"'It's no big deal.' That's what they all say," I murmur.

Naomi's eyes narrow, but her words are soft. "I'm really okay, Violet. It's--it's just--" she breaks off. I can hear only the steady patter of the rain on our windows.

"Losing the first person you ever loved is hard," I say. Naomi makes a choking sound, and her eyes water. I continue, "And... And it's not just losing. When you lose someone, there is a chance of finding them again. This is... Is..."

A tear drips down Naomi's face. "I know," she whispers. "She's gone. Forever. And there is nothing I can do about it." She slumps down onto the red couch in the room, and it makes a groaning sound. When we were younger, we used to joke that it sounded like her dad when he bended over. We really only stopped joking about it three days ago, when the Bad Thing happened. But when it did Happen, we both felt older, much older than we are. And in no mood to joke. So we have stopped.

I quietly say, "You could write."

Naomi glances up at me, her brows knitted it confusion.

My cheeks burn, but I force the words out. "Writing--writing helps me to express my feelings... You could try it..."

Naomi shrugs and sighs, but snatched up a few pieces of paper and a pen. She starts scribbling so furiously on it, the papers starts to rip, and the pencil's tip wears down fast. By the end, she is panting, and the papers look horrible; all wet from tears, and torn apart. Penciled words are stretching across the pages. But with determination in her eyes, Naomi hands the papers to me.

I slowly start to read the first page. It is about the car crash, and how Naomi thinks it is her fault that her sister died, because if she was there she could have woken her sister up, therefore preventing her to crash into the truck in front of her. The second page is about all of her favorite memories of her sister, and the third page is about what she wished the would have done with her sister that she never did. By the end, my tears have plopped onto the pages, mixing in with Naomi's.

Naomi abruptly gets up from the groaning couch, and walks over to me. Her deep blue eyes are welling with emotions as she opens her arms and hugs me.

"I'm glad you're my best friend," she whispers into my shirt. "Thank you."

I hug her back. "I'm sorry about what happened."

"I'm not fine," Naomi admits. "But over time, my heart will heal." Suddenly, through all the sadness, she smiles. "Except for that couch. I'm sure it'll never stop groaning."

"It's no big deal that's what they all say." I knew it was a big deal from the very beginning. They said it would never happen. It never had happened, not until sep, 17, 1996. The night before me and my brother lay on the cheap mattress. We were lucky to even have that. The last four years my family had been pore we had to live in an abandoned garage. My brother lay motionless and I curled up in a small ball to keep the heat. In less than five minutes my eyes were glued down. That night I dreamt about what it would be like in heaven. Everything was perfect I kind of wished I was there but, I wasn't ready to risk my life. When I was awoken to the sound of chickens that lived a few blocks away I looked over to the space next to me that lay empty. I stared that empty space I thought to myself where is my brother. I listened carefully and I heard the faint sound of crying I turned my head and my parents were crying into there palms. I looked at them and suddenly knew what had happened and I knew exactly how, why, and where he was now. I reached over to the stool and sipped the last of the tea that I had tried to save for a week. The tea had tasted so alive before today but now it was no more than a cup of tea it tasted bland my whole life now felt bland.

It's no big deal. That's what they all say. Their tune changes when I tell them my motives. If it's really no big deal why is it you cringe when I speak? Why do you look away from me when I give you the details you ask for? In some twisted way I'm glad you can't stand to hear me without falling apart, but in other ways it breaks me. How can the world expect me to stay sane when others loose it with minor details. Everyone is budging in line to get to the front, but as soon as they are there it's stalling time. When is it alright for you to tell me to stay strong when things the don't even come close to my devastation haunt your subconscious? It's all fun and games till someone drops the bomb. "Be careful what you say, that one was raped" or " Don't go there man, she's fucked up". To my surprise when you get brutally beaten and violated it's only natural that almost everyone you know avoids you. I'm 16 and you're 27 but that 11 year gap separates us the way earth divides the heavens from hell. My maturity is questioned on a daily. Tell me ma'am, just how pleasant would your mood be if someone where to force themselves in between your legs and create a fucking black hole thru your life? Joy is sucked away, so it's either blind hatred or my self imploding fear and depression. Do you realize you ask me to be the perfect victim? I must stay strong in my everyday yet be weak to the court, it's expected of me to be the voice for others hurt as I am yet I am never to speak of my suffrage. This may not seem like a story type thing but that's only because my life is that of a disaster novel. Every turning page heightens the death tole and still you have no choice but to stare into those pages. In life we tend to forget the actual text and read between the lines. Problem is there's only blank space. What type of art museum would explain to you the substances artists had to consume before regurgitating their self righteous bullshit onto a canvas? Oh, fuck wait they don't. Humanity craves deeper meaning in just about everything. How difficult is it to comprehend. I was raped and beaten. There's no underlined shitty hopeful retort. Plain and simply painful. Done. I am the bad acid trip. My life and doubts all on the canvas. You then, happen to be the ever inspecting assholes who pry at the brushstrokes like I was trying to speak thru them. In all honesty I didn't know I was painting. The stokes overlap because I wasn't living reality. Who gives a fuck if my veins are twisted? Nobody will even notice until the autopsy, but it's nothing right? I am clearly the lesser person for not having the perfect answer to each of your accusing questions. I am a human. At least I was. I'm more of a hollow shell now, however, tell me again how it is you would handle my strife with grace. Tell me how brave you could be starring into an abyss. Lie to me once more and swear to me how irrelevant my misfortune is to my attitude. It's nothing. You'll be fine. How about you mind your own business. This is between the bottom of the bottle and me. It's nothing... Personally really.

It's no big deal. That's what they all say. It's no big deal. I wish I could show them what it's really like. It's no big deal, huh? Living with the ghosts and consequences of choices you had no part in? To want to destroy yourself at every turn after being taught that you're a horrible person. How could a 4, 5, or 6 year old be so unlovable and such a mistake? How can you teach a child that she's worthless from day one? Then how does the rest of the world turn around and say it's no big deal.... How? How can these scars be no big deal?