been a last request, and so she answered, quite simply, “Yes” and Tabitha continued with her story.
“I’ve never told anyone this. Not even my parents.” She paused before she spoke again. “I once had a sister you know,” said Tabitha.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I had a twin sister and loved her so. We were inseparable. We did everything together. We played together, we ate together, we studied together, and we read together. We did it all but bathe together because that’s just weird,”––A laugh and a cough––“And she was ever so much smarter than I, and much more artistic. While I played with silly dolls, she would draw pictures, hundreds of lovely pictures. She was always with colored markers or pencils in hand.”
The coughs and wheezes were becoming more violent and more frequent and now sounded faintly of chainsaws and dying cats. But she continued on.
“And then one day, while watching television we saw a show about festivals from around the world from places like America and Brazil and China. And in some of these places all of these fabulous men and women were dancing and wearing the most vibrant and colorful costumes and decorated masks. My sister was drawn to the masks in particular. And then one day our mum and dad surprised us with random presents: more dolls for me, of course, and a new paint set for her. And for canvases for her to paint on, they bought her dozens…” ––a strong cough followed by a very painful sounding wheeze–– “…dozens of, of plain white masks. And she painted on these masks and tried her best to copy what she had seen on television.”
Her breathing had become much more labored and it seemed that every single word that she spoke caused her much pain. The figure in black suddenly had a strange urge to comfort the small, frail girl that lied before her, but she did not know how to accomplish this, and so she only said, “No need to continue.” But Tabitha put up a hand to signal that she could and that she would.
“One day, my sister sat right on that windowsill thinking of what to draw on her next mask while I twirled in place trying to make myself dizzy for no other reason than I am a stupid girl. She then placed the mask on her face and asked me what I thought she should paint. So I stopped twirling to answer her, but I was much too dizzy and could not stand straight and I toppled right into my sister who was sitting at the windowsill with the window wide open, and I accidentally pushed her out of it, and that was the last time I saw my sister alive,” said Tabitha.
She then grabbed the guide’s hand and in an instant, memories suddenly and rapidly filled the figure’s head: memories of markers and pencils, and of masks and paint; memories of pillow fights and tickle fights and nice warm baths; memories of books with words and drawings, and of plates with cakes; memories of laughs and tears and of hugs and kisses; memories of a mum and a dad and most vividly, of a sister; a sister that she loved with all of her heart; then lastly, a memory of falling, a memory of hitting pavement, and then nothing. Her hand then wandered to the mysterious crack in her forehead, no longer mysterious of course, and as she touched it the tears that she once wished she had were now suddenly overflowing uncontrollably from her black eye sockets as she realized the truth: she was the very sister Miss Tabitha Wilkinson spoke of.
“My poor parents believed it to be an accident, but I could not tell them the truth. I just couldn’t. I believed they would have hated me for it,” said Tabitha. Her coughs and wheezes were now mixed with sobs and tears.
“You know, now that I see you in a much better light guide, you look very familiar. In fact, your face resembles…” Tabitha trailed off, and then she said, “Please guide, please look in that wardrobe,” and the guide wiped her face and complied.
She stood up and opened the wardrobe doors, and as she did she was greeted with rows and rows of colorful masks lining the backsides of the wardrobe doors: some blue, some red, some with drawings of cats and birds, others with drawings of stars and moons, all with strings dangling from them, all filled to their edges with color. The guide’s face was flooded with tears once more as the vivid memories of painting the masks flooded her mind.
“Lovely aren’t they? Your face reminds of them. What an odd coincidence,” said Tabitha, and the guide nodded.
Tabitha, now barely able to talk, managed a few more words.
“Guide…” ––her breath was all but gone–– “…Guide, do you think my sister forgives me?” she asked hopefully with the most strength she had left. The guide turned and approached Tabitha, and stroked her bald little head and said, “She most certainly does,” and Tabitha managed to smile for a final time.
“Guide, please lay with me. I feel cold,” and the guide once again did as she was told.
“Guide?”
“Yes Tabitha?” she said, as she lied next to her. She could feel Tabitha’s small body becoming colder with every passing second.
“My sister’s name was Agatha. So I think I’ll give that name to you. Do you like it?” And a final memory had entered the figure’s mind. The memory of her real name that began and ended with the letter A: Agatha.
“Yes I do, very much indeed,” answered the guide, now identified as Agatha.
With her last dying breath, Tabitha mustered one last question.
“Will I ever see you again, guide?”
The guide knowing the answer but not wanting to say said nothing, and simply wrapped her arms around her sister and snuggled in closer embracing her for a final time. With that, Tabitha and Agatha Wilkinson both closed their eyes and said nothing more.
And the guide was happy that she now finally had, tragic as it might be, a story of her very own.
THE END
About the Author:
K. N. Parker is a simple man in his thirties, and was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. He is currently working on a full-length novel and two more short stories. He shares heritages with two countries: America and Japan, and he spends his time between the two whenever possible. When in his late teens he thought it proper to teach himself Japanese, and so he did, and now can communicate with you in two ways, if applicable. When not writing or creating trouble in various coffee shops throughout the world, he enjoys graphic design, television, and film.
Connect with Me Online:
E-Mail:
[email protected] My Blog: https://kiyoshiparker.blogspot.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KiyoshiParker
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/deathexists
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/authorKNParker
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends