It was sunset when I heard the gunshot, a loud crack that caused my ears to ring. Don McLean sang softly about the day the music died. I was sitting outside in my chair reading a book. It was a beautiful evening. I flinched then turned quickly in my lawn chair causing its leg to break. The rays of light danced funny through the blinds and a sickening smell reached my nose. My brother was sitting, relaxed on the couch. His mouth was open and where his hair should have been was a bloody mess. His intelligence was speckled up the wall. The cigarette in my hands dropped silently and danced a little as it landed. I walked over and pulled the handgun off the couch. It was burning a hole in the suede. I didn’t want it ruined.
Of course it was all ruined.
I couldn’t seem to put together what was going on. My hand started shaking and I fell a little, onto my knees. I couldn’t quite make the sob come out. It was deep and painful. It started in my stomach and when it hit my chest everything hurt. My neighbor across the way sprinted into my house. I remembered that I had talked to him a couple times, knocked on his door to let him know he had left his windows down. He said something like Jesus Christ and I couldn’t really hear; my ears were ringing still.
The police showed up a little after a little while. They had their sirens blaring and lights flashing. It annoyed me. Everyone would know about him now.
Like that.
Then the fire department came. Why did they always show up? Why were all of our ambulances from the fire department? I couldn’t figure it out. The police pulled me off the floor. I guess I was still sitting there. They led me outside. They asked me about what happened. And I’m not sure what happened. I think I might have cried but it all runs together now. They had a priest there, or a chaplain or something…I’m not sure what he was. Everyone in our apartment complex stood around outside some had out cameras and I really hope that it never ended up on YouTube.
The police asked me to “come down to the station.” Fucking cops, always in wannabe CSI mode. I said yes because, well they were cops, so you say yes. They had me down there for a while. The problem was that I had touched the gun, so they were looking for other things but they let me go after a little bit and I walked home. I called my parents on the way and they came to my town and my mother cried the whole time. I got a hotel and we stayed there because the police had taped up my house, just for the night.
I went to the morgue once and couldn’t go in. I’m not sure why. A few days later came the funeral and if my brother had been there he would have made a joke about how he was sure it was closed casket. The thought made me laugh and feel awful. Everyone was there, people who sort of knew him, old friends, good friends, family, me. The pastor turned the tragedy into a preaching point and I was angry, but it helped in a way. I had gone to a store before the funeral and bought a white rose. As I placed it on the casket I knew he was probably laughing. I’m sorry, I just loved you so.
The grave side service I wanted for just for the few of us, but so many wanted to come. So we all sat in white chairs, wearing black and I held my mother’s hand. The world mourned with her that day, and I did too. My sister was quiet and I felt low when I looked at her. Her best friend was gone and I tried to give her reassuring looks when I could but it didn’t matter and I couldn’t make this one better. After we all filled the grave with our handfuls of dirt I saw her furiously rubbing her hands, trying to make them clean. I took off my jacket and gave it to her. She looked up at me and her face was red. I held her and she wrapped her arms around me. When she pulled away my shoulder was wet and I felt alone. She turned and walked quickly back to the car. I’m sorry I screamed silently. I’m sorry and it’s my fault. But she couldn’t hear and I couldn’t talk. My throat was too swollen.
Months afterword we all drifted a little more apart. When I saw my mother I reminded her of him and my sister did the same thing to me. I tried hard to be a better son and a stronger brother but I just felt rotten about the whole business. I did start visiting more with his best friend. He was a mess and I tried to do what I could, but I was barely holding together myself. My brother had written in a journal, a lost testament he had left behind. It was so dark and lonely. He had lost his faith, you see, and it tore him apart. He wrote about how there was truly no beauty in the world and that he couldn’t see a reason to breathe when he couldn’t seem to make life work. It’s not worth it, he would write and, what is on the other side of it all? And when I read it I would be worthless for a day.
I was sitting inside with the blinds drawn when I heard a knock at my door. It was my sister. She stood there and we stood there awkwardly for a little while. I’m sorry, I said.
It’s not your fault.
It was in my home.
It’s not your fault.
I was here.
It’s not your fault.
I’m so, so sorry.
I started to cry. She grabbed me.
It’s okay, she said. It’s okay.
I’m sorry.
I don’t know why, but I couldn’t quit saying it.
After a while I was done and she let me go.
I invited her in and offered her a drink; she declined and sat on my couch. I sat opposite of her.
What could you have done that would have made a difference? She asked, finally.
I don’t know, I mean. I would have told him that everything is beautiful. The way the sun warms our skin. When people laugh it’s all so beautiful. When after it rains and the smell reminds you that life finds a way. When you see a mountain and know that even though we are all so small we are all part of something so, so large. The way the stars reach out to us from billions of light years away, beckoning for us to know it all. I’d tell him that I love him and that he ought to think of me before he did it. I’d tell him that life may appear kill dreams but dreams have a way of always being possible. I’d tell him that sometimes the most beautiful things are the most subtle things and that not everyone is hopeless and everything can get better. I’d tell him he needed to toughen up because we all go through it and the magic is finding purpose in chaos. I’d tell him extraordinary is right under our noses, and that we can find it. That when we finally open our eyes wide enough and see the beauty in the world everything changes.
She was silent.
What would you tell him? I asked.
I’d tell him I miss him.
Storied By Josh 