Nothing.

Her beige pants contrasted starkly against the dark, damp pavement her smokey breaths drifting upwards to the traffic light that continued to change colors every so often, despite the lack of people and vehicles. Very few ever drove down this street, as remote and out of the way as it was, and it was especially quiet today. Today was Thanksgiving, and if anyone ever happened upon this noiseless little street on Thanksgiving evening, they would see the blonde woman sitting ominously on the ground. That solemn, dimly lit road was where she went to remember, and to repent. To mourn, and to give thanks.

Her eyes flitted about restlessly, looking for a place to land. They settled on the street light across from her. It blinked and flickered, casting odd and unsteady shadows across the sidewalk and dilapidated apartment building behind it, just as it had eleven years ago. Only then she was watching it through the grimy window of her father's apartment. 

The television roared in the background, laugh tracks and vulgar humor filling the silence that was left by her unconscious father who lay on the living room couch; the remote in one hand, an empty bottle in the other. Granted, it wasn't your typical Thanksgiving evening, but  she was perfectly content to sit and do her homework at the table while her older sister bustled around the kitchen, trying to put together some sort of dinner that at least mimicked the traditional foods. "Your apron's untied, Ellie." The comment was met with a quick smile and a breathy "Thanks," as the girl's sister reached back and fixed the loose strings. A strand of hair tucked behind the ear, a dropped spoon, a towel over her shoulder.

She squeezed her eyes shut and suddenly she was back in the dark alley listening to the sound of her own quickened breathing. Her fingers trembled slightly causing ash to fall from her cigarette to the ground. Taking another shaky breath, she blew smoke into the empty space that surrounded her, granting her freedom yet holding her in place. A frown planted itself firmly on her face as she stared intensely at the broken window that once would have revealed her little family, clustered around the uneven, wooden table for an improvised Thanksgiving dinner.

"We should say grace, dad," Ellie said softly. No one moved and the silence was filled with the shrill squeal of utensil against plate as their father shoveled another embarrassingly large heap of food into his mouth. They waited. Nothing. "Dad?"

He slammed his fork down on the table and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaning back in his chair hard enough to make it groan. "Well alright," his eyes danced accusingly between the two girls, "go on, then if you're gonna make such a damn fuss about it." His words were slurred with drink and with anger. Ellie nodded quickly and averted her eyes to the floor as she began her whispered, hurried prayer. When it was done they all silently went back to eating, ignoring the nervous tension in the air. The fridge buzzed. The heater hummed. The sound of the TV still pervaded the entire apartment. Sounds that were usually disregarded and irrelevant were suddenly loud and abrasive to the ears of the sisters. 

This wasn't unusual. The aggressive conversation, the tense moments. They knew how to handle it: quietly. Speak when you're spoken to, be polite, be respectful, always take the blame. Diffuse the situation. And that's exactly what she was doing. Staring only at her food, focusing on maintaining that pleasant expression. It would have worked, like it always did. It should have. But no one strategy can work forever. After all, what is a calm lake without a tossed rock to disturb it.

Back to the present. Still thinking of Ellie, still remembering. The pavement beneath her chafing at her ankles. Goosebumps appearing along her exposed skin and the gentle breeze tossing the flyaway strands of her hair. She blinked the tears from her eyes and touched  her hand to her cold face. 

Ellie's pregnancy was old news. In fact almost everyone knew, including her little sister. Her friends had suggested abortion and talked about ways to get it done discreetly but Ellie couldn't do it. She couldn't kill her baby, even if it meant that her life would be altered drastically, she couldn't kill her baby. Her boyfriend got her a ring and begged her not to tell her father. Everyone knew how he was when he was drunk or when he was angry. And he was usually some combination of those two. 

Ellie was smart and she knew that telling her dad would be dangerous. But she also knew that she wouldn't be able to hide it for much longer. Nate had suggested eloping; running away and trying to make it on their own. It was probably their best bet, and god was it appealing to her, but she couldn't leave her sister who was as much hers to raise as the infant she was carrying.

So she decided. She would tell her father on Thanksgiving day. And she did.

The screaming silence around the table got infinitely louder. No one moved, no one breathed. The girls could feel their hearts pounding and their hands shaking. Her gaze was fixed on her older sister, hoping, waiting, expecting, and praying to god he would save her from her own stupid mistakes. Ellie stared in terror at her fathers eyes, unable to break the eye contact that boiled with  fury yet to be unleashed. Silence. Terrible, horrible, drawn out silence. 

Her cigarette fell to the ground and suddenly the memories came in flashes. Shouted words, frantic apologies, a slammed door, a vase shattered against the wall, a slap, a scream, the sound of glass breaking against a human skull and vise versa, Ellie's body on the floor, blood spattered on the wall, her own dark, silhouette reflected in the smooth surface of dad's gun, her shaking finger around the trigger, his widening eyes, a half spoken word, a held breath, a click, a bang, a scream- her scream, nothing.

Nothing.

And the longer she waited the less there was. Nothing. For the past eleven years there had been nothing.

She took one last drag from her cigarette and stood up, letting the sorrow and anger roll over her like silver clouds across a moonlit sky. She looked down the street. There was nothing. And as she set off at a brisk pace, a small smile graced her chapped lips. She had 364 days to forget. Another year to pass before she'd have to remember again. One more year of nothing.