A/N

Written years ago, but it holds a special place in my heart. I know it's a bit short, and not too good, but I've always been attached to this piece.

"No! What? NO!" My sister Susie cried into the phone. Her eyes welled up with salty, large tears, the kind reserved especially for crying. Alexia and I sat at the marbled countertop, wondering what could possibly be so horrible. "Ok, Dad. Seriously, it's ok. I can do this, I'll be alright. I love you too Dad. Bye." She turned around to face us, and suddenly I knew what the words would be before they even left her lips. My heart sunk down to the pit of my stomach. Knowing didn't make it better. Knowing made it worse. "Alexia, Eva, I know that Dad should be the one to tell you this, but-" her voice cracked for a minute, but she pulled it together and kept talking "-Mom is dead."

It's only been five minutes and my face looks like I've been crying for hours. It's red and puffy, and strongly resembles a bloated mosquito bite. But I don't care. I can't care. What's the point in looking beautiful if you don't have a mother to tell you so? No point at all, I think. Susie is upstairs, calling my aunt Louise. Alexia is outside, climbing her tree. And me? I'm here, sitting in the kitchen, staring at a photograph of my family, when we were happy. Whole. Soft footsteps signify the arrival of my sister.

"Eva-" she starts.

I'm frozen, frozen with pain. I can't talk. I don't want to. So I run, swiftly, down the hall, unsure of my destination, unsure of anything but my desire to keep running. I reach the upstairs bathroom, slip inside and lock the door tight. And when I'm sure the door is secure, I cry. I cry, the tears running down my face like miniature waterfalls, spiraling down and down and down into forever.

I don't come out for hours. Not even Alexia can get me to leave my sanctuary. Finally, Dad gets home from the hospital. He raps gently on the door.

"Eva? Eva? Evangeline, are you in there?" he says softly.

"NO!" I cry out forcefully.

"Eva, come out please. We need to talk." he responded.

"Talk to Alexia!" I reply.

"No, Eva. I need to talk to you."

Reluctantly, I pull open the door and peep my head out, just a bit. Dad just stands there in the hall, lost. He looks old, and sad, and gray. I'm not used to seeing him in this way, as this sad, tired person. He enters the bathroom, sits down on the closed toilet seat lid, and pulls me into his lap. I cry. He cries. We cry together, sitting there, pouring out our sorrows like we did just a few hours ago. But it's different, this way. I sigh.

"Just because you can't see her doesn't mean she isn't there," my dad says, drying his eyes.

"But I'd much rather be seeing her." I reply, plainly.

"Me too, Eva," he sighs, "me too."

At school, everything is quiet. People are carefully nice to me, offering me cards like it's my birthday, giving careful, cautious smiles whenever I speak. It's like they've all been replaced with puppets, puppets that must be nice to me, agree with me, treat me like I'm a porcelain doll on the verge of breaking. But I'm not. I'm not porcelain, I'm rubber. Heavy grade, industrial rubber. I won't break if you drop me, just bounce. Bounce right back up, and continue with life. Just the way my mom would want it to be.

A/N

Please review, I'd really like to hear your thoughts on this one.