OUT

Chapter 58

Friday, May 22nd 2015

Jack gently creaked open the bedroom door with 'MICK' written across it in multicoloured letters, and he stepped inside. Immediately, his brother's scent hit him in the face. Jack had forgotten that smell, but as soon as it met his nostrils, he was catapulted back in time. Christmases as a child when he had gone into his brother's room to wake him before the sun to go downstairs and open their presents. Playing Fifa on PlayStation together in the room with Mick and his friends. Arguments they had had over stupid things, and fights they had had. He remembered giving Mick a nosebleed by accident before when he threw a TV remote at his head.

The first thing Jack noticed was the bed. It wasn't made. The duvet, lined with various shades of navy blue, red, and white was folded messily - as though Mick had just climbed from the bed and tossed it aside as he woke. There was a broken lava lamp on the bedside locker, as well as some loose coins and a packet of tissues. A red pillow lay on the floor, with a thin film of dust on top of it. There was a black electric guitar his brother had never learned how to play mounted on the wall, and a keyboard in the corner of the room. Next to it, was a record player and Mick's vinyl collection he had acquired from his grandfather.

It was like the room hadn't been touched since the day it happened. And of course, it hadn't been, his mother had made sure of that. There was something both oddly disturbing and weirdly comforting knowing that the last person who had been in this room before Jack was Mick. Time had stopped still, like that day hadn't happened. Like his brother was still alive.

I miss you, Mick.

An image of his brother hanging by his neck in the barn flashed into Jack's mind. It pained him that that was the memory that always seemed to sneak to the fore first.

There was a huge bookshelf against one wall, with an amalgam of objects Jack had forgotten existed. A collection of Lego Harry Potter figurines lined up in a row, with Harry, Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Dobby. There was a model F1 car he remembered Mick had spent weeks building with their father when they were kids. There were a load of medals and trophies from the various sports accolades he had achieved from hurling and Gaelic football, to karate, soccer, and swimming.

There was also a framed photo of the pair of them that Jack had never seen before. His brother looked exactly as he had before he had died, so it must have been taken in the year he had died. It was of the two of them at a bbq in their house after Mick's graduation from Sixth Year, a few months before it had happened.

He was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and held a bottle of Carlsberg in his hand. Jack stood beside him wearing a pair of light brown corduroy trousers he remembered hating, as well as an ill-fitting hand-me-down shirt. He had a bottle of Club Orange in his hand, and was pretending to be drunk. He remembered his mother had given out to him afterwards for ruining the photo. But he remembered Mick laughing.

Jack glanced down at the record collection, running his fingers along the dozens of vinyls that lined the shelf like books. There were too many to count though. Surely he didn't listen to them all.

He pulled one out and examined it in its sleeve.

Bruce Springsteen: The Greatest Hits Album.

Jack didn't really know what Bruce Springsteen sang. He had heard of him of course, but only through Mick.

He pulled another one free.

The Cranberries.

He glanced at the back of the record sleeve. There was something so Irish about their music. It always made him weirdly nostalgic, and proud of his heritage. It was funny how songs could unlock emotion and feeling and memory in you.

I wonder...

Jack began flicking through the vinyls more quickly, skimming through them looking for one in particular. There was no rhyme or reason to how they were organised, or if there was, he couldn't tell. They certainly weren't in alphabetical order anyway.

Bingo!

Jack pulled a white vinyl out and smiled. This was it.

Too Low for Zero, Elton John.

This was the record that Mick had played on repeat for most of their childhood. This was the one that always reminded him of his brother. This was the one 'I'm Still Standing' had come from. This was their song.

Jack approached the record player and gently slid open the sleeve of the vinyl, he was surprised this wasn't the record in it. As he flipped the cover open, a sheet of paper fell to the floor. He cocked an eyebrow and lifted the piece from the ground.

Jack,
I knew you'd find this - good auld Elton coming in clutch! Let me start by saying, I love you, and I apologise. I hate that I did this to you, but I haven't been well for some time now. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I don't want to do it anymore. I hope one day you'll forgive me. Do what makes you happy and fuck what anyone else thinks. I love you no matter what.

Mick.

A tear smacking the page interrupted Jack's train of thought, and he quickly folded the piece of paper back up and carefully slid it into his pocket.