Too Late

There was something missing from my wardrobe. The white top I had bought last week – it had been here yesterday. But no matter how hard I looked, it was nowhere to be seen. There was only one explanation – Alice, my younger sister.

Alice, a year younger than me, was the social nucleus of her year. Everything seemed to revolve around her, which was why she was going to parties at least once a week. And probably engaging in some form of indecent activity as well, no doubt. It was totally beyond me why my parents actually trusted her.

She had been at a party the previous night, and owing to the need so many girls have to never be seen in the same outfit twice (totally ridiculous if you ask me), I had a sneaking suspicion that my missing garment was somewhere in that pigsty that she called her bedroom.

I crept out to her door and cracked it open. I was greeted by the sight of a somewhat overlarge, tearing poster of Orlando Bloom that had just one too many lipstick marks on it. Slightly disturbed, I proceeded to rake through her many belongings cluttering the floor: several old magazines; a Black-Eyed Peas album; large numbers of over-revealing clothes – ah-ha! Found it! I pulled out my top and scrutinised it. A little creased, but it was nothing an iron couldn’t fix…hang on. There was a small red smudge on the sleeve – lipstick.

She was so dead.

Slamming her door, I hurtled downstairs and into the living room, where Alice was sitting watching television. One of those soap operas that irritates me so much – the ones where everyone is having an affair with everyone else. But that wasn’t what was bothering me.

“Alice!”

She turned to face me, perfectly shaped eyebrows raised. The expression of smugness and superiority on her face just served to incense me further.

“You called?”

I held up the defaced top, shaking with suppressed anger. Alice looked at it, then straight back at me. Her face was wearing an expression of great pity. It was so patronising. “You should really take better care of your clothes, Madeleine.”

“Me?!? You were the one who did it!” I shouted, shaking the top in her face. She stood up, trying to appear intimidating, but I towered over her by several inches. “I want you to stop taking my stuff then ruining it!”

Alice’s face contorted with rage. “Fine! Excuse me for actually having a life!” A few seconds later, I heard the front door slam. My sister could be very temperamental when she felt like it.

Still silently fuming, I seated myself where Alice had been only moments before and tried to calm down.

* * *

Several hours later, my parents were sitting in front of the television watching a game show. I was standing in the kitchen boiling some water for the dinner. Alice still hadn’t come home.

Maybe I had been too hard on her…but she had still borrowed my things without asking me first. If only she was less huffy, then we might not have argued the way we did. Great. I was having a guilt trip.

Suddenly the phone rang.

“Madeleine! Could you get that?”

I sighed, and turned to where the phone was vibrating on its hook. It will always be another mystery of life, I suppose, why parents are too lazy to get up and answer the phone themselves.

“Hello, Fulton residence.”

“Is this Mrs. Fulton?” The voice was very businesslike and brisk, and there was a lot of hustle-and-bustle going on in the background. It’s for mum. I bet it’s her boss. Typical.

I passed the phone into her hands, and resumed my daily task of making dinner. I could hear mum shouting in the living room. What was it with people from work calling out of hours? It was an all-new definition of slave driving. I waited for mum to rant about the evils of her job.

It didn’t come.

She came rushing out of the living room, Dad following close behind her, and grabbed her coat.

“Madeleine, turn off the cooker and get in the car. Now!” she told me between ragged breaths.

Perhaps it was the sense of urgency in her voice or the fact that she sounded dangerously close to tears, but I knew that something was wrong.

“What’s going on?”

Mum’s ability to speak had been overcome by this point, so Dad answered in her place.

“Alice has been in a car accident, dear. Come on.”

The words hit with the force of a brick wall. Nodding in confusion, I followed them to the car.

* * *

The whole car journey was a blur. My mind was full of thoughts about how this was all my fault – I had argued with her and she had left. If I hadn’t said anything, this wouldn’t be happening.

Before I knew it, we had arrived at the local hospital. The Accident and Emergency department had never seemed as terrifying as it had tonight. Wordlessly, I followed my parents through the doors. They stopped breathlessly at the reception.

“We’re looking for our daughter, Alice Fulton.”

The receptionist pointed them down a corridor, and they sprinted off. I followed, a feeling of dread building inside me. Please don’t die, Alice. Please…

By the time I caught up to my parents, they were deep in conversation with a doctor. His scrubs were covered in blood. I felt bile rise in my throat. Oh God, no…

I only caught the last of what he was saying: “…but her injuries were too severe and unfortunately she died. I’m sorry.”

My parents broke down next to me. I sank, numb, into a nearby chair. She was dead…and it was my fault. I couldn’t apologise for what I’d said. It was too late. Too late.