All my hope came crashing down when I was 18. That day is etched in my mind forever. I had just finished my chores and was walking home, tired but hopeful, as always. But when I got to the house, something felt different. The air was heavy, and the usual sounds of life were absent.
As I approached, I saw my sister sitting on the stairs. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and despair. I didn't know what had happened, but the sight of her sent a chill down my spine. Then, I noticed the blood on her legs. My heart stopped. Tears welled up in my eyes, and though I tried to hold them back, they came anyway.
I couldn't move closer. I couldn't even comfort her. My mind raced with terrible possibilities. Then, a small voice broke through the silence. Kenny, the little boy from next door, ran up to me, shouting, "Rica! Rica!"
I wasn't in the mood for his usual playfulness, so I snapped at him, my voice harsher than intended. But instead of getting upset, he looked at me, his eyes filled with something dark and foreboding. "Luke is dead," he whispered.
For a moment, the world stopped. His words echoed in my mind, refusing to make sense. But deep down, I knew it was true. I ran into the house, desperate to prove him wrong. But there he was—my brother, Luke, lying still on the floor. His body was bruised, and his face was swollen. It was clear he had been beaten.
I screamed. It was a sound I didn't know I could make, a cry of pure anguish. People gathered outside, watching with indifferent eyes, as if this was just another scene in their daily lives. My sister stood among them, frozen, her face devoid of any emotion. She looked at me, then back at Luke, and I saw that she was broken, just like I was.
I blamed myself. I had been working so hard to save money, to get us away from our foster parents, that I hadn't noticed what was happening to Luke. He had gotten involved with a gang, and I hadn't seen the signs. And my sister—she had been hurt in the worst way, and I hadn't been there to protect her. Our foster father had taken advantage of her, and now, I was losing her too.
The days that followed were a blur. Luke's funeral was small and somber, just a few strangers and us. My sister, once so full of life, now seemed like a shadow of her former self. She stopped talking, stopped caring. Then, she started going out at night, coming back smelling of smoke and alcohol. She had turned to the streets, trying to numb the pain in the only way she knew how.
I tried to reach her, to bring her back, but she was slipping away. I reported our foster father, sued him, and fought for custody of my sister. I won the case, but it didn't feel like a victory. I had lost Luke, and now I was watching my sister destroy herself.
One night, I found her in her room, sitting on the floor surrounded by emptiness. She looked up at me, her eyes dull and lifeless. "Why didn't you save us?" she whispered, her voice a mere echo of the girl she used to be.
Her words hit me like a knife to the heart. I didn't have an answer. I had been asking myself the same question every day. I sat down beside her, and for the first time in months, we cried together. It was a release, a shared grief that neither of us had been able to express.
That night, I made another promise. I would not lose her too. I didn't know how, but I would find a way to help her heal. We had already been through so much, but we were still here. And as long as we were alive, there was hope.