Poppy

She was beautiful, my sister Poppy. She had that sort of strikingly
unique type of face that you couldn't help but want to explore with
your eyes, the sort of beauty that was so natural and delicate that I
couldn't help but wonder exactly how it was possible a cherub like her
could exist.

She was the flower amongst the weeds, Poppy. That proud yet fragile
rose that stood tall above the weeds, people couldn't help but stare.
It wasn't as if she was one of those girls the school boys relieved all
of their sexual frustration fantasising about, she was more than that.
She was special.

I still remember the way people used to look at her. It was always the
same, a mixture of awe, disbelief, envy and entrancement. I still
half-consider her no more than a figment of my imagination. No matter
how often I watch the old home movies, look at the photographs of the
two of us together, I can't seem to shake off the feeling that she was
no more than a short, sweet dream.

I can still see the way her dark eyes used to look at me, sparkling
with the minute glints of sunlight that reflected onto her pupils. I
remember those bits of glittering sunlight as if it was yesterday, the
way she could make anyone feel loved by doing virtually nothing. She
was perfection.

That pale, ivory face still haunts my dreams every night. She was like
a fashionable Snow White, with her smooth dark hair and perfect
complexion. She was a china doll, still wrapped up in her packaging,
every hair tied back in complete pristine flawlessness. She was
untouchable.

I remember odd things about her; the way she used to eat, nibbling
gently at every morsel, the imprint her red lipstick used to leave on
my cheek whenever she said goodbye. I remember hearing her snores as
they travelled from her room into mine, even they were perfect, equally
set apart gentle, passive sighs. I used to stay up late at night
listening to that snoring, everything about her fascinated me.

She was my idol, my heroine, she was everything I wanted to be, but
couldn't.

It's seems so fitting that her life was so brief. She went out with
such a bang. It struck me at the time as so perfect for her, she
certainly left a lasting impact on most everyone she met. I suppose her
death did too.

She was seventeen when it happened. Sweet, sweet, sacred seventeen. It
was two days after she got her A level results. They were As,
naturally, what else could we expect of her? She had such a bright
future ahead of her, an unconditional scholarship to study Maths at
Oxford, a family who loved her, (more than themselves at times) endless
propositions from handsome, successful men and more talent and
intelligence than anyone I'd ever met.

I remember the day even now. One of those grey, humid, sweaty
afternoons, the overcast skies blocking the little sunshine that bore
down upon our street. I was walking home from going into town with a
friend. It was almost as if the clouds were warning me, it was a bad
omen.

I remember Poppy was too ill to come with us, she had said she needed
some time to herself. I thought that a bit strange at the time because
I knew she'd been out dancing with her friends only the night before,
but I guess I was too absorbed in myself to care that much.

Walking down the grey street towards my house, I recall thinking how
strange a day it was for mid August. I can practically feel the rain
striking me like grenades, hitting me all at once. I couldn't have been
scared at that point. I wasn't aware.

It's weird, you don't imagine that one moment can be so significant to
you, but I can still see my hand twisting the doorknob as I entered the
house. Greeted by an uncomfortable silence, I still remember the
unnerving feeling in the pit of my stomach when I walked in.

Our house was never silent. There was always at least two people
wandering about somewhere, or the sound of our dogs barking, even just
a kettle boiling or a tv blaring.

But there was nothing. The eerie moment consumed me entirely.

Walking into the house, I remember calling Poppy, hearing my shoes tap
against the floorboards, being totally aware there wasn't a single
other sound in the house.

I'll never forget the moment I walked into her room, seeing her lying
still on the bed, her body lifeless, her pale skin totally washed out.
I remember her eyes, completely void of that special sparkle I used to
love about her.

I can still see her lying there, staring into the ceiling, her arms
laid out in perfect symmetry, her hands still clutching those razor
blades tight in her fingers.

I can still see the way the blood soaked into the sheets, staining
those beautiful embroidered flowers with the syrupy fluid. She was
completely lifeless. I remember looking at her mutilated wrists and
seeing the multitude cuts that the liquid sorrow poured out of. There
was no way she would have recovered, even if I had called the
ambulance.

I stood there for hours watching her. I remember touching the cuts,
watching the blood trickle down her arms and smearing it gently across
those pale ivory arms. I know it was wrong, but I didn't dare call the
emergency services. I didn't want them to take her away from me. I
didn't care that they could've saved her. I didn't care that I was in
effect killing her, I just wanted her to myself.

I didn't want to see them save her.

I didn't want to see her frail, bandaged up and weak. I wanted to
remember the Poppy I knew; the strong, proud, determined, beautiful
Poppy I adored more than myself. Not the frail, hospitalised, lifeless
Poppy I knew she would become.

So I left her. Two hours after I found her, I finally got up from my
seat next to her, washed her blood from my hands, took one last look at
her and walked straight out of the house again.

That was the last time I ever saw her face, although I suppose I still
see it every time I close my eyes.

I suppose she's where she truly belongs now. In my dreams.