Dancing Queen

Your sister died the day before you were born.

It wasn't a tragic accident, or an unexpected event. The cancer had been eating away at her for months, transforming her from a lively and excitable girl to a shell, a mere shadow of who she once was. 'Dancing Queen' had been her nickname, earned from years of pantomines and performances showing off her skills on stage. She always told your parents her dream job was to be a ballerina, and so they encouraged it vigourously. Thousands were spent every year on dance lessons, costumes, ballet shoes - everything a girl needs to fulfill her dreams.

You used to stare at those ballet shoes, hung on the wall opposite your (her) bed. You couldn't take them down, not without your mom crying and dad shouting about her memory being stolen.

It was a month after her diagnosis that they realised they were pregnant with you. What should have been a joyous occasion was shrouded with sadness, anger, disappointment. And even though they'd been wishing and hoping for another child for years, the timing was so painful that they considered termination. You've always understood this, and why they act the way they do towards you. It was your sister who encouraged them to keep you, to love and cherish you as they did for her.

Angie always wanted a sibling, and spent so much of her childhood begging your parents to 'find' another little girl to join the family. Her spirit was dampened a little when told her it was a much longer process, but she never relented. It was a joke between them, whispered at her hospital bedside, that you're on your way now because she's leaving - they always said they didn't have the room for more children, now they won't need to make space for another.

"She can have my room, I'm sure she'll grow up and love it." Your mom showed you that video of Angie when you turned five, and started asking to redecorate. Pink was far too girly, and the wardrobe full of frilly dresses were taking up space. You wanted to turn it into a rocket ship, just like your best friend Monty had in his bedroom. You wanted blues and reds, and stars on the ceiling - the ones that glow in the dark, so you could imagine yourself flying through the night sky, far away from everyone and everuthing down here on earth.

Of course you couldn't keep asking to change it, not after Angie. Not after hearing her sweet, raspy voice over the recording telling you how much she already loves you, and can't wait to teach you how to dance like her. Mom put you into dancing lessons the moment you started to walk, and you spent every Saturday squirming in itchy pink tutus for an hour while people you didn't know made you move and twirl like a leaf blowing away on the wind. You never felt like a leaf, though. No, you moved more like a house being picked up by a tornado, taking our everything else in its path.

Those dance lessons were futile. They never let you in the shows at the local theatre, no matter how much your parents paid and begged them to include you. 'She's a legacy! She's just like her sister; she just needs another push and she'll soon get into it!'

It wasn't just the dancing. Every aspect of your life, from the moment you were brought into this world, was dictated by a person you'd never met.

The food you ate, "Well, this was Angie's favourite, so it'll be yours too!"

The friends you made, "Look, Lola's older sister was Angie's best friend. Go and play together, I know you'll get along!"

Even your birthday was a celebration for your sister. "Angie's not here to blow out her birthday candles anymore, is she? So why should you get to?" That was a constant battle with your mom, and it always sent her into a spiral. You wouldn't see her much for the rest of the day: she'd be at Angie's graveside instead, reminiscing on their memories together and the future she should have had.

Everything in your life has revolved around this ghost girl. Her face haunts every room, her name in every conversation. Everything you do and everything you achieve has always been compared to what Angie has done.

You were a runner up in the middle school science fair, well Angie was the winner. You leaned to ride a bike when you were eight, but Angie did it by the time she was six. Your parents like you, but they LOVE Angie.

Every way you are different, is another reason they stay away. Angie was, and always will bem their past, present and future. The life they invisioned for themselves had her at the epicentre, and now here you are, floating on the sidelines like an understudy no-one wants on stage.

You spent years trying to please them, and then spent twice as long doing the opposite. The ballet lessons, the dyed hair, the non-existant birthday candles. Everything.

People still ask you, now, why you don't talk to your mom and dad. Why you chose to move thousands of miles away for university. Why you don't go 'home' for holidays and celebrations.

Why they haven't met your husband, or your daughters.

Why they weren't invited to your graduation.

Why you didn't tell them that you changed your name (though, why did you change your name?)

They sit at home, staring at two girls smiling out of a frame. A place where time is frozen, where a moment can last forever. They sit and stare at those pictures of their daughters, and wonder over and over again why they are sat there alone.

They had two children. Two beautiful, talented, wonderful children. One was taken, one took herself away. Those questions run through their minds on a daily basis, yet no answer will ever come.

You see another message pop up on your lockscreen. Facebook Messenger, from Auntie Kallie. You're tempted to reply, to tell her exactly why. But you don't.

Instead, you open up Voicemail, and play the oldest message. It's years old now, but you keep it anyway, despite knowing it like the back of your hand.

"...And I just wish you could be more like Angie. God, I wish Angie were still here. Why did it have to be her?

Why couldn't it have been you?"