Chapter 2: Her Diary, My Fury

After they let me go, my steps felt heavy as I walked to the funeral home. I took a deep breath and pushed open the doors.

The place was cold, the air thick with the scent of lilies and disinfectant. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, sterile glow. I felt small, out of place, but I forced myself to keep moving.

Inside the cold, sterile room, my sister lay quietly on the bed. I stared at her face. Frozen.

She looked almost peaceful, like she was just sleeping. Her hands were folded neatly on her chest, her hair brushed back. For a moment, I could almost pretend she’d wake up any second and smile at me.

A single hot tear fell, the first of many. Soon, silent tears streamed down my cheeks. My body shook with sobs, and for a moment, I could barely breathe.

I covered my mouth. Shoulders shaking. I doubled over, the grief hitting me in waves. The pain was so sharp it felt physical, like I’d been punched in the gut.

A pale hand touched my shoulder. I turned, still sobbing, barely able to see.

The touch was gentle, tentative. I turned slowly, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to pull myself together.

A woman stood quietly behind me, dressed in white scrubs. She was so thin and frail, she looked like the wind could blow her away.

Her face was kind, eyes soft with sympathy. She spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the dead.

“Don’t cry. Your sister wouldn’t want to see you like this,” she said softly. “The dead can’t come back. Try to find peace.”

Her words were gentle, but they cut deep. I nodded, swallowing hard, trying to steady my breathing. She squeezed my shoulder, offering silent comfort.

She hesitated, then handed me a phone. I recognized the familiar phone case—it was my sister’s.

The case was pink, with a faded sticker of a cartoon cat. My sister had always loved little things like that, even as an adult. I clutched it to my chest, as if holding a piece of her.

“Technically, I’m not supposed to give this to you. But... here. Take a look.”

She looked around, making sure no one was watching, then pressed the phone into my hand. Her eyes were kind, full of understanding. I nodded, grateful beyond words.

She sighed and turned to leave.

She paused at the door, glancing back once, then disappeared down the hallway. The room felt emptier without her.

Before I left, I looked back one last time at my sister’s blood-stained face. With trembling, tear-streaked hands, I gently wiped the blood away.

I found a tissue on the bedside table and dabbed at her cheeks, careful not to smudge her makeup. I wanted her to look peaceful, at rest. It was the least I could do.

I murmured, “My sister always liked to look put together. She always wanted to look her best.”

My voice broke. I remembered all the times she’d fussed over her hair, her clothes, making sure she was presentable even when we had nothing. She deserved better than this.

My sister and I grew up depending on each other, even though we technically had parents. But our father was a gambling addict, and our mother abandoned us when I was three.

We learned early that we only had each other. I remember the nights we huddled together under thin blankets, listening to Dad curse at the TV, waiting for the sound of the front door slamming so we could finally breathe. Mom’s absence was a hole we never filled.

Whenever Dad went out to gamble, it was my sister who took me door to door in our rundown apartment complex, knocking on neighbors’ doors. We didn’t beg for food; we just hoped people would let us do some chores in exchange for a meal.

She’d straighten her shoulders, put on a brave face, and ask if we could rake leaves or take out the trash. Sometimes folks would give us a sandwich, sometimes just a smile. My sister always thanked them, even when her stomach growled.

I didn’t understand. I looked up at my sister and asked, “Why can’t we just ask for food if we’re already knocking?”

I was so young, so hungry. It seemed easier to just ask. My sister knelt down, brushing my hair out of my eyes, always patient, always kind.

Her eyes were bright as she patted my head and smiled. “It’s easy to ask, but it doesn’t feel right. Food you earn might be harder, but it feels right.”

She explained things in a way I could almost understand. Even then, she wanted to teach me about dignity, about earning your place in the world, no matter how hard it was.

I was too young to really get it, but I nodded anyway. In my heart, my sister was the best—nobody in the world was better than her.

I looked up to her like a hero. She was my rock, my protector, the only person who ever made me feel safe. I would’ve followed her anywhere.

Under her protection, I grew up until I was fifteen, and she was eighteen. My sister always did well in school, always near the top of her class. Our neighbors all praised her, saying she was destined for great things. Every time I heard that, I’d lift my chin with pride. Only our father didn’t care. All he cared about was drinking and gambling.

I used to dream about the future—about both of us escaping that crummy apartment, moving somewhere with real grass and sunlight. My sister studied late into the night, her lamp burning long after Dad passed out on the couch.

I thought our simple life would go on forever—until a fat, greasy man showed up at our door.

He reeked of sweat and cheap cologne, his smile too wide, his eyes lingering too long on my sister. I hated him on sight. My stomach twisted every time he came around.

I shouted at my drunken father, “My sister will never marry him! Don’t even think about it! She’s only eighteen, and he’s almost thirty! You’re throwing your daughter into the fire!”

My voice shook with rage. I stood between them, fists clenched, daring Dad to try me. The man just laughed, like it was all a joke.

Dad raised his hand to hit me, but I glared right back, refusing to back down. My sister, worried I’d get hurt, rushed over to break it up.

She threw her arms around me, pulling me back, her voice trembling as she begged Dad to stop. I could feel her heart pounding against my back.

“I…” she started, but before she could finish, Dad slapped her across the face. I saw the shock on her face, and all my pent-up anger exploded. I grabbed a chair and smashed it into him, hitting him again and again until my palms bled.

The crash echoed through the apartment. Dad stumbled back, cursing, but I didn’t stop. I saw red—years of pain and fear boiling over. When it was done, I dropped the chair, breathing hard, hands shaking.

Afterward, my sister scolded me, but I felt proud—prouder than ever. It was the first time I’d protected her.

She patched up my hands, tears in her eyes, but I could see the pride there too. For once, I’d stood up for her, just like she’d always done for me.

My sister’s phone wallpaper was a selfie—her smiling, dressed in a white skirt, so full of life. Now, that smile was almost painful to look at.

The photo was taken at the park, sunlight in her hair, her eyes shining with hope. I stared at it, wishing I could go back to that moment, freeze time before everything went wrong.

I stared at it, tears falling from the corners of my eyes. I knew my sister kept a diary. After she got married, she had to take care of her in-laws, so she wrote in her phone whenever she had a spare moment.

I remembered her hunched over the kitchen table, tapping away at her phone, always careful to hide it when anyone walked by. Her diary was her only escape.

With trembling hands, I opened her notes.

The screen blurred as my tears fell, but I scrolled down, desperate for one last piece of her.

[July 8]

Sunny today, beautiful weather, and I’m in a great mood—my brother got into a good college.

To cover his tuition, he decided to work at the auto plant. Seeing his clothes covered in grease made me feel awful.

I could picture her sitting at the window, sunlight on her face, pride and worry mixed together. She always put me first, even when she had nothing left to give.

[July 25]

Sunny again, but I’m in a terrible mood. Dad talked to me today—wants me to marry his poker buddy to pay off his debts.

Thank goodness my brother came back, so Dad dropped it for now.

I remembered that day—the shouting, the slamming doors, the way my sister’s hands shook as she poured herself a glass of water. I’d never seen her so scared.

[August 3]

Cloudy. This time, Dad brought people with him. I was scared, but with my brother here, I stood my ground.

Brother, what should I do?

Her fear seeped through the words. I wished I could go back and do more, be braver, save her from all of it.

[August 20]

Don’t know the weather. Haven’t left my room all day. Dad and his friends are blocking the door.

Brother, you’re about to start school. Who’ll protect me after you leave?

I’d never realized how alone she must have felt. The guilt hit me like a punch to the chest. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve fought harder.

[August 22]

Sunny. I agreed to get married. Dad said if I refused, he’d go to your school and make a scene.

Sister doesn’t want you to lose your education.

At least the man I’m marrying isn’t old—he’s my age.

I don’t ask for much, just that he doesn’t gamble.

Arranged marriage? My mind reeled. That doesn’t really happen here. I couldn’t believe she gave in just to protect me. Her resignation broke my heart. I’d always known she was strong, but I never realized how much she’d sacrificed.

[October 1]

Sunny. Brother, your sister got married. Sorry I didn’t tell you—there’s not a single good person in that family.

I didn’t want you to see that hellhole.

Brother, I should’ve known—anyone who knows Dad is bound to be rotten.

I guess this is just my fate.

Brother, I hope you can live a happy, healthy, peaceful life.

Remember, when you get married, treat your wife well. Once she marries you, you’re all she has.

Don’t be like your brother-in-law.

Her words echoed in my mind. I swore then and there that I’d honor her wish. I’d never let anyone I loved suffer the way she did.

My tears blurred the screen as I scrolled down.

I wiped my eyes, but the words swam before me. My hands shook, but I forced myself to keep reading. I needed to know everything she felt, everything she never got to say out loud.

Brother, I’m just a gambling chip to them—a trophy for the winner.

Brother, they’re not even human.

The pain in her words was raw, unfiltered. I pressed the phone to my chest, wishing I could hold her one last time. I wanted to scream, to rage at the world for letting this happen.

I couldn’t hold back anymore. A guttural wail tore from my throat. My eyes burned. Turns out, what the books say is true—you really can cry yourself blind.

I doubled over, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. The sound echoed off the walls, filling the empty room. I didn’t care who heard me. My grief was bigger than my shame.

I put the phone away, tucking it carefully into my chest pocket. I grabbed my car keys and headed downstairs. Before I left home earlier, I’d grabbed the only wrench we had.

I paused at the door, running my fingers over the worn handle of the wrench. It was heavy, solid—something real in a world that suddenly felt unreal. I tucked it into my jacket and stepped outside.