Who are you? | Teen Ink

Who are you?

December 7, 2012
By Kyrae SILVER, Idyllwild, California
Kyrae SILVER, Idyllwild, California
7 articles 0 photos 3 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things." 1 Corinthians

A pretty girl with dark, wavy, auburn hair bursts into the room, a parade of balloons enveloping her.
“You’re awake!” She squeals and says “Finally!” She has a huge grin on her face; she jumps over and crushes me in a hug. I watch as the shiny metal balloons rocket to the ceiling, and then I quickly take a sharp breath inward, inhaling sweet and energetic air.
“Oh sorry!” she says, “How is your head?”
I touch the tender spot on the back of my head and the bandages on the right part of my forehead. “They’re fine”
“Are you sure?” she asked concerned, “You look a little odd; they wouldn’t let me see you until you had a few days to recover. I’ve been really worried.”
I stare into her entrancing blue eyes edged with long painted lashes. They are like the middle of the ocean, dark and deep. Her small nose is sprinkled with freckles that spread onto her cheekbones, and she has a soft angelic face surrounded by soft waves of dark red hair. I do not recognize her. My face must show it, because as she stares back into my eyes and I see a thought form.
“Do you know who I am?” she says in a scared voice.
I see pure fear in the pools of her eyes as I slowly shake my head.
“No.” I say.
Shock flashes onto her face, and then she goes stiff and looks dead on into my face with desperate and scared eyes.
“Do you even recognize me?” she breathes.
I shake my head again, and I cannot even start to move my lips before I see a tear fall out of her bottomless, peacock blue eyes. She starts to cry, not a hysterical self-centered cry, but a slow, painful, and frightened cry. She blurs out. I feel hot tears on my cheek, and feel a teardrop slide off of my jaw onto my hand below. Why am I crying? My body seems to react in response to hers, and I feel a crashing wave of sadness and despair to the pain I somehow can tell she is feeling. All of the sudden we are hugging, tears streaming down our faces, her soft, silky hair drinking up the tears flowing uncontrollably from my eyes. We sit there on my hospital bed and cry. Finally, she pulls away wiping her face with her sleeve, then she wipes mine and says, “I’m sorry, this must be so confusing for you...Um…. well my name’s Emily… and I’m your best friend.”
My name is Blake Anne Harrison, I am fifteen years old, and I cannot remember who my best friend is.

I was born in a small beach town near San Francisco in a tiny hospital to Anne and Jacob Harrison. I am the second and youngest child. My older brother’s name is Jesse Harrison, and he is one of those guys that girls watch as he walks down the hallway. He has dark brown hair, but he was given my father’s lightning blue eyes. He has a masculine and sculpted face that I always hear girls talking about, and is nice to everyone but me because “it’s his job to annoy me”. He is six foot, a swimmer, and has one of the top five grade point averages for Sulmner County. Yes, he sets the bar high, but I am glad I have him; he is a rock in my life. My parents have been together since my mom was sixteen and my dad was nineteen, and had known each other since they were in diapers. I know their story by heart, and sometimes love to just sit and reread it to myself inside my head; it gives me hope to find a love like theirs. Anyways, I am the type of girl who loves dresses, skirts, and bows. I love my extremely dark caramel hair that waves and curls in a beachy mess down to the small of my back. I have eyes that are a shade lighter than my hair, and a round face. Though my grandpa always calls me beautiful, I am average. No boys are pushing each other over to talk to me. Despite my girly personality, I do not sit around every day inside obsessing over vanity. No not me, I love to be outdoors, I love to read, and I love my beach.

I remember falling.
We were walking on the cliff, luckily the low one. I love walking by the beach. I do not remember who I was with, maybe Jesse, but I remember the sharp cold wind. It’s fall, so the beach was cold. The sky was cloudy overhead, and I was wearing jeans, my old, beat-up jacket, warm boots, and my favorite white hat and brown scarf. I love the salty smell of the ocean, you can taste it on your tongue, and the rough feel of the strong winds tugging at you, roaring in your ears along with the sound of the crashing waves. We were at the very edge of the cliff, and I was leaning on the old wooden rail that was smooth and dark from many hands using it. The ocean waves were cutting into the rock twenty feet below me. The crashing waves sprayed the icy water up on my face. I was just standing admiring my ocean. A group of laughing teenagers stumbled over, pushing each other and horse playing. I was annoyed. The next thing I knew, a heavy, drunk boy was shoved onto the rail next to me. He hit the rail hard, and their laughter was silenced with the snapping of wood. He was falling. He flailed and grabbed onto my arm with giant strong hands, pulling me down. Down, the sickening twist in my gut as the freezing wind rushed past me, I screamed and hit the water. Then all I remember is cold. And darkness.
I don’t know what to say. I remember my mom, dad, brother, everybody. Why can’t I remember this girl sitting before me? It really is true, that when blue-eyed people cry it makes their eyes even bluer, which I had not thought possible with her eyes. Nevertheless, here she is, and her eyes are breathtaking now, only thing is that they are ringed in puffy red and smeared makeup. Jesse walks in and says, “Hey Em, glad to see you finally decided to wake up Blake.” He looks closer at us, and then his face turns serious, “What happened?”
Emily says, “She doesn’t remember who I am…” choking up at the end, obviously straining to hold back more tears.
Jesse’s face is shock. He looks at me, “You still remember me right?”
I nod and say, “Of course, Jesse,” and the girl loses it, bawling again. This of course, for some reason I am still not sure of, sets me off as well. Jesse swiftly picks the auburn haired girl up like a baby, and tells her, “It’s going to be okay Em,” and carries her out the door. A few seconds later, he’s back in with a box of tissues. He comes and sits next to me, and I fall into the strong frame of my older brother and cry while he hugs me and strokes my caramel hair.

When I finally feel cried out, I look up at him and see worry in his face.
“Are you done?” he asks. I nod, and he says, “Are you okay?” I nod again. He hesitates a few seconds, then seems convinced by something and says, “Alright then, I’m going to go see if Emily’s okay.”
I am confused so I ask, “Can’t someone else do it?”
“Someone else could,” he says, “but she’s my second little sister.” It hits me finally like a slap to the face how extremely close we must have been. I look up at Jesse and ask, “How close were we?”
“I haven’t even seen twins who are closer.”
Really? I feel empty. My mind is numb, and I stare unfocused at the wall. I feel Jesse hug me and faintly hear him tell me he is going to send mom in. How? I hear Jesse leave. Why? I hear someone else come in, and they hold me tight. I lean into my soft and comforting mom. Really, were we really that close? How, how can I forget? I don’t have the slightest inkling of a memory of that girl. Why, why do I feel so empty and broken?

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