Everbloom, USA

1. Pilot; The Last Letter

I didn't understand the immense pain my brother had been in until a week after he killed himself. Walking into his apartment felt like jumping into a cold shower unexpectedly. I flinched at the unexpectedly harsh stare of my brother. He was judging and annoyed. His coffee bean colored eyes looked tired and nervous. His raven black hair was untidy and he looked like he hadn't bothered to shave in a few days. After a second of staring back at him I realized it wasn't him. It was me. Of course it was me. He was dead. I was alive. Directly opposite of the door was a mirror that covered the whole wall. It was such an unexpected thing to see right when you opened the door that I already felt annoyed at my brother and then I closed the door behind me, locked it, and remembered why I was even there. I turned the corner and walked into his living room.

How funny that a dead person had a living room? Except it wasn't funny. I looked around at an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar house, in a familiar town I had tried my hardest to forget. I was thankful I was alone because truthfully I didn't know how to act. Was I supposed to fall to the ground and sob over the death of my twin brother I hadn't talked to in 8 years? Was I allowed to be annoyed and angry and inconvenienced that I had to come back to a town I hadn't visited in 8 years because my twin brother was dead? I felt confused and exhausted. There was some potential regret wanting to bubble to the surface but for the moment I pushed it down. I wasn't there yet. I took a deep breath and allowed myself to take in the state of the room. I closed my eyes and tried to center myself.

"Physically, I am in the middle of Dante's living room, Dante is my twin brother who is now dead." I whispered to myself. "Mentally, I am back home with Eric and our puppy beagle Peanut Butter. I cannot control what happens to me while I am back home dealing with all of this but I can control how I react to it all." I whisper to myself, a technique that my therapist had suggested when I felt overwhelmed with emotions. Of course when we'd discussed it I never thought one day I'd be using it to help me deal with being back and dealing with my brother's death.

I opened my eyes and looked at the couch. It was a loveseat brown leather couch and a coffee table full of papers and magazines and books. The place looked messy. Like he hadn't bothered to clean in forever, which struck me as odd because whenever I allowed myself to remember our lives together growing up he was always a neat freak. He had always been on my ass to clean up after myself.

The police had told me they had not touched anything as there did not appear to be any evidence of foul play. "Just a standard suicide" the cop had blurted out before realizing how cruel and cold it sounded and then apologizing. I'd ignored him because the absurdity of Dante committing suicide still hadn't hit.

"Just a standard suicide," I repeated out loud and laughed at the silence that followed. Was suicide even standard? How could it be? I guess if it led to death. Why was death looked at as standard? Sure, everyone experiences death but there is nothing naturally about a heart that stops beating. Death was ugly. Death was terrifying, death was traumatic and disgusting. The body stops breathing, the heart stops beating, someone stops existing in their bodies. One hour they're sitting and eating with goals and hopes and dreams. The next they're gone. Everything that was that person is just gone. Did Dante have goals and hopes and dreams before he ended them? Did he even want to get back in contact with me? Had that ever been in his plans? I had to believe it was considering the police had found a letter addressed to me on his bed. Even if we hadn't spoken in years. They'd read it and asked if I noticed anything off about it but the truth was even if there was something off about it how would I know? How could I possibly know what my brother meant with his words when I hadn't communicated with him in almost a decade?

His living room had at least half a dozen potted plants scattered throughout. I honestly didn't even remember if he liked plants. He must have if he had them there. How plants could have outlived Dante was an interesting idea. One day he must have been tending them so they wouldn't die. The next he was gone and those plants would die. I didn't even want to think of the idea of trying to take them back home with me. What a nightmare. I suddenly felt even more tired and drained. I didn't want to go looking through his apartment. I didn't know what I would find. I didn't want to find anything. I just wanted to leave and never come back. I took the envelope out of my coat's pocket and opened it. The envelope was addressed to me, Diego. I read the letter despite wanting nothing more than to burn it.