AN: I have to say that I have had this story for a while. It has won me a few awards. The basic premise is that it was an assignment for my English class. The teacher showed us a photo of a spoon holder that could hold nine spoons. But there were three spoons missing from the holder. We had to describe why. This was the result. Slightly dark and morbid but my teacher loved it, I made her cry.

Like My Brother’s and Sisters. . . .

Dark Angel

2006

I used to have nine brothers and sisters. . . They were all older than me, so I guess that makes me the youngest. . . . But I don’t have that many brothers and sisters anymore. Three have left and they’re never coming back. . . .

My mama says that they are in a better place now, but that doesn’t make me feel any better and I know she doesn’t even believe her own words. There used to be nine spoons on that small table in the living room. Nine spoons. One for each of us. They are old antiques that used to belong to my great grandmother from the fancy set of silver she used on special occasions. Someone once told me that there were knives, forks, and plates that went along with the spoons, but Mama got just the spoons. Her mother gave them to her when she turned sixteen and it turned out that there were just enough for all of us children. One for each. But now there are only six left.

Our family doesn’t talk about the spoons anymore, why three of them are missing, and it makes me wonder if anyone remembers why they are gone, but I know, I remember, and I have known for a very long time, as far back as I can remember. . .

The first one left when my oldest brother Jeffrey went out one night with his friends. . . I can’t say that I know exactly what happened. It’s all a little fuzzy now, because it happened when I was younger and Mama never told me the story straight. I do know that he died when his friends were acting silly and ran the car of the centerline on the highway and into the oncoming traffic. Papa always scolds me for mentioning it, I think it’s because Jeffrey wasn’t supposed to be with his friends that night and they’re ashamed of what he did. . .

When Mama first found out, she went crying into the living room and took one of the spoons from the table. I remember being confused, wondering what he was doing. None of it made sense to me at the time because all of the grown ups were talking in whispers and no one would tell me what was going on. All I knew was that Jeffrey had died in an accident. Then, when we were at the funeral, Mama slipped the spoon into Jeffrey’s hand when we were up the casket and whispered, “What is yours, you may take with you.” That is the only thing I can remember clearly. . . .

The second spoon left when my older sister, Stephy, was taken off of the street by a strange man, walking home late at night from a cheerleading practice at school. Mama and Papa wouldn’t tell me what happened, but it made them really upset. Late at night, after it had happened, I could hear Mama sobbing and screaming about how her baby didn’t deserve to die at the hands of those “evil men.” Papa would try to comfort her but he was just as upset. I still don’t know how she died. . .

It took Mama a bit longer to take the second spoon from the table. She would walk into the room and stare at them, lying there in the perfect row on the velvet table runner, and then turn quickly and leave. Whenever I’d see her run out I could see the tears in her eyes, and she would quickly rush to her room and shut the door behind her. Finally, the day of the funeral she walked in and snatched it up real quick. It was the same way, real quick, when she placed the spoon in Stephy’s casket when she was buried.

Then, the third spoon was taken when Kevin, the brother who was only two years older than me, was hit by a car on his way to school a morning one late October. He was crossing the street in a place that he shouldn’t have been and a truck came over the hill very fast. I guess that it was a little foggy too, but the truck driver just didn’t have enough time or warning to stop. . . . I only know this because by then I was eight and smart enough to realize what I was listening too while all the grown-ups were whispering to one another.

Mama wasn’t the one to take the spoon from the table this time. Papa was, Kevin was his favorite son and a hard worker. So, as the family gathered around his casket at the funeral I watched my father place the spoon in Kevin’s cold hand as tears streamed down his face. It was the first time in my life that I had ever seen Papa cry. He never once cried during the other funerals.

xxx

So that is why there are only six spoons left. I though that you should know that, since now I am scared that one more will be taken from the table. No, it’s not another one of my siblings who are sick, or have gotten into trouble, but me, myself, who is in danger. I have been sick, so sick that Mama and Papa moved me to the hospital outside of town. . . .

I had never been to a hospital until now. Mama always told me that I was her healthiest baby and she never had any problems with me, nothing outside of a common cold that was easily cured.

This place scares me, people keep coming in and asking me questions, asking my parents questions. I swear sometimes that I never see the same face twice. How am I supposed to remember names if I never see anyone again and more and more people keep coming? After all, Papa always told me it was polite to remember everyone’s name so that I can make them feel important if I ever meet them again. It’s good to make people feel important. I don’t want him to think less of me if I can’t remember everyone’s names. . . .

Mama has been crying again and I don’t know why. She keeps telling me that everything is going to be okay but I know it’s not, she can’t fool me anymore. . . .

I’ll tell you what I heard, if you promise not to tell.

The doctors told my parents I have a “tumor.” I don’t know what that is but it must be why I have been having these headaches lately. They hurt so bad sometimes that I cry and cry until the nurse comes in to give me some medicine. Sometimes, it feels like my head is going to explode! Papa keeps telling me to be strong. . .

I have been trying to be strong so that everyone can see how brave I am. I know that something very bad is wrong with me, but I don’t understand what.

As the days pass by, and I continue to lie on this uncomfortable bed in this place I can feel my courage ebbing away. My eyelids grow heavy and I can feel my head begin to throb again. There has to be something that I can do. . .

Maybe, if I close my eyes and go to sleep the pain will go away. . .

AN: So slightly different. I hope you enjoyed it. Please review!