Short Stories.

Coping With His Death

Nothing has been the same ever since he died. My mother ran away from grief of knowing that her favorite child will never come back, my father is completely emotionless even though I know he's a wreck on the inside, and me? I'm the same as my father. Pain and heartache filled my shell of emptiness, though I seemed just as emotionless as him on the outside. 

My brother had died. It's bluntly put, but that's the truth. He died and the cause was me. His sweet, little baby sister whom he would protect from anything wanted a ride home from him; the overprotective, big brother. Of course he immediately obliged when I had called and asked if he could pick me up from the school grounds, but he didn't expect to have a car crash that ended his life quickly.

If I didn't call, he would still be alive; my mother would be home; my father would be the carefree, silly man he always was; I would be the timid and shy baby sister that was absolutely adored by her big brother. There's no use in regretting because it won't bring him back, but the pain inside me is killing me because of the knowledge of bringing my own brother's death is all my fault.

It's just me and my dad now, but we don't talk or hardly even share eye contact. Everyone knows that daddies are the strong, macho men in your life that would never cry for anything, but he cried harder than I've ever seen before. I've only seen my dad cry once and that was because my mother almost left him once when I was five and my brother was seven. That was now ten years in the past, but it's clear as day in my mind, same as the day of my brother's funeral.

After the funeral, my mother would stay out late. I don't know where she was or what she was doing, but she stayed out. At first it would just be for a few hours, but then it would turn to days and then weeks. Finally one day, she left completely. It hurt knowing that she just left Father and I like that, but maybe that was her way of coping with my brother's death. I never said it was a good way but I can't do anything about it now that she's gone forever.

It's been about a year since his death, but I'm still the walking dead. I don't go out, I don't talk to anyone, I don't have my friends anymore. I have nothing. It's okay though because I deserve. Why should I deserve happiness, the person that killed their own brother? It's because I don't. I shouldn't be allowed the thoughts of happiness. If I ever get a happy though I automatically remind myself that I'm the person who ended the most beloved person in my world's life. It always works and it should stay that way.

For a year I would cry in my room by myself for a few minutes. I have my tv on loud so that my father didn't hear my weakness come out. He deserves a much better daughter than me. I took his first born, his precious and only son away from him. The first born is always the most important in the family, especially if they're male so that they can carry on the family name. 

Every day when I come home, I would walk by the living room where my dad would usually be. He would ask how school was in his monotone voice, I would reply that it was good and carry on my way upstairs. Every day he would nod once to me and continue watching the news until it was time for work to start. My facade would almost slip every time I saw his face and how empty he seemed without his boy. I often thought about running away or killing myself so that he didn't have to deal with me; I never pulled through with it since I was always so scared he would do something to hurt himself if there was no one here with him. He was a strong man, but that man began to crumble day after day of living without his boy, his life's true happiness.

Today was a little different when I came home, though. I walked in the door and looked in theliving room to find that he was not there. This was confusing and I thought maybe they called him in early but remembered that he would always tell me beforehand if he had to, so I set my backpack down on the floor and skulked into the kitchen and saw my father staring out of the window above the sink with his hands on the edge of the counter. I'm not sure why but the scene before me was heartbreaking. I felt my lip quiver slightly but put on a blank face as I strode to stand a small ways from him.

He looked over to me in confusion and I stared back up into his dull, lifeless eyes. The eyes of a father who lost the joy of their life; the eyes of someone who didn't feel like anything was worth living for anymore; the eyes of my once strong father now falling behind his own castle walls. I felt my lip quiver once more and my eyes glazed over and stung. The lump in my throat never felt bigger before. The look of my father was almost priceless as he stared with eyes slightly wider than usual.

Finally, the tears streamed down my face quickly and I whimpered. My stomach knotted up and the feeling of wanting to vomit was present. First the crying started as hiccups and quickly turned into practically screaming in pain. I told my father that I was sorry that my big brother was dead; it was all my fault that he was dead and if I didn't call my brother would be alive and that he would be happy; mom wouldn't be gone and he wouldn't be so heartbroken. I told him that it would have been me dead instead of my brother and that it would be much easier on them if I was the one that was gone.

I continued to confess my feelings of pure hatred towards myself to my father and he stood there unmoving. After a long list, I had finally ended with saying,"I know you probably hate me now, but I never expect you to love me anymore," and I was still sobbing. Somewhere in the middle of telling my dad how I felt I had grabbed my stomach with both arms to stop the puking feeling. I looked down to the floor with teary eyes and a wet face thinking of how stupid I was for sharing my feelings with my dad. I knew he was uncomfortable with the situation before him and that he would probably just walk away and go to work. He would pretend that this would never happen.

Surprisingly, he pulled me into his chest and stomach and started to cry softly with me. He claimed that he should have shown more emotion towards me and that it was his fault that I was feeling this way. He told me that it wasn't my fault that my brother was dead and wished that he could take all of the pain back. He wanted me to know that he could never hate me and that he was hurt that I would ever feel like that.

Dad called work and apologized for such short notice and that he had to take a few days off to spend time with me. After he hung up the phone, he pulled me in another tight hug and told me to go up to his room. I did as I was told and lay down in his bed. He came back up with a carton of chocolate ice cream and two spoons so that we could watch movies together and eat ice cream.

It's been three years since my brother's death and I've never been happier. My father is now lively once again and my friends are back in my life. Two years ago, I learned that it was okay to be happy even if something close to you moved on. Something horrible may happen in your life, but sometimes it makes things better for the future.