The pile of crumpled paper mounting above the trash bin was fascinating. The white birch provided an escapade for my dreams, each building on one another.

3 months and the feeling still remained- the sinking feeling, the feeling of the white water crashing against my lungs as the titanic sunk deeper, and deeper, until darkness enveloped all.

I found it wondrous how moms would rail their carts through Wal-Mart, with 3 dark haired babies sitting on each seat looking like a stick thin version of John Lennon, and it amused me how my friends would sit by the curb eating their ice cream, failing to cover their laughter. And the women would keep walking, heads held high, and their Latino spark still intact.

I found it wondrous how everyday the same girl with the bob- cut and pink glasses would go to school, and be constantly taunted and shoved, each unbreakable bone morphing into a brittle piece of wood. And she kept her head high, arms enclosing the AP chemistry books, and she kept walking.

I found it wondrous how I could resume with my everyday life, eat the same soggy turkey sandwich for lunch, send love notes to Nicholas with hearts drawn across the margin, but still harbor the despair in my heart. And I could not keep my head high. I tried, I yearned. For many days I placed a glass door in my body, and droned on. My feelings would jump, but I closed the door. But that picture. Every time I even glanced at the picture, I could not shut the gateway fast enough.

It seldom came out from the back of my closet, the gold floral framing gathering dust as it gripped the portrait. A smiling little 8- year old who went by the name Sarah stood with blue and pink icing painted all over he face, and beside the little girl stood a 14 year old gripping her hand, smiling beyond her ability. Her name was Jane Montague.

The tears cascaded down my cheeks falling onto the black dress, creating rivers and deltas as it flowed down. Sarah and Jane Montague.
Sarah was young, she was juvenile. It could have been me. The bullet could have zoomed through me; it could have shot me down. It could have shot down my feelings, my experiences, my love and all that went with it. She was my sister, my annoying, selfish little girl.
It wasn’t fair! I would cry.

Life isn’t fair. They would respond.

Adam Lanza was a cruel man, a monster sent from the lords to rain his wrath among us. It was a single word that could spur the emotions, a single phrase. Sandy Hook.

“Jane! We are getting late! Get down here!” I tucked the picture inside my bra, and straitened out the dress. It was as pitch black as death itself, each ruffle providing steps down to Hell’s enclosure.

My heels clunked against the wooden stairs as my mother emerged, her mascara running down and fingers scarring her newly bought Gucci purse. Her eyes could tell enough. The pain was enough.

I boarded the black Lexus and seated my self in the back, staring out into the rainy backdrop. Father kept his eyes on the road, his brow not even inching while Mother didn’t attempt to hide her sobs.

Crows were abundant today, creating a blanket of wings across the sky. It was an intriguing sight to see. Death was an intriguing sight to see.

The car steered into the funeral center, and I spotted Nana’s purple plume in the ocean of black and deathly Goths. Her eyes were absent of any pain. Nana lived in the poor portion of the Bronx, and survived by watching her mom getting robbed by the members of the strip club and her dad shooting members of the opposing gang. There were no tears left in her.

It was a small open-casket funeral with no more than 8 people, close family and friends. Mother registered us at the table with the signature sheet, and the lady operating it was etched with tears.

“My grandson was gone at Sandy Hook. May god bless you.” She whispered.

The group was lead into the storage room where we were to see Sarah once again. Brandy and Dana Fortkin were sobbing along with Mr. and Ms. Fortkin, Sarah’s best friends. Mrs. Jenson’s stare was fixated on the ground, and her emotion was unreadable. I even think I saw a tear escape Dad.

Everyone huddled around the casket and peered in. It scared me to see Sarah this pale. The full of life, jumping around the swing, butterfly chasing Sarah. I gripped her hands, and for once freely cried. The emotions, the pain. I shook and fell.

Sarah, Dear Sarah. Do you remember the times we played hide and seek? When you hid by the couch and I pretended I couldn’t find you. Do you remember that?

I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to see her, to make her talk to me again.

Sarah, do you remember when I said I hated you because you read my texts to Nicholas? I didn’t hate you Sarah. I never hated you Sarah. Never.

Can she hear me? Can her ruptured heart hear me?

The minister sauntered into the lightless cave with a torn up bible. He began reading the lines- the lines he probably says to everyone who enters the room. Lies they were. They all were cheats, blandly created by a so-called God.

Sarah, my dear Sarah, do you remember one day you asked me why that Andy Peterson was mean to you. I said that no one is really nice, and that everyone is as evil as can be. You asked why God created humans then and ran to Mom crying. She got mad at me that day and I had to say just kidding. But my dear Sarah, humans are the most ruthless of them all. Give a human a knife and a bag of gold and you will find yourself with a sword through your back. Maybe when I visit you in heaven, you can tell me if humans are bad there too. Because in this world where darkness is abundant, discovering a ray of light is scarce. Goodnight Sara, and have a nice sleep my dear.