma…I’m sorry if I upset you. Do you want me to bring your—“ And she threw a piece of splintered wood from a broken TV stand at me.
Thankfully I ducked in time, shouting “What the fuck is wrong with you!” and it hit the hallway wall behind me instead of smashing into my face. “Emma, you are fucking nuts! What the fuck, Emma? Emma!” I thought maybe saying her name would bring her back into reality. I was more shocked than angry; I didn’t understand what was wrong with my sister. “Get out,” she said, in a low voice. She sounded the same, yet she spoke as if she didn’t know me. Standing in the hallway now, I watched as she turned her face back to her mirror and smiled once again. Enjoying whatever she was seeing. “You’re fucked up, Emma,” I told her, risking getting something else thrown at me. She ignored me. I went to the kitchen to throw out her breakfast and to eat mine. Not much could ruin my appetite. In fact, experiencing negative emotions usually made me hungrier. I decided to eat her omelet instead of dumping it in the trash.
We didn’t speak for more than a week. Not because I was holding a grudge, but because Emma was in her room with her door locked. I gave in one day, and I did what she used to do when I was a little kid and would accidentally lock myself in my room; I took a debit card and slid it between the lock and door jamb to open the door. I went into her room and sat next to her in front of the mirror. I grabbed her chin to turn her face toward me, to give her the opportunity to remember that I existed. As I turned her head, her eyes stayed focused on her mirror. We stayed like that for about ten seconds, and then she put her hands around my throat. She climbed on top of me and her face was expressionless as she choked me. Her arms were straight and locked at the elbows. I tried to grab her hair and scratch at her face. I pinched and punched her legs and ribs but she wasn’t affected. Instead of attacking her, I reached for her mirror. I hit it with the side of my fist, and it fell forward onto Emma’s back. She made no noise but let go of me immediately and put her mirror back in place. I stood up quickly, gasping for breath, and I saw the knife sticking out of her back pocket. Emma, on her knees, stared into her mirror. She had no words for me, and I had none for her. I ran out of her room and stayed at a friend’s house for three nights.