rissy stories

“No Anna, you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“Well, then explain it to me.”

“But the thing is, I shouldn’t have to. You should already know!”

“I want you to make eye contact with me while you talk.”

“Stop it, Anna! God, you know what, fine. Tell me exactly how you would fix this, just like you used to.” Kyra demands condescendingly, with her ghostly-white hands clenched together. Her natural, bleach-blonde hair falls in front of her face as she looks down at the floor. She always colored it with brown lowlights when we were fourteen, but I finally talked her out of it years ago. I love her natural “Barbie- doll” look.

She’s glaring at me now with her dark-ash colored eyes. I remember that they used to be bright blue, but I think that the internal fire in her stomach, triggered by anger, changed the color. She once described it as a fire that was uncontrollably lit and extinguished against her will, constantly eating away at her stomach and making her nauseated. I’ve known her long enough to know that that fire is blazing right now.

I tap the end of my pencil on my chin and then I write that down.

Not only is she angry, her jaw is clamped shut, and her leg is anxiously bouncing up and down. She obviously has an anxiety problem. I know, because I diagnosed it myself, but why is she anxious around me? We are best friends, sisters even! We were always so close and I love her so much, but now she hates me. And I don’t understand why, I didn’t do anything wrong!

But now that I really look at her, I also notice that she also looks sleepy. Her eyelids must be heavy because the bags underneath them are still as big as they were years ago. That constant commotion of chaos within her brain must have never stopped, so she’s probably still not sleeping well. She never could figure out why that is and what was wrong with her, which is why I stepped in to analyze her life and explain her problems to her. I’d do anything to help because trust me, she needs it, and that’s the kind of person I am.

Kyra’s currently sitting on the greenish/yellowish couch that we bought together a long time ago for this room that we designed together. It’s always been a comfortable couch for me, but it currently appears uncomfortable for Kyra. This is strange because even though it’s an old couch, when we first sat on the soft-texture,

she said that it felt safe and comforting, like soup. She also said that it was something that sooths sickness and keeps us warm.

However, she commented on the stiffness and vomit-color earlier today. She now perceives the couch as “trying too hard,” apparently. Supposedly, she thinks that the only reason for me keeping it is to “salvage an outdated furniture style” that no longer belongs in the room, even though the room is a conglomerate of everything that the two of us love…or at least used to.

For instance, I used to love our hardwood floor. It’s a dark-colored hardwood now, but it used to be rosewood. Dirt from the outside accumulated on the floor over the years and stained it a dark brown color. Kyra never liked the floor, but now doesn’t mind it. I miss the rosewood a lot. It’s a beautiful color, and the floor looked amazing before the dirt from outside tainted it.

Still, Kyra doesn’t understand why I desire to spend money replacing the floor when I desperately need a new couch. Technically the color of the couch never really fit with the room, but that was always okay with the two of us. The couch may not match, but it felt good. So, I don’t get why she doesn’t like it anymore because the only furniture we actually agreed upon for this room was that couch.

I bite the eraser on my pencil and then I write that down.

For example, I chose a vintage design, blue and red wallpaper while Kyra chose the black, leather, reclining chair that I’m sitting in, right across from the couch. The desk that Kyra picked out was on her left, with a black computer chair next to it and a PC computer monitor on top of it. There are no windows, so my bright, elegant lamp is sitting on top of a nightstand to Kyra’s right. It sat right next to the candles, filling the room with midnight pomegranate, Kyra’s favorite. My large, white shelf was stacked with books to my right, opposite of Kyra. They ranged from my teenage-girl novels to psychology texts.

The room itself isn’t the best designed, but we were always happy with how it looked up until this point. Our style tastes have always been very different, and that will never change. Kyra loves the dark. I, on the other hand, need the light. But so does she, whether she knows it or not – so I’m keeping the couch.

I snap back to attention after realizing that my thoughts had dragged the silence on for too long because Kyra’s now rolling her eyes at my lack of response to her demand. I know she thinks that I’m not listening to her. She thinks that I am just focusing on my own thoughts instead of trying to understand hers. She thinks that I will never understand her no matter how hard I try. That’s always pissed me off because I understand more than anyone. I’m her best friend. She needs me. I know she needs me.

I quickly write that down.

“That’s not exactly how this works, honey.” I sweetly say as I looked back up at her, but Kyra gives me another glare despite my sweetness. I don’t know what I did wrong that time. I’m being comforting because that’s my job. I’m supposed to be motherly towards her when she acts this way. I want to tell her exactly what to do, but she won’t actually talk to me, she never really did.

“Then how exactly does this work, dear? Because I sure as hell don’t know how else to explain it to you.” Kyra snaps, seething. I force a deep breath, uncross my legs, and push my straightened black hair behind my ears. My make-up covered amber eyes find their way to the floor, no longer making eye contact.

Why does Kyra have to be so difficult? She needs my help, isn’t that why she came back here after all these years?

“I want you to tell me how you feel.” I reply calmly, looking back up at her. I feel frustration boiling up inside of me again, but I don’t show it. I have to be perfect in every sense of the word, or she won’t trust me with her issues. And I am perfect. I am. Why can’t she see that?

“Why are you still doing this? We’re twenty-five years old now Anna, we aren’t teenagers anymore. This…whatever this is between you and me isn’t working anymore, just like this fucking couch. It doesn’t belong and it never really did!” Kyra yells. I ignore the comment about the couch. I don’t understand why she keeps bringing that up, and why is she frustrated with me? She’s the one who can’t get her shit together.

I write that down.

Afterwards, I blink worriedly at Kyra and bite my lip. As usual, I cannot figure out what happened to cause my sister to become so closed off to me. No matter how much research I did or how hard I tried to get Kyra to talk to me, it was like trying to pry information from a brick wall. All I want is to flick on Kyra’s light switch to finally bring her back to how she used to be. I love her. I want to see her smile again.

“I’m doing this because I love and care about you. You want me to help you, but I also need you to help me out a little by telling me what’s wrong.” I explain. Kyra sighs heavily and shakes her head.

“No, I don’t want this help, Anna.” She whispers with exhaustion and I nod understandingly. She is always so negative, but I know what she needs.

“I know, honey. But this is something that you have to do to start feeling better.” I respond confidently. Kyra scoffs…at what? Me? I’m right. She knows I’m right. Yet, she’s shaking her head at me like a five year old having a temper tantrum.

I write that down.

“You still don’t get it. How could you possibly think that I’d want to go through this again after all these years?” Kyra asks unbelievingly. I sit back in my chair, feeling stunned by the question.

“You came back here to see me, remember?” I ask; feeling very confused. Kyra throws her hands up in the air and stands up from the couch. I sit forward in the chair again, ready to defend myself if necessary. Kyra can get very violent sometimes. I never have nor will start a fight with her. She pauses, as if catching herself from making a big mistake. Then she shakes her head once and speaks.

“Not for this, I want closure.” She says shortly. I raise my eyebrows. What gives her the right to ask that of me?

“Closure? After all I’ve done for you? I tried cutting the toxic people out of your life so that you could go back to normal. I protected my best friend and you pushed me away. Shouldn’t I be the one asking for closure?” I defend myself. Kyra runs her hands through her blonde hair, pushing her bangs back and looking around the room wildly, like she’s physically searching for the right thing to say. She hesitates for a moment and then looks back at me.

“Well, that wasn’t your job and I don’t want your charity anymore. I know better now.” She finally states, letting her arms fall to her sides, her blonde hair now unkempt and messy. I scoff because I don’t understand this. She should be thanking me because I did everything that I possibly could for her up until this point. I did everything right.

I write that-

My head snaps back up when Kyra snatches the pencil right out of my hand and snaps it in half. Then she hands it back to me and I gape at her.

“Write this down. I don’t need this ‘therapy’ room anymore. I never really did.” She whispers harshly, walks towards the door, and opens it; allowing light from the hallway to pour in. Then she turns around one last time.

“And again, Anna…you need a new couch.” Kyra adds, before walking into the brightness and shutting the door hard. The room rattles, the light bulb burns out, and the candlelight extinguishes all at once. Darkness suddenly surrounds me as I realize that maybe it is time for a new couch.

I write that down.