Page 65 of Forget Me Not

I walked slowly to her room, feeling the weight of each step I took. I stood outside her door and I knocked. I called her name, and I knocked, and I waited, and nothing. I tried to prepare myself as I opened her door, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw.

My beautiful twin sister lay in her bed in her childhood room which she would never have a chance to grow out of. What seemed like her entire blood volume poured out of her and onto the sheets, dripping onto the floor. A gun lay on top of herstomach, her hand limp next to it. As I ran closer to her, I saw the bullet hole in her chest, right below her collarbone.

I felt for a pulse, but there was nothing there. I called 911, but it felt like hours before they showed up. I opened the door for paramedics, who ran to the aid of my sister, only to tell me what I already knew but didn’t want to believe. She was gone. She chose to be gone, and I was so fucking angry at her. Part of me still is.

As a medical professional, I know that living with mental illness can be paralyzing. I know that Lennox may have felt like this was her only option. I knew, on some level, it wasn’t her fault. But as her twin, it was hard not to look at the situation and think that she had given up. She left me. It was hard for me to believe there was nothing else she or I could’ve done. It was hard for me to believe she was so physically and mentally exhausted that she thought it would be too much to keep breathing.

I found out about a week and a half later that Lennox had purchased the gun legally. She stole money from my mom, who didn’t even notice it was missing and drove to a weapons store only fifteen minutes from our home. She walked in, purchased the gun, and came back two days later to pick it up. That was on July 3.

Technically, the store did nothing wrong. They ran a background check on Lennox and found nothing. If they were looking hard enough, they could’ve seen she wasn’t okay, but they didn’t care to.

They asked her what she wanted the gun for. She told them she wanted to feel safe. They didn’t ask her why she never felt safe in the first place. If they did, they would’ve known it was because she watched her best friend get killed by someone else who shouldn’t have been able to own a gun. They didn’t ask her if she was okay. They didn’t ask her about mental illness.

They saw a seemingly healthy twenty-year-old girl who was looking to purchase a weapon and did their job by selling it to her. It should’ve been so much more difficult to obtain a weapon that could have such a catastrophic outcome in the wrong person’s hands. But it wasn’t. It’s not.

I went to that store once I found out. I walked in and the cashier smiled at me and told me to let him know if I needed any help. I walked up to him and put a printed picture of Lennox down in front of him.

I asked him if he remembered her. He stared at her picture longer than he should’ve had to and then it finally clicked for him. He smiled at me and confirmed that he did.

“Quiet girl,” he said.

Lennox had never been a quiet girl. Not until she had nothing left to say. Nothing left to give. He asked why and I just stared at him. I stared at him until the smile that was glued to his face fell.

Then I finally said, “She’s dead. She shot herself.” I didn’t wait for his response before picking up the picture and running out of there.

We had a funeral for her, and I packed up my life and moved to Seattle a week later. My mom begged me to stay, I wasn’t supposed to leave for another two weeks. But I couldn’t. I was so mad, but I also missed her so fucking much. I couldn’t be in that house, that city, that state. I couldn’t be anywhere that reminded me of her. I still can’t. I haven’t been back since I left. My mom visits me here, but that’s the most of my past I’ve been able to handle.

I guess that’s why Demi told me to read the journal in the first place. She knew I needed closure. She knew I needed to hear that this was Lennox’s struggle, and truthfully, anything I said to her probably wouldn’t have made a difference. I could’ve told her we’d find a way to help her, and I could’ve promised herit would get better, but I don’t think she would’ve believed me or even heard me.

It was the last few sentences that were the reason Demi knew I hadn’t read it though. I reread the words over again.

I need you to know I’m not your soul mate though, Lo. I’m not your other half. But I did find him. His name is Kaden Pierce.

I love you eternally, Lo. I believe he will too.

She knew. Just from a couple messages, she knew what I’ve come to find. She didn’t leave him my name just for him to take care of me. She left us each other’s names, believing we could take care of one another.

She told me to not be scared of the idea of love, and I always had been. I don’t think I even knew or understood what real romantic love was. Until him. Until he stormed into my life, and I fell head over heels in love with him without any thought or care about the consequences. All I cared about was loving him because I didn’t know how not to. I don’t know how not to.

Kaden Pierce controls every piece of my heart, just like she knew he would. I always felt like a piece of me was missing after Lennox died. The missing piece was him. I was never his burden. I’m his soul mate, just as he is mine.

I stare at the words inked into the paper one last time. I stare at her name signed on it. The last thing she ever wrote. I let myself remember, and instead of the pain that always comes with her memory, I let myself smile. I let myself believe that she wanted me to live. She wanted me to be happy. She wanted everything for me, even if she couldn’t see it for herself.

I close the journal and stand up, passing by my night table. I pull out a box that holds all of my old childhood memories. A box that sits in the back of my closet and rarely moves. I open it up and place the journal right on top. I close the box, push it backinto the corner of the closet and shut the doors. I walk out of my room and find Demi sitting on the couch.

“Hey, I need a ride,” I say, and she smiles wide.

She jumps up, slips on her shoes and grabs her keys before following me out the door. She doesn’t ask me where I need to go. She knows.

She stays silent during the car ride. Maybe so she doesn’t scare the courage out of me. Maybe because she knows there’s nothing left to say. She turns on the radio and “Light Me Up” by Ingrid Michaelson plays through the speakers. I sit back, listening to the words and letting the music run through me. We pull up and she puts the car in park before turning to me.

“Call me if you need me, okay?”

“Always.” I open the car door and get out.

“Lo.” She stops me just before I shut it. “I’m proud of you,” she says, and as good as the words feel, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like I don’t need to hear them. I feel like maybe I’m proud of myself. And that feels like enough.

“Thanks, Dem.” I smile at her before closing the car door and walking up to the tattoo shop. I walk inside and see King sitting at the front desk. The corner of his lips tilts up just slightly, showing that he’s happy to see me here. Happy I finally came to talk.

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