Why? That was the real question here.

Why would anyone want to kill my sister? She was the kind of person that everyone loved. Becca was so sweet, so kind. The kind of person who should die of something like old age. Not murder.

So why was it that she was bashed over the head with a Louisville Slugger in my garage? Why was it that someone decided that they hated her enough to kill her? To take her life away just so that their’s would be a bit better. To me, that was selfish, cruel, and indescribably sick.

I still remember finding her passed out in the garage. And the blood. Everywhere. There was so much blood. Becca’s blood.


I sat in my room, finishing the last of my English homework, relieved to be done. Then I closed my worn, dog-eared class copy of Macbeth. No offense to Shakespeare or anything, but why did the old ages have to use such ridiculously difficult words? Maybe the story could actually be interesting if I knew what it was saying.

With a sigh, I tossed the book onto my bed and trotted downstairs. Wondering where Becca was, I glanced into the kitchen to find it empty. There was no sign of her in the living room either, so I opened the door attached to the garage. After all, she had stormed out there with Bobby to fight in private.

I peeked my head inside and a gasp escaped my throat. “Becca!” I screeched. She was lying on the concrete floor, my dad’s old Louisville Slugger signed by a few feet away from her. But that wasn’t what made me gasp. She was lying in a pool of her own blood.

I rushed over to her side, kneeling down next to her and cradling her head in my arm, blood staining my clothes. “Becca, wake up!” I cried, knowing that she wouldn’t, but praying that she would anyways.

“Oh, please wake up!” I pleaded, tears trickling down my face. “Please, Becca! Please wake up! Please don’t die!”

So many thoughts were racing through my head at once. How could this have happened? Had someone done this to her purposely? If so, who did it? Was she dead?

The last question was what scared me the most. I couldn’t lose her, she was my sister. I couldn’t lose my sister. Not now. We were only high-school students. She was way too young to die.

She was a year younger than me, so I’d lived with her my whole life. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to be an only child. I didn’t think that could handle it. But I shoved all these thought aside, knowing that at that moment, I needed to get help.

So I placed her head gently onto the garage floor and ran into the house to call 9-1-1. When I got inside I grabbed the phone, dialing in those three numbers as fast as my trembling finger could. I held it up to my ear with shaky hands, listening to it ring for what seemed like forever. Then finally, someone answered.

“Seattle Police Department, what’s your emergency?” a bright female’s voice said.

“It’s my sister.” I sobbed. “Her head…it’s bashed open. And blood, there’s blood everywhere.”

“Alright m’am, I’ll send someone over right away. The trick is just to stay calm. What’s your name?” she asked, her voice raising a bit, sounding more alert.

“Rachel Everhart.” I replied, trying to follow her instructions and stay calm. But it was kind of hard to stay calm when your sister was dying in your garage. “My sister’s name is Rebecca Everhart.”

“Alright, well I’m Karen Schneider and I’m going to help talk you through this. I know you must be very frightened.” No duh, Sherlock. “But when the police get there, they’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry, I’m sure that your sister will be ok.”

She must have been an actress, because she made that lie seem pretty believable. “Yeah, hopefully.” I murmured. I heard her sigh heavily on the other line. She was probably thinking to herself: What have I gotten myself into? I’m a cop, I’m not meant to be dealing with some teenager’s emotional distress.

Well I’m a teenager, I’m not meant to be dealing with my sister’s death. But it wasn’t like she would ever be able to even begin to understand how I felt. Not unless she found her sister bleeding to death on her garage floor.

The sound of sirens rang in my ears, getting closer and closer, and I realized that the cops were here already. “The police are here now, so I’m going to go and talk to them.” I informed her.

“Ok, I wish you the best of luck. And you have my sympathy.” she chimed. Yeah, more like her pity.

“Thank you, bye.” I hung up the phone, before letting her get another word in and then rushed out to the garage. There were now three police cars and an ambulance parked in front of my house. Six policemen and four paramedics came rushing up all at once. Before I knew it, the paramedics were lifting Becca up onto a stretcher and a policeman was approaching me.

“Hello, I’m Detective Howard.” he greeted me. Ok, so maybe he wasn’t a policeman. “And I’m assuming you’re Rachel.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” I replied. “So, is my sister going to be ok?”

He bit his lip and scratched the back of his neck, avoiding any eye contact with me. He didn’t even have to answer me now, that gesture was answer enough. “Rachel, your sister hit her head pretty hard.” he began. “And I’m no doctor, but I honestly don’t really think that she’s going to be able to heal.”

“So you’re saying she’s…dead?” I uttered, getting choked up all over again. I’d already seen this coming, but to have it stated clearly by a detective…well, it didn’t exactly comfort me.

He looked away, his full of true sympathy. “I’m very sorry.”

Tears blurred my vision and I shut my eyes, trying to block them from escaping. But they found their way around my weak barrier, rolling down my cheeks and onto my blood-stained t-shirt.

“I have to go inside and call my parents.” I mustered together those nine words through the tightness in my throat. He nodded and I walked inside, grabbing the phone, dialing in my mom’s cell phone number, pressing it to my ear.

I knew that my parents had gone out to dinner at some fancy restaurant with my dad’s boss and his wife, I just hoped they’d answer. Unfortunately, they didn’t. So I was forced to leave a voice mail.

“Mom, it’s me. You have to come home right now… Becca’s dead.” I hung up the phone, placing it back on the receiver and then I cried. Long and hard. Until Detective Howard walked inside.

“Um, sorry to disturb you, but we need to do some questioning.” he told me. I nodded, no longer able to speak clearly.

So he took me down to the police station and asked me question after question. All about Becca. All about her death.

And the entire time I thought one thing: Why? Why Becca? What did she do to deserve this? Why did she have to die so soon?

Why? Why? Why?