“Even the darkest nights will end and the sun will rise.” That’s what the poster in my sister’s room said. She had quotes written everywhere. On her notebook, “Without pain, how could we know?” On her mirror, “We cannot be whole by simply wishing we were whole.” She even wrote a new quote on the dry-erase board every day before class. Mr. Myers would always get mad at her for writing it and Jenna would get mad at Mr. Myers for erasing it. She wanted it to be there for the whole class. She wanted all of us to look at the quote, and think about what it meant. At the end of class, all the students would go up to her and ask her what it meant, and every day, she had the perfect speech explaining everything about the quote.
Jenna was funny. And her situations were funny. How she handled them were funny too. But not in the “you had to be there” kinda way. It was more like “the looking back on it now” kind way.
She would say a lot of quotes that she liked to think she lived by. But she didn’t… although she probably should have. It’s like she could never listen to the words coming out of her mouth, like she was suddenly deaf when she spoke. When I failed my math exam, she told me “Tests don’t prove real intelligence.” When she failed her English test, she would follow her teacher around for days, begging him for a higher grade. When I got dumped, she said (the most cliché and obvious thing you could say,) “Well, there are plenty of fish in the sea.” And she dragged me to every bar we saw on the road, and talked to people for me, and actually made me sound somewhat appealing. When she got dumped, she turned into a hermit and avoided everyone of the opposite sex for nearly a year. (Or anyone in general really.)
But when I was depressed, she said “Even the darkest nights will end and the sun will rise,” with a smile. But besides that, she hardly said anything. She let me talk. Or maybe she made me talk. I didn’t think I wanted to talk, but it wasn’t forced either. Nothing ever felt forced with Jenna. She would listen, anytime anywhere. On the phone, in the middle of the night, she even ditched calculus to talk to me at school, and if you knew Jenna, you’d know that she’d rather stick pins in her eyes than to miss such an important class. But she didn’t do that. Instead we just went behind the dumpster (which was the only place we could meet undisturbed,) and talked. Although the smell of the dumpster was retched, Jenna didn’t mind. She made me not mind either. It was about a year of this cycle of me talking and her listening that my depression got somewhat better. I wasn’t necessarily happy, (I wonder if I ever could be) but I wouldn’t have considered myself depressed anymore.
But when Jenna was depressed, I didn’t even know. I thought she was fine. I trusted her enough to tell her about me, so I expected that she trusted me too. But I was wrong. Well, not entirely. Looking back now, I realize that she had been telling me for months. She told me she was depressed when she stopped hanging out with her friends. She told me she was depressed when she slept all day for weeks. She told me she was depressed when she would go to bars just to get drunk. She told me she was depressed when she smiled, not laughed, at our inside jokes. She told me she was depressed when stopped saying quotes.
I only realized she was depressed on the night that she tried to commit suicide. I went up to her room to talk, and she had her back to me and was holding a gun. I stared at her blankly. Where did she even get that? The only place I could think of was in our dad’s desk. But that desk was locked tight. I knew she wasn’t going to pull that trigger, but she put the gun to her head. I was so stunned; I couldn’t even move and just kept staring at her. “What are you doing,” I finally
said, not asked. She jumped up and turned around as she lowered the gun and stared sobbing. “I don’t know.” She said, still crying “I’m not brave enough. I can’t do it.” I couldn’t find any other words to say. Then she walked towards me. She put the gun in my hand and put my finger in the trigger guard. “Please,” she said, her voice cracking. I was still just looking at her. “Please,” she said again. I didn’t know what to do. I understood her pain so well. I went though it for a year, and still knew that I could never be truly happy. If I even had Jenna’s help and wasn’t better, then how would Jenna turn out without anyone. I couldn’t talk to Jenna the way she talked to me. As all these thoughts were racing through my head, I just closed my eyes and it was done. And so officer, that is why I had to kill my sister.
In that moment, I had so much going through my mind. I think there was more going on in my mind than what was actually happening. But the main thing I was thinking was “I can’t be a Jenna for her.” But then I thought, “maybe I should have.” Not just in helping her get over depression, in everything. When she failed her English test, I should have told her “tests don’t prove real intelligence.” When she got dumped, I should have dragged her around to bars, and been the outgoing person who could get even the most boring people sound appealing. When she was depressed, I should have realized and told her, “Even the darkest nights end, and the sun will rise.” I should have called her in the middle of the night to make sure she was okay. I should have skipped pre-calc to check up on her. I should have been a Jenna.
“Be a Jenna.” That was the poster in my room said. I had quotes written everywhere. On my note book, “Be a Jenna.” On the wall, “Be a Jenna,” (I planned on writing that on a mirror, but mirrors aren’t allowed here.) I wrote “Be a Jenna” on the dry-erase board every day before our art class started. Ingrid would always get mad at me for writing the quote and I would always get mad at Ingrid for erasing it. I wanted it to be there for the whole class. I wanted everyone to
look at the quote, and think about what it meant. At the end of class, no one ever came up to me and asked me what it meant, but every day, I had the perfect speech explaining what it meant.