Author's Note: Hello, everyone, and thank you for deciding to give Postscript a chance! It is much appreciated! Constructive feedback is more than welcome, as I'm always trying to better my writing! This story is my first time writing (other than poetry) in years after dealing with some personal issues. Hopefully, this runs smoothly. I have a rough outline of the story and how it will end, but no idea how we'll get there. So for now, I hope you enjoy the ride and bear with me on this little project of mine!

post·script (pōstˌskript) noun. an additional remark at the end of a letter, after the signature and introduced by "P.S."

Los Santos, 2004

"I wanted to be a ballerina."

My sister's soft voice awakened me from my peaceful slumber, plunging me back into the harsh reality that we now lived in. I lifted my head and stared at where she sat across from me, knees tucked to her chest as she tried to find some comfort in the empty dumpster we had found refuge in from the rain. Her forehead rested against her knees, her face hidden from my view. All I could see was her dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders in thick wavy clumps. She didn't look up at me; if not for the sound of her voice awakening me only moments prior, I'd have questioned whether or not she was still awake.

"I miss mom," she added, and for the first time I began to feel guilty for not allowing my younger sister the time and support needed to grieve such a tremendous and devastating loss. My entire focus had been her physical needs: food, water, shelter. I had completely forgotten her emotional and psychological needs, and for that she suffered a wound which I knew it was too late to mend.

"I miss her too," I replied, trying to offer the ten year old some type of solace from her grief. It was true. I could still hear my mother's voice, smell her perfume, feel her arms wrapped around me tightly. It was still hard to accept that we would no longer hear, smell, or touch her ever again.

"You didn't even cry." She allowed herself one quick glance at me before she put her head back down, hugging her knees closer to her heart as if they'd manage to hold the brittle pieces of it together before it shattered completely. "You didn't cry."

"I wanted to. God, I wanted to," I admitted, my voice cracking. "But there was no time." I reached out to stroke her bushy hair, but before I could touch her, she was looking back up at me, eyes fiery beneath the layer of tears.

"You always say that," she whispered, wet lines racing each other down her already damp cheeks. "You always say there's no time. There's never any time for anything anymore." She was angry, I could tell, but her voice hid it well. I didn't blame her for being angry at me. She had every right to be. We were living such a fast paced lifestyle, she didn't even have time to say proper goodbyes to our mother before we cremated her and haphazardly scattered what was left of her remains into the Pacific Ocean. I had denied her what little closure she could have had, and to make matters worse, I hadn't even realized it until it was much too late. The damage was already done. The trauma and scars showed through even in the darkness of the dumpster.

"I could've been a ballerina," my sister lamented her misfortune. Whether it was to herself or to me, I could no longer tell. I assumed it to be a mixture of both.

"You still can be," I assured her. "Once we get all of this taken care of, you still can be a ballerina."

Her breath hitched in her throat before she allowed herself to lie on the cold, wet surface beside me, resting her hands beneath her head to cushion it. "But when all of this is finally over," she began, "will I even still want to be a ballerina?"