Afterwards (Editing)

chapter ten

My brother didn't show up in my dreams that night. He disappeared for a week and i couldn't help but be relieved and upset that there wasn't more. Then i would remind myself it was only a dream. I still couldn't help but wish for more.

The whore had not had over any of his crazy girls so the cleaning was a breeze. I cooked extra well for Mrs. Thompson, extra sugar in the pie, in hopes to make up for the disappointment last week.

I wrote a lot. That void had grown and i was trying to ignore it as best as i could. That didn't cause me to skimp on my weekly phone call to my parents. It was awkward for me but worth it.

When Dustin got home his father wasn't there. He shrugged it off, trying to pretend it didn't matter even though those little things were becoming so huge to him. Anyways, he reminds himself, my father is still at work. He grabs a snack and goes to his room to begin his homework.

Then the rain begins pounding on the roof. He rolls onto his back and closes his eyes as a million thoughts flow through his mind. His eyes feel strained, his head pounds. He is so tired, tired of how everything has turned out. Tired of being alone. Tired of feeling hopeless. Tired of living. And then an idea crosses his mind. And he decides. He is done.

Dustin's father was not only silent at home. He was silent everywhere. His boss only allowed him his job out of pity which made his father feel worse.  He always tried, though. He tried really hard even though he hadn't used his power of speech in a while, he tried. And let me tell you, without words trying is hard. He has no idea why he stopped talking. He just woke up one morning without the urge to use his mouth, ever again.

The first words ever to escape his mouth in months came when he got home. And he realized what had been brewing around in his son.

He screamed, "DUSTIN." Then he rushed to his son's aid. He shook his head, slapped his cheeks.

"WAKE UP," he yelled. He started hyperventilating. He ran to the phone and called the police.

He continued to shake his bloodied son. He clung to him as he was hauled into an ambulance and all the way to the hospital where he was ripped from Dustin's side.

Dustin had tried to die, but subconsciously he hadn't tried hard enough and he knew it. He knew he could have changed something and made his death inevitable but he didn't. He tried to try but couldn't finish. And thank god for that. Thank god for his subconscious.

They saved the boy. He lived. His father began talking again, his hair was cut. Everything he ever wanted was restored, except for one thing. His mother was still dead and his life was to different to recognise. Della was angry with him for not talking to him, for not asking for help. 

He couldn't be content with the life he had wanted because it had caused so much unwanted things even though everything on his wish list had been delivered. His father kept a close eye on him. his teachers kept a close eye on him. Every where he went he was watched. He didn't like it. His father treated him differently, his classmates treated him differently. To everyone else he was a new Dustin. He was the same Dustin to himself. And he could not catch up.

And after those sentences were written i knew it was done. One hundred and thirty-six pages. 

I thought back to the before chapters in which he was dealing with his mother's death. Before his father woke up and just decided to stop talking. And even in the days before his mother died when his parents were fighting and he went to sleep at Della's.

Would an agent like it? Would a publisher like it? There's only one way to find out so i photocopied it, kept on copy safe. And began to type it out on a computer at work to a flash drive i had bought. Editing it was going to be daunting, i could tell. I was about to rip it apart.

And so a week passed and that is how it went. And everything seemed fine. Until last night. I woke up and my brother was stopped over me, but i wasn't awake. I couldn't be. This had to be a dream. And it was. I know that for sure. 

I slowly got up and he lead me into the living room. There were a few daisies on the table and some of my old hippie clothes. He gently pushed me towards them and turned around. I knew what he wanted. So i put them on.

Once i'm dressed i tap him on the shoulder. He turns around. I am still braiding the flowers in my still long hair. I have never been able to keep it short it just grows so fast.

He looks me up and down. I'm wearing a cropped tie dyed t shirt and a flowing leather brown skirt. My stomach is showing and i shy away a little. He grabs me and holds my hands. His gray eyes stare into mine. They are different too, his eyes. Cold, hard. They used to be playful and dance.

I see another way he has changed. He is supporting hippies. He wasn't a true hippie as we distinguished them. He didn't like me driving across states to go to rallies and dressing like this because i was doing it for the wrong reasons. I was not protesting the war. Maybe now he believes in the reasons i was protesting for. And that gives me the chills. What did he see that caused this? This was not him.

"Thank you," he whispers and drops my hands.

He wasn't even a student. He didn't get that free pass anyways. But i get it. He hid this from our parents, even from me. I was too young. Now i guess i'm old enough to know not that i didn't learn all about it back in '75 when everyone was coming home with tales to tell. 

He didn't want anyone to see war.

And then i woke up a cold sweat drenched my forehead.

And i understood it.