Our mum thought she was being original when she named us after the months we were born. Three years apart—April being the eldest child—I shuddered at the thought of my fate had I been born any other month, like October or February. 

Thumbing through the photos, a small smile slipped onto my face as I looked at the sister I once knew.

April in her dance costume when she was eight. April at a science fair when she was ten. April winning a 100 metre race when she was thirteen. April in front of a piano, lost in the music, when she was fifteen. A kaleidoscope of memories now shoved into a box, sitting in the corner of her cupboard to collect the dust.

These pictures once adorned her walls. She was always proud of her achievements and liked her room to capture every essence that was her.

Now the walls were blank. Bed unmade. An overflowing hamper with clothes I barely recognised sat in the corner.

April had been born at the beginning of the month at the end of the 90s after several miscarriages, the rainbow baby my parents had always hoped for. Meanwhile I, born at the end of May, at the start of the new century, was a mistake—a few too many drinks after finally finding someone to watch April while my parents had their romantic ten-year anniversary get-away. My mum had decided it was best to keep me. At least April would have a friend.

Sighing, I closed her cupboard and walked over to her desk, starting to pull out the drawers. Endless stationery and sketches. A packet of cigarettes. A surplus of makeup. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Three years apart, April was the prettier, more popular, more hopeful daughter, full of potential and promise for a sparkling future. For most of school, she achieved the top grades with little effort, while still finding ample time to date and party. I, on the other hand, was her understudy. The less attractive version, less perky, less everything. Regardless, I was expected to follow in her footsteps. 

April did well in school, so you should too. April learned an instrument, so you should too. April had a boyfriend… 

It wasn’t just our parents who made the comparisons either. Her friends, my friends, teachers, and even random people at my school whose names I hadn’t figured out. Everyone had always expected me to be like April. At least, until what happened had happened. 

Then everyone saw me as the good one; the smart one; the one who made sensible choices. The one who wouldn’t and couldn’t possibly be a bigger disappointment.

Walking across the room I dug through her chest of drawers, sifting through her underwear and folded shirts. She now wore too much black. Too many buckles and metal. Too many rips and tears.

I wasn’t proud to be doing this. But I still didn’t trust her. Given that April didn’t tell me anything anymore, this was my only way to understand a shred of who my sister was.

Three years apart, and despite the fact I knew nothing about her anymore, April was still my rock. While these days I avoided ever letting her see how much I still love her, her smile was my smile, especially considering they were a rarity over the past couple of years.

While I was the second, unexpected, unwanted child for my parents, to April, I was her number one. 

Yet two years ago, when she was 17 and I was 14, that all changed. The light in April died. The glow to her eyes, the dance to her step, the rhythm to her voice faded into the nothingness, leaving just a shell of my sister behind. 

And I missed her. Despite the fact she was a few steps down the hallway. Despite that she still spoke to me, screamed at me, and glanced my way. I missed her because whoever inhabited her body was not April. And she hadn’t been April for some time.

When the door slammed against the wall behind me, I tried to suppress my smile before I turned around to look at my big sister. 

As her grey eyes landed on me, they began to spark red. Nostrils flaring, a crease forming between her brows, she said, “What have I said about coming into my room?”

“I’m just making sure you’re upholding your promise,” I replied nonchalantly, sauntering over to the door while she stormed in.

She spun around, bleach blonde hair twirling around her face; this dance was all too familiar. And she was reacting just like I hoped.

“Of course I am. Now that you’ve checked, get the hell out,” she spat.

“Can I borrow your jacket?” I continued.

“What jacket?” She was frustrated, reaching her end of interacting with me. Talking to me, facing me, pained her. I knew it. But because it hurt so much, she often masked it in anger. Which meant, for a brief moment, she forgot the burdens she carried on her heart.

“The denim one.”

“No, May. Not that one,” her voice was calmer than before, but still laced with animosity. 

“Why not?” I pressed, though I already knew why. She wouldn’t take that jacket out of its spot in the cupboard ever again.

“Because I said so,” she responded.

I scoffed. “Okay, mum.”

That did it. “Get out!” she shrieked at me. “You’re so damn annoying, May.” The thunder raged in her eyes as she heaved her pain out in rapid breaths. But at least it was some emotion. At least she didn’t have ghosts haunting her gaze. At least she wasn’t moving at a nimble pace, touching and doing everything like her body was numb, her brain disconnected.

But before I could retort, our mum’s voice called up the stairs, “Girls, dinner!”

Placing a forceful hand on my shoulder, she shoved me out of her room, closing her door behind us with a thud. Then all at once, she stopped touching me, like happiness was contagious, as she trudged past me and down the stairs.

As I took my seat opposite her at the table, mum and dad at the heads, the vacancy had returned to April’s eyes. 

The first thing mum did when she sat down was glance at April, eyes raking over her. “Are you trying to look like a clown?” she asked.

Rolling her eyes, April picked up her fork and began to shove her peas around on her plate. “Yes, I’ve always wanted to join the circus. Thought I’d try something new.” They were referring to the new platinum blonde state of her hair. 

“You look like a hooker,” mum then said.

April’s fork clattered on the table as she turned to stare at my mother in disbelief. Remnants of eyeliner and mascara still shrouded her eyes. Cheekbones even more prominent than the last time I saw them. 

“That is so disrespectful on so many levels, mum,” April said.

Shrugging, mum looked away from April. “I just don’t get why you seem to think I run a whore house.”

“You know, you really disappoint me. You always have to pick and poke at things you don’t like. And now you’re judging my clothes and my hair, like they tell anything about how someone chooses to spend their life or use their body. Though I shouldn’t be surprised you’re still like this considering you still don’t let May see Evie.”

“May isn’t friends with Evie,” mum replied, shooting me a suspicious glare. 

April scoffed. “Yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that.”

Holding up my hands, I said, “She’s only in my classes.” Then I kicked April under the table. 

“Roll over for her more, May,” April responded.

“Enough!” dad bellowed, deciding now was the best time to join the conversation. “I have more important matters to talk about than what April wears or who May is friends with.”

Mum went quiet momentarily at that, which meant this was serious. But the silence didn’t last long enough, as she whispered, “Tony, I think it’s still too soon.”

“Livia… We can’t shelter her forever.”

“What?” April deadpanned.

Dad glanced between the two of us before he set his knife and fork down on the table. “Your great aunt Maria died last night and I will be going down for the funeral next week. This is a very hard time for the family, so I hope you will have them in your prayers tonight. You’re both welcome to join me to come down to Brisbane if you want.”

April had gone dead quiet, eyes locked on her plate.

“I can’t,” I said, filling the silence. “It will be the second week of school and we have assessments due pretty early this term.”

Dad turned his gaze to April, who still hadn’t looked up. “April?” he pressed.

As I studied her closely, I noticed a wet droplet fall from her hidden face onto her plate.

“April, your father is talking to you,” mum tried.

Finally, April wiped the tear from her face then looked up at dad. “I don’t care about some aunt of yours I never met.”

“April!” mum scolded, like April’s response wasn’t a surprise. Like fighting with April wasn’t a ritual in all of our lives these days.

Then she pushed away from the table, mumbling something about not being hungry, and raced up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind her. Moments later, deafening heavy metal blasted through the walls and down the stairs.

“You know she isn’t ready,” mum hissed at dad.

“We can’t keep skirting around the topic of death forever,” dad grumbled, picking up his fork once more. “People die all the time. She will have to get used to it.”

As we continued to eat our meals in silence, my eyes stayed locked on April's plate. She hadn't eaten anything.

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