My best friend, my sister

My best friend died almost four years ago, four years this October. We grew up together. Our Halloween costumes were in theme every year, like princess and evil witch or elphaba and Glinda. (Matter of fact, she really liked when I was dressed as a witch) Her father and my mother eventually divorced their spouses and moved in together, having two other children. Our lives were great, as great as you could ask for as a child. At twelve, her father attempted some atrocities which led to me being sent away for my safety. She blamed me; our final conversation was at 16/14, where she told me to never talk to her again. I never did. I got a phone call at 21, I was coming home from the store. “Did you hear? She’s dead. Bailey is dead.” And then the phone went silent. She died from an overdose during an attempted suicide, she would have survived it if the marijuana she was smoking wasn’t laced. I was in a state of shock for a month, not eating or drinking anything without being coaxed into it. I didn’t leave the spot on my bed that I went to immediately after learning the news. But I didn’t get to go to her funeral. She has no headstone; her father rubbed it in my face that I’d never get to say goodbye, as he holds her ashes. All I have left are videos and pictures I stole from social media accounts I was blocked from, a twilight T-shirt we fought over, and a younger sister that blames me for everything. (A tortuous cycle I’m sure to endure) Everyday is different, but I grieve her nonetheless. She always said she hated her name as a first name, so I gave it to my daughter for her middle name.