The 19th of November by V. Donovan

Three years have passed since

the day I’m eager to forget. Maybe, it wasn’t my fault. Though, I still feel despair and guilt. Why did you do this, Brea? I still remember that day. That sunny day when I came to your house to see the person who looked just like me? You know, I always thought I had a plain appearance but you… I saw my best version in you. You were everything. So young and bright, so talented. I saw it on your pale and soulless face. Your body was cold and cyanosed, maybe it was because of long stay underwater, I don’t even know. 

We didn’t have an opportunity to make friends with each other. I hate you so much for this reckless action. Now you became a great treat for worms. But did you think about consequences? I curse the day I was born looking like you. You, a rising star for thousands of teens, a smart student with an amazing voice. Your career prospered, and you decided to abandon me in your body, Brea? Something eats me up inside when I think about the 19th of November. I wish I didn’t stick around an elderly couple with that pretty cocker spaniel. If I came an hour early, maybe, you would be still alive… and I could see your blush and hear your singing.  

I’m a coward, Brea. I was afraid of telling that I found your corpse in the pool. I was born with your body, but after that accident I stole your whole personality. Your habits, your style, your favourite music and shows. I destroyed Grace Banasiewicz (God, Brea, if you knew how I hated my surname), a girl who wasn’t aware of pop culture, a girl who liked dogs and oversized sweaters, a girl who admired Breana Thompson’s works. There is no Breana Thompson fan any more. 

Now I’m not a fan, I’m an actual star with a bright future ahead. But it’s not my bright future, Brea. I stole it, I’m not just a coward, I’m a fraud. This burden of endless lies and guilt is weighing me down, just like the water sinking your body in that pool. No amount of my regret will bring you back to life, but I want you to know one simple thing. It’s survival of the fittest. You’re a fertilizer for the soil, and I’m alive. I have everything you had but I’m still devastated. Maybe, we are more alike than I thought. We both fought but your battle got fatal. Life is the most fragile, unstable, and unpredictable thing, you know.  

I came here not to mock you, Brea. I’m sorry to the depths of my dirty soul. 

You could live now and have fun with your friends, perform on stage and charm the 

audience. Though you’re dead. But you’ll stay in my heart forever. Don’t be 

offended by my masquerade performance. Your family acts like nothing happened, 

now I’m their daughter and that’s the thing: I’ve always wanted just to be loved. And 

you’ve always wanted to be free. Are you happy now? 

The wind from the cemetery trees perfectly drowned out a silent repentance 

of Grace Banasiewicz.