Life After You

Chapter One; Kayla

Have you ever felt suffocated? I have. I do. I feel so much pain, so much sorrow, I don't know how my heart is still beating. The town I live in, the people I see, the part-time job I work at... They are all constant reminders of what I have lost.

It's not right when everyone knows some intimate detail about you and they think it connects you in some way. I don't want candlelight ceremonies in my brother's honour, and I sure as hell don't want to see what I have lost every time I turn on the TV or walk past the magazine isle in the supermarket. The worst thing about it is that every time I do venture out, the paparazzi are always lurking with their cameras. They're heartless vultures. As if my grieving wasn't enough, they want to splash it across every media outlet around.

I feel the walls closing in around me and, with a sudden clarity, I know what to do. Walking into my bedroom, I throw my only two photographs sitting on my bedside cabinet into my ratty shoulder bag, along with my toothbrush and paste, and fish out my mom's black leather purse from my top drawer in my desk, ignoring the mound of costume jewellery that is covering it. I take a deep breath as I pull out a pen and a sheet of yellow paper and write one word...Sorry. Then I fold it in half and place it on my bed. I know Logan and the boys will eventually come here looking for me, and it makes my heart squeeze with guilt as I leave my bedroom. I shut the door and close my eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay. I try to take in a calming breath to steady myself, but it gets caught in my throat, choking me.

Looking down the hall, I know I have to do it. When I reach my late brother's bedroom, I nudge the door open with my hip, the familiar smell of sandalwood drifting out on the breeze. The sun is shining in through the window, illuminating everything in its golden hue. I swallow the knot in my throat and take some deep breaths. I'm not sure if there is anything in here I want to take with me, so I take a tentative step into the room and stand by his bed. The sheets are all askew, like he'd just gotten up. I look behind me, half-expecting him to be there and asking me what I am doing in here so early. That's when I feel it, rolling in like a fog bank. The depression, the hysteria, but I won't let it stop me. I can't. Not today.

I run my hand over his old oak dresser, picking up one of the darts he used to play with so often. He would say they were more reliable than flipping a coin. We used to play against each other all the time. We'd make bets because we were both so competitive. I smile as I pick one up and roll it between my fingers, casting another solemn look around the room. My eyes get drawn to the map of the United States pinned on his wall. It still has all the places circled in red Braden wanted to visit. He'll never get to visit those places now. He'll never play darts again, or go back on the road with his band. He'll never serenade me at eight in the morning to make sure I am up for school or work. He'll never make us pancakes with chocolate and strawberries for our birthday.

There is no family I can go to. It was just Braden and I against the world. Braden and I were twins. He was born a whole six minutes and twenty-two seconds before me, a fact he would never let me forget, on November 11th, 1990. All our relatives are gone. A whirlwind of emotion and pent-up rage suddenly explodes and, before I know it, I launch the dart I've been holding at the map, sinking to my knees. I cry until my tears run dry and my throat is coarse.

I'm not sure how long I am lost in my grief, but the sun is now high in the sky, a small ray of light shining directly through the window and onto me. I stand on shaky legs, my throat sore and my head throbbing. I walk over to the map, curious as to where the dart has landed...Portland, Oregon.

          Turning around, I quickly make my way out of my brother's bedroom, quietly closing the door and leaning my back against it. I may not have any family, but I now have a destination.