Crumpled papers littered the desk. An uncapped pen lay haphazard next to the worn, stained journal sitting closed in the middle of the desk. My hand trembled as I reached to pick the journal up. I pulled it back; who was I to read the secrets she'd tried so hard to keep from me?
I withdrew to the sofa on the other side of the room, contemplating. I bolted up again and paced. If only I read the journal, I would know what happened to her. I would know why she changed, what had hurt her, where her mind wandered to when she sat at that desk.
Before Anna left, she was so happy. Confident. Unbreakable. But when she returned after five years without any communication, she was quiet. Subdued. Depressed. She had seemed haunted. She also had brought back this journal, which already showed evidence of heavy use. Every day since my sister's return, she sits at that desk at exactly seven o'clock and writes. One evening, I asked her what she was writing, and if I could see it. She snapped the journal shut with a look of terror.
"NO!"
Stunned, I could only stare as my sister regathered herself and explained,
"This journal is not to be read by anyone but me. This is where I write the nightmares."
"The nightmares?"
"Yes. The ones I dream and the ones I live. Don't ever read it, Mae. Now, please go."
I left, my heart aching for Anna. What could she have gone through? Where had she been?
So now, as I pace the room, I cannot decide. Do I let Anna keep her secrets? Or do I read the journal so I can help her return to the happy, confident, unbreakable sister she used to be?
Distracted by my inner war, I failed to notice her enter the room until she laid her hand on my shoulder. I jumped and turned. Without a word, she walked to the desk and picked up the journal. Hugging it to her chest, she stroked the corner. She seemed to be fighting some inner battle, just as I was.
"You were coming for this, weren't you?"
"Anna, I can explain."
"No. I don't need you to. I don't want you too."
"I only want to help. I hate to see you suffer like this! It's killing me."
A tear trailed down her cheek and she looked at me, her eyes piercing, reading me. Suddenly, she shoved the book toward me.
"Take it, Mae!"
"But I thought..."
"Take it! Don't argue. I.. I should have shown you sooner. I need help. I need you to know. I can't do this by myself any more."
I hesitantly pulled the journal from her grasp and moved to sit on the sofa, but as soon as she let go, she dropped to her knees, sobbing.
"Anna!"
I knelt to help her, but she stopped me.
"No. Read it. I'm fine. It's just so hard to let you see."
Again, I retreated to the sofa and slowly opened to the first page. I stopped breathing when I read the words. Page after page, they repeated, written in Anna's cursive, the beauty of the script marred by the horror of its meaning.
"Mae is dead. I am dying. Mae is dead. I am dying."
