After discovering that the body wasn’t Mother’s, Angela had gratefully ran up to her and hugged her tight, like she never wanted to let go; however, she had then proceeded to grow a sickly pale throughout the next few weeks. I had suggested that we ought to call a doctor, but she had declined. She had said that there was nothing wrong with her and that she was perfectly fine. Her blank eyes said otherwise.

Surprisingly, I had also started to become more exhausted as the end of May crept up on us. It made me feel that I could barely type up an essay about our argumentative beliefs of school or about Isaac Newton and his impacts on humanity, meaning I would constantly be given a letter to send home to Mother. She was invited to multiple parent conferences to discuss my ‘refusal to learn’ and ‘unacceptable behaviour towards my education’, but she had never attended. She was never bothered about my education. She was never bothered that I may never get a job, earn money and live happily. All she had cared about was taking those pills, which I had once talked to her about, since I thought it wasn’t healthy that she would lock herself in her room daily to take some stupid pills. She had said that they were a ‘necessity, not an addiction’ and that she needed them to stay alive. I still do not believe her to this day.

As the days went by, it felt like all the homely atmosphere had now officially been replaced with torture and anguish. Mother locked herself in her room almost all day and Angela was falling behind on schoolwork like I was. She had failed to turn in her Arithmetic homework on time and her handwriting was scruffier than ever. Her teacher, Miss Burke, had once phoned Mother to explain that ‘her daughter was showing lack of pride during school and outside of school’ and that this behaviour needed to improve. Then, Mother had gone completely insane. She began yelling at the poor teacher, saying that she knew how to take care of her daughter and that she was a lying dimwit. She proceeded to scream curse words at the top of her lungs and complained about the school policy, making Miss Burke go silent. We have never had a call from her since.

Because it was hopeless comforting Mother, I had tried to comfort Angela instead, but it had ended in an argument, leaving me with a horrid pain in the pit of my stomach. I had politely knocked on her bedroom door, as I knew it annoyed her when people would enter without addressing themselves.

‘Angela?’ I called. ‘I would like to speak to you.’

Silence.

‘Listen, I know we don’t talk often, but-’ Then the door flung open. To reveal a very tired Angela. Black bags formed messily underneath her eyes. Her blonde hair, which had originally been lovely and straight, had been strangled back into an untidy ponytail. She was wearing a white t-shirt of her favourite band and baggy jeans.

‘What is it, Madeline? What could you possibly want?’ she asked in an unbelievably quiet voice. So quiet that it was almost as if she had said nothing at all. She looked up and stared at me with empowering hazel eyes, her arms crossed across her chest. She leaned closer and furrowed her brow. ‘Well? What are you waiting for, an elf to come prancing through the kingdom?!’

‘I-I just wanted to check up on you.’ I stuttered. ‘I’m worried about you. You don’t seem…well…you.’

She spluttered and smiled in a fake tone. Then, she frowned again and put a hand on her chest, clutching a golden necklace around her neck tightly.

‘I’m…fine.’ she replied, gritting her teeth. ‘There. Is that what you wanted? Is it? For me to lie through my teeth about life being happy and enjoyable? Well, guess what, Maddy? I’m not seven years old anymore. I’m twelve, almost thirteen, for goodness sake! Not everything is about sunshine and ponies anymore. I don’t wake up every morning grinning like mad, ready to embrace the day. I’m no longer like that. I’m not your little baby sister anymore.’ 

Before I knew it, her eyes were misty with tears. Normally, she would’ve wiped them with her knuckles and refused to believe she was crying. But not this time. This time, she allowed them to roll down her face. Big, fat tears kept coming, as if she had been waiting for a moment like this to let them go. For them to finally enjoy this sense of freedom. 

‘I don’t want you talking to me anymore.’ she stuttered. ‘I’m sick of life now, Maddie. Mum isn’t well. She is locking herself in that room for hours, on a continuous cycle. Waking up, taking pills, crying, sleeping. Waking up, taking pills, crying, sleeping. She no longer cares for us, and I’m sick of it. I just want to be her little girl again. That everything could go back to the way it was. But…’ she stopped, attempting to calm herself before speaking again, ‘but… I don't think I’ll ever see a glimpse of that life again. I don’t think I will ever be able to return. So please, stop talking to me. You just make things worse.’

Then, she slammed the door on my face. My heart that was once full of hope shattered into a million pieces, before swelling up again. But this time, full of grief and depression and remorse. This new heart pained my chest and throbbed greatly, causing me to suffer. I felt as if it were on fire. As if it were aflame. As if there were nothing but flames setting my body alight.