Closed Doors - Short Story

She heard me but chose to ignore what I said. I was sure of it. I grabbed her shoulders and shook her, frustration moving my limbs and forcing it to find justice, meaning, something.

  ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ Tears fell down my face; my skin blushed from the emotion forcing its way out of my pores into the very air around me. ‘Why won’t you try to understand what I am saying?’

She looked at me, and her eyes flashed. I had lost her again. She was alarmed by my presence, could not recognise the physical characteristics we shared, the personality differences we disagreed about, the shared history that no one else would ever experience. She could not see that my frustration arose from the fear of loss.

She started to shout, ‘Help, someone help me! I don’t know her! I don’t know her!’ Tears crawled down her face. Her arms jutted wildly without thought. Nurses came and split us apart and took me away.

  ‘It’s not her fault’, the Doctor stated. ‘She is deteriorating and soon she will find it difficult to access any memory.’ I stared at her and she bowed her head slightly, trying to show empathy for a scenario she must have participated in a thousand times. ‘It would be better for her if you didn’t disturb her emotionally, try and keep things calm between you.’ As if her words contained the cure, she nodded and moved on down the hallway. Her shoes slightly tapping the linoleum and silence filled the gaps. Silence my sister used to fill; sometimes with tears, mostly with laughter. 

Around me in the hallway, people shuffled and their shoulders were huddled, backs bent forward, seeking comfort in my enforced emptiness. The body of my sister was next door, only a wall away, but I had already lost her.