Today is the anniversary. The anniversary of her death. I celebrate it every year, and I have never once missed it. I remember her very well, even though it has been so long. Twenty- seven years, to be exact. Twenty- seven anniversaries. Twenty- seven days filled with nothing except emotion and blissful retrospection. Each anniversary is the same. I wake up and I think about that day. The day she died. Then I remember. I remember her long, black hair. I remember her olive skin. I remember her flawless face; her dull hazel eyes, which she liked to think were flecked with gold. They weren’t. I remember. I remember everything.


She was my sister, you know. Not step-sister or best-friend-sister. She was my flesh-and-blood sister, born exactly two years and seven months and three days after me. She was happy; she had plenty of friends. She was pretty, too. I used to wish I was that pretty. She was also smart. She was a good girl. She was. She was, she was, she was. Not anymore. She’s dead.


Everyone was sad when she died. Sad, sad, sad. Mommy cried a lot, and daddy didn’t talk for a while. Everybody said they were very sorry for our loss. I wanted to explain to them, it didn’t matter how sorry they were. Nothing could bring her back. Nothing would change. Nothing, nothing, nothing. She was dead, and dead is dead. Dead is dead.


On the day of her funeral, more people were sorry. I don’t think I have ever seen so many sorry people. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I wasn’t sorry. Why should I be? Should I feel sorry? I don’t think so. I saw all those other sorry people, and, well, why would I want to be like them? I’m not sorry. Not when I look so nice. Mommy got me a pretty black dress, with black lace and black frills. She wore a black dress too, and it matched the make-up that ran in dirty streaks down her face when she cried again at the service. See? I told you I remember. I remember everything. I remember how nervous my daddy was because he hadn’t gotten his suit cleaned like he should have. I think that’s pretty silly. No one cares about your suit, daddy. They’re too busy feeling sorry. But not me. I’m not sorry. My black dress reminds me of her hair.


She was murdered, you know. Murdered. I’m not sorry.


I have a confession. I lied. Lie, lie, lie. I said nothing could bring her back. But she comes back. She comes back every night, and she talks to me. She talks to me when I’m asleep, and whispers creepy things in my ear. She tells me I should be sorry.


I’m. Not. Sorry.