Butterfly by LeaveMeLonely

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
She still sings, and I sing back, even if she can't hear me. About the girl who sits two seats over and three rows down.

Submitted: November 23, 2007

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Submitted: November 23, 2007





She sang. Her voice is like no other, a hallelujah chorus that would make it okay, even if the world was coming to an end. When she was actually in the class, I would sit outside the choir room all day just so I could hear her sing. She quit after two weeks, because she hated classes enough without another one grading her on her passion. But during those two weeks I would skip third period just so I could hear her sing.

And now I like to watch her, keep an eye on her because maybe if I ever see her again I’ll know what she says and what she likes and maybe I’ll be able to say hello. I’ll know that she isn’t just that composed, formal girl, that when her family’s not home she stays in her room singing to screamo music reading trashy romance novels and splurging on M&M’s and pie. I know that she has Hello Kitty pajamas and that sometimes she falls apart all alone in her pink-and-black room that’s so unlike her during school hours. I know that she’ll go to the Renaissance festival everyday on the weekends wearing elf ears, pixie-toed boots, a tail and a purple cloak.

But the house is so quiet now. There’s no singing, no mother on the piano playing a familiar or unknown song with her sister accompanying them on the piccolo. No cheery laughing as her brother makes fun of his sister’s singing, because since when would a boy like that type of music? Her father doesn’t talk at home anymore, especially not to her. And she’s a mute now, sentenced to silence by an image played over and over again.

I know it isn’t of me; after all I’m just that girl who sits two seats over and three rows down, always looking and never doing. She never knew me. It was her mother and brother and sister lying, contorted and bloody with bones sticking out, all around her.

She never goes to the Renaissance Festival anymore because her father won’t take her. Even though she conceals her ears with her hair and her boots with long pants and her cloak with a big coat the only time she can be her is every third Sunday when she has a meeting with a few of her old friends where she goes openly and cries her heart out and plays D and D halfheartedly unless she’s has a few okay weeks, which isn’t often.

And she can’t sing. Whether it’s church music or screamo or Fall Out Boy or Loreena Mckennitt or anything at all there’s nothing there.

I watch her everyday getting trough life but not living, sitting in her uncleaned room or lying on the couch.

But sometimes I can still hear her singing, an echo of when she was herself, and it pains me more than I can bear. But what’s worse is that she still sings. You can’t hear it and she doesn’t open her mouth but it’s there. And I’ll sing back. I know she can’t hear me and wouldn’t recognize me if she did, but I sing back all the same.

Maybe one day I can sing loud that she’ll hear me and be happy again because that’s all I want. Maybe her father will come back home and she can get a job singing at the Renaissance Festival. Maybe she’ll visit her family’s graves without falling apart. Maybe she’ll laugh.

Maybe I can make it better, if I just sing loud enough.

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