The Beginning of the End (Editing)

Twenty One: 22

The last time I visited Eleanor was two days ago, the pale of her skin was enough to tell me that she was and still is in a bad way. I don't know what sunk in, but something got to me so I've stayed away from her for two days. I'm so monstrous, like a guilty man pleading not guilty for the charge of murder.

Lately she's been well, she was remembering different things at different times in different ways. They managed to get her into a wheelchair, in which it hurt at first but she got used to it. I took her for a stroll around the hospital and recognized a room that I was once in. She knew it, but didn't know what for at first untill I told her. I also took her outside into the crisp, fall air. She pointed out the different colours of the leaves and said that they reminded her of a sunset. Funnily enough, we haven't seen any sunsets in the hospital, so maybe it was a memory.

She's still on the machine too, the one that talks for her. The doctor said that that damage is the permanent type which definitely made my heart shatter. I haven't heard her talk for over two months and I'll never hear it again. But that wasn't the only permanent damage he mentioned.

For two weeks now I've thought and worried about it. He called one of them PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which he believes a going to take a toll on her till the day that she dies. The memories that will flash through her mind won't be the trigger however, it'll be the lack in memory that will make her feel the way she will. He described it as the brains way of reminding a person of things they want to forget. I don't enjoy the thought of her being sad for that kind of stuff, she doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve the time she has left either. He told us everything that needed to be broken to us, involving the fact that she has less than two more months to live.

Her brain isn't improving, even though it seems to be. He described her as a fighter for the live she wants to live, but he then went on by saying that eventually all that fighting will make her tired. Tired enough to give up. The news wasn't what we wanted to hear, but it was news that we needed to hear. Imagine if we went without knowing and then one day she just passed.

But at least now we have a time frame to work with to give her a life worth living. I'll pick her a flower and give it to her like the first time I met her. I'll rejog the memories before she loses them all at once. I'll make sure that she remembers everything, including the fact that she hates me and that I still love her for it.

I resurface from my thoughts, screwing up yet another failed draft of a note I never thought I'd live to write. Or even re-write for the wrong reasons. I thought that Mr Walkers guidance helped me, but obviously not. Once more, it's all wrong.

But I know of an inspiration. And even though it's midnight and even though I'm drunk beyond my own knowledge- I need to do something to stop the insanity of not knowing what to do with myself.

**

It's cold, but I'm warm. I shouldn't just be wearing a tee and a pair of jeans at this time of night in Fall, there've been drunk people that have died because of it. They didn't know that their intoxication influenced a numbness to the fact that they were slowly dying of hypothermia. I'd rather not die, but fuck it. Just a quick visit to my brother won't hurt.

People like to portray a cemetery as something you should fear at night. Whether it be the resurfacing of the living dead in the mist of fog blanketing the graves, or just the fact that you're walking around a bunch of dead people- I couldn't know because I don't feel the same. I think it's peaceful, the last place they'll ever be is right beneath my feet. This is their homes, and their spirits are off wondering either above or below depending on if they were a wrongdoer or not.

I'm slowly approaching the plot that he's in and the fog of my breathing tempts me to purposely exhale heavier to watch it. It's fun pass time, and it's good to avoid talking to someone who can't lend an ear because their body is decomposed and they physically can't hear you.

"Ah fuck, I don't even know why I'm here right now," I say quietly, standing at the foot of his grave where the grass is cut a little shorter in comparison to the thicker layer above him. "It's not like you can hear me, right?" I mumble, sitting down where his feet should be and taking another swig of the liquor,

My eyes are focused to his headstone where a picture of a little him is, very faintly illuminated by the light cast by the crescent moon. Brown haired, brown eyed with freckles splattered over his cheeks and nose. His smile was a little crooked, he would've had braces like I did after I turned eleven. I really could've been his twin at ten, but now the freckles are faded away a bit on me. I wonder if they would have on him, I wish he were alive so that I could say so for myself.

I bring the bottle back to my mouth, directing my attention to the words written next to the visual of a promising, happy boy.

In Loving Memory of James Gordon Thomson.
A son, a brother, a grandson and a friend.
His life is now in the hands of its maker, but his heart will forever remain in ours.

I can't help but allow the tears stinging at my eyes fall from my eyes to my cheeks and down to my neck. It isn't fair, he shouldn't be here. He should be married or loving a person he loves, he should be in his soccer team with his friends. He should have made more memories to die with, he shouldn't be here. He'd be spending his twenty-second birthday with us today, but instead he's spending it wherever he is beyond this godawful burial place.

"You have no idea how sorry I am, James," I manage to say between gasps of air as tears flow down my cheeks. I wipe my nose in the efforts to clear it, but it doesn't work. "I loved you big bro, I still do you know? I was selfish, but I didn't want this."

I silence myself, looking directly into the eyes of his photo as they look right back at me. I feel the need to stop drinking.

"I don't know if you can hear me, or if you even want to listen. But please James, I need help, I'm lost and I don't know what to do," I gasp, standing up to place my bottle at his headstone. It's his birthday, he'd deserve one. "I know I don't deserve it, but help me brother please. I needed you then and I still need you now. It's all a little messy, but it would've been easier if you were still here." I run my hand through my hair, looking down to where his head would be.

"I love you brother, Happy Birthday. I don't wanna go down that path again. Just please, help me ou-"