The room was silent to my sister. Any noise had been drowned out by the punk rock music that was filling her ears. There was a peacefulness in her unawareness of the cries that surrounded her. She had even shut her turquoise eyes so that she could fully lose herself in her music. Her eyes would remain shut even as our own Mother screamed for them to open.

Salty tears permeated the room. My sister did not smell any of these tears. During allergy season, her congested nose blocked out anything. That day the mucous blocked out the smell of sadness. Beneath her nose lay her lips, velvety pursed together, sitting in stark defiance of love, still trying to protect her very first kiss.

Life still sprung from her thick head. Energy bouncing around, fueling dreams that she can never articulate. Dreams of making snowmen, or making sandcastles would be told to me when she wakes up. She would wake up bursting with enthusiasm to tell me about all her vivid dreams.

Pale white make-up had been dosed over her skin. Despite the coloration, the eleven-year-old cloak radiated youthful energy. The childish spunk emulating from her body reminded everyone that she was indeed still here. She was waiting for us to catch her faking it all. To catch her in the middle of this silly charade. Her bones would crackle as she revealed her ploy, and her heart would begin pumping again.

The legs were meditating, refusing to move. Like her heart, her legs were preparing to race once more. Her feet were waiting patiently for the feeling of cold gravel and soft sand; yet they waited in vain.

When she came home she would cover our refrigerator door with her drawings. And after waking up form all this, my sister would cover her casket with sketches of the funeral director. My sister's hands may have been laying motionless on her stomach, but they never stopped searching for a piece of paper to scrawl on.

My sister looked exactly the same as she had on Saturday.