Lay Awake
by Melody Melendez
Tears cling to my eyelashes, the same way I’m clinging to what Maricela looked like before. Her rosy cheeks, her ever-present dimples from laughing and smiling. Her long brown hair that was always braided back. How she would mock me for small things, like the way my glasses would slip down my nose—I was forever pushing them back up. How she would hold me when I would cry when I was younger, and when we were both in high school. She would do those things because that’s what an older sister does.
You’re not supposed to see your older sister lying in an open casket at seventeen, with makeup caked on to take away the deathly pale. Makeup that they couldn’t even get to match the beautiful caramel color she is.
Used to be, I correct myself. There is no more “is.” I will never use the present tense with Mari again.
I take in a shaky breath and start to back away from the open casket. I grasp at my chest, as if doing so might get me more air. I can’t breathe. The room fades away, the quiet murmur of apologies and crying fading into a dull hum. The hum turns into a piercing sound that hurts my ears. The only thing I can see is Mari. Mari in her least favorite dress. Mari with her dark brown eyes closed.
Mari, gone.
And suddenly the image in front of me changes. I’m eight again, and Maricela is ten. She’s chasing me around our Tio Martin’s yard. The sun is warm and the smell of carne asada wafts all around me as I laugh.
“You’re not going to catch me!” I shout, a grin spreading across my face.
I look back at Mari. Except it’s not Mari. Not the ten-year-old Mari with her toothy smile. It’s Mari with the horrible makeup and gray tint. It’s Mari in the dress she hates. It’s Mari with dull brown eyes. Lifeless.
The sound is back, the sound that’s haunted me even when Mari was still alive. Rattle, rattle, rattle go the pills in the bottle—the bottles Mari didn’t even pretend to hide. She swallows them, pill by painful pill. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t leave her. With each swallow, another piece of her disintegrates. She’s turning into bones right in front of me.
“Your fault!” She screams. “Look at me, Ruby! Your fault! Why didn't you save me? Why didn’t you help me? I hate you! I—”
I sit up in my bed, drenched in sweat and gasping. I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. “Just a dream,” I mutter to myself. “Just a dream. Just a dream.” I take a final deep breath and lift my head, opening my eyes. My phone tells me it’s 3:37 in the morning. “Demon hour” my abuela calls it. She’s right, except she only fears the demons from the pits of Hell. She fears imaginary demons—far away demons from books. I fear real ones—up-close demons that only those weighted with guilt must fear.
I lay back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Even in the dark, I can see the faint outline of stars. Not my handiwork, or Mari’s. My mom said a family used to live here, two happy parents with one happy daughter. I bet their daughter was the kind of girl who’d forget to brush her teeth before bed—but she wouldn’t forget to wish upon the green glow of those stars stuck to her ceiling. She wished for snow on Christmas, a cell phone for her birthday, and a summer in Paris.
Now the stars have lost their glow.
I close my eyes tightly, not wanting to see their empty outlines anymore. Wishes may work for other happy girls, but my sleepless nights won’t be whisked away so easily. No matter how many stars I beg for help.
If I had had a nightmare this bad six months ago, I wouldn’t be alone right now. Mari would have heard me from the other room and come to give me a tight hug for comfort, maybe even stayed the night.
It’s been two months since Mari’s been dead.
But it’s been six since she’s been gone.
No one ever tells you that one day you might have to watch someone waste away in front of you. No one prepares you for it, and even if they did, it wouldn’t hurt the same as watching it happen. It’s like seeing a rose wilt. The petals falling, the flower shrinking in on itself. Something beautiful withered to nothing.
The days pass, and I’m still haunted. I see her sitting at her desk or working at the kitchen table. I hear her humming through the bedroom walls, and I can smell the flowery perfume she put on before school. Sometimes it seems as though I’m the only one in this house who can’t return to any type of normal. But I know my parents feel her too. Mama falters when she’s taken out four plates instead of three; Papa slows when he passes her closed bedroom door late at night. Some days the rosary beads are left in the living room with an abandoned lighter and a candle, as if someone thought to pray, but never did.
And yet, they won’t say her name, and they won’t acknowledge her picture on the living room walls. They talk to me about school instead. They went back to work. They pretend that everything is normal. It’s like they can’t let themselves think about her for too long—as if the mere thought of her could destroy what family they have left. Mama only cried for a week. A week she cried for the death of someone she raised for seventeen years. Papa's eyes only watered the day we got the call.
God, that call.
The gravelly voice on the other end of the line is engraved into my mind like a permanent tattoo. There was so much remorse behind it. Sympathy, surely. A deep sadness that comes into everyone’s voice when they have to tell someone else that their loved one has died.
“Overdose”
“Grappled with addiction”
“Didn’t get there in time”
“Too late”
I remember not crying as I heard the words. I felt nothing. Numb. All I could do was absentmindedly stroke Mama’s back as my dad arranged when we could see her. Except he didn’t say “her.” He said “the body.” She wasn’t even dead for twenty-four hours, and Papa had plucked her out of existence. She didn’t own anything here anymore.
I don’t want to keep remembering. I don’t want to keep dreaming about her—about her casket, about her childhood, about her withering away in front of me. I don’t want to relive it every day.
I just want one day. One night. An hour. I just want a moment where the guilt won’t settle over me like a thick gray fog that never seems to clear. No one ever told me guilt could be so heavy. So suffocating.
I’m starting to fear that by the time I reach the same age as Mari, there won’t be any of me left…
You’re not supposed to see your older sister lying in an open casket at seventeen, with makeup caked on to take away the deathly pale. Makeup that they couldn’t even get to match the beautiful caramel color she is.
Used to be, I correct myself. There is no more “is.” I will never use the present tense with Mari again.
I take in a shaky breath and start to back away from the open casket. I grasp at my chest, as if doing so might get me more air. I can’t breathe. The room fades away, the quiet murmur of apologies and crying fading into a dull hum. The hum turns into a piercing sound that hurts my ears. The only thing I can see is Mari. Mari in her least favorite dress. Mari with her dark brown eyes closed.
Mari, gone.
And suddenly the image in front of me changes. I’m eight again, and Maricela is ten. She’s chasing me around our Tio Martin’s yard. The sun is warm and the smell of carne asada wafts all around me as I laugh.
“You’re not going to catch me!” I shout, a grin spreading across my face.
I look back at Mari. Except it’s not Mari. Not the ten-year-old Mari with her toothy smile. It’s Mari with the horrible makeup and gray tint. It’s Mari in the dress she hates. It’s Mari with dull brown eyes. Lifeless.
The sound is back, the sound that’s haunted me even when Mari was still alive. Rattle, rattle, rattle go the pills in the bottle—the bottles Mari didn’t even pretend to hide. She swallows them, pill by painful pill. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t leave her. With each swallow, another piece of her disintegrates. She’s turning into bones right in front of me.
“Your fault!” She screams. “Look at me, Ruby! Your fault! Why didn't you save me? Why didn’t you help me? I hate you! I—”
I sit up in my bed, drenched in sweat and gasping. I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. “Just a dream,” I mutter to myself. “Just a dream. Just a dream.” I take a final deep breath and lift my head, opening my eyes. My phone tells me it’s 3:37 in the morning. “Demon hour” my abuela calls it. She’s right, except she only fears the demons from the pits of Hell. She fears imaginary demons—far away demons from books. I fear real ones—up-close demons that only those weighted with guilt must fear.
I lay back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Even in the dark, I can see the faint outline of stars. Not my handiwork, or Mari’s. My mom said a family used to live here, two happy parents with one happy daughter. I bet their daughter was the kind of girl who’d forget to brush her teeth before bed—but she wouldn’t forget to wish upon the green glow of those stars stuck to her ceiling. She wished for snow on Christmas, a cell phone for her birthday, and a summer in Paris.
Now the stars have lost their glow.
I close my eyes tightly, not wanting to see their empty outlines anymore. Wishes may work for other happy girls, but my sleepless nights won’t be whisked away so easily. No matter how many stars I beg for help.
If I had had a nightmare this bad six months ago, I wouldn’t be alone right now. Mari would have heard me from the other room and come to give me a tight hug for comfort, maybe even stayed the night.
It’s been two months since Mari’s been dead.
But it’s been six since she’s been gone.
No one ever tells you that one day you might have to watch someone waste away in front of you. No one prepares you for it, and even if they did, it wouldn’t hurt the same as watching it happen. It’s like seeing a rose wilt. The petals falling, the flower shrinking in on itself. Something beautiful withered to nothing.
The days pass, and I’m still haunted. I see her sitting at her desk or working at the kitchen table. I hear her humming through the bedroom walls, and I can smell the flowery perfume she put on before school. Sometimes it seems as though I’m the only one in this house who can’t return to any type of normal. But I know my parents feel her too. Mama falters when she’s taken out four plates instead of three; Papa slows when he passes her closed bedroom door late at night. Some days the rosary beads are left in the living room with an abandoned lighter and a candle, as if someone thought to pray, but never did.
And yet, they won’t say her name, and they won’t acknowledge her picture on the living room walls. They talk to me about school instead. They went back to work. They pretend that everything is normal. It’s like they can’t let themselves think about her for too long—as if the mere thought of her could destroy what family they have left. Mama only cried for a week. A week she cried for the death of someone she raised for seventeen years. Papa's eyes only watered the day we got the call.
God, that call.
The gravelly voice on the other end of the line is engraved into my mind like a permanent tattoo. There was so much remorse behind it. Sympathy, surely. A deep sadness that comes into everyone’s voice when they have to tell someone else that their loved one has died.
“Overdose”
“Grappled with addiction”
“Didn’t get there in time”
“Too late”
I remember not crying as I heard the words. I felt nothing. Numb. All I could do was absentmindedly stroke Mama’s back as my dad arranged when we could see her. Except he didn’t say “her.” He said “the body.” She wasn’t even dead for twenty-four hours, and Papa had plucked her out of existence. She didn’t own anything here anymore.
I don’t want to keep remembering. I don’t want to keep dreaming about her—about her casket, about her childhood, about her withering away in front of me. I don’t want to relive it every day.
I just want one day. One night. An hour. I just want a moment where the guilt won’t settle over me like a thick gray fog that never seems to clear. No one ever told me guilt could be so heavy. So suffocating.
I’m starting to fear that by the time I reach the same age as Mari, there won’t be any of me left…
About the Author
Melody Melendez is a student from California who’s found quite the passion for writing. Between juggling school and family, it’s a bit hard to find time for it, but whenever she gets the chance she loves to work on short stories, poems, and young adult novels. When she’s not writing or doing homework, you’ll probably find her reading, playing the guitar, or (trying to) draw.
If you would like to contact the author with comments, compliments, or questions use the form below. Please understand that this is a project of love and support for our authors and our young readers, so negativity will not get you in touch with any of our authors.
If you would like to contact the author with comments, compliments, or questions use the form below. Please understand that this is a project of love and support for our authors and our young readers, so negativity will not get you in touch with any of our authors.
Copyright notice: Lay Awake by Melody Melendez - © 2020 All rights reserved.
Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is prohibited other than the following:
Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is prohibited other than the following:
- you may print or download to a local hard disk extracts for your personal and non-commercial use only
- you may copy the content to individual third parties for their personal use, but only if you acknowledge the author as the source of the material
Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
