I look down at his pale, sickly face. I see him grimace in his sleep. I hear the nurse telling me to leave. Telling me to say goodbye. I refuse. I refuse to leave my brother, pulling my arm away from the nurse’s claw-like grasp. He needs me to be next to him when he wakes up. He needs his rest. He needs his sleep.

The sterile room is white and gray with machines assembled around the bed. Clutching his hand, I’m watching him fade. I’m watching him die. 

 The heart monitor slows to a halt. My heart wrenches in my chest. I feel it move, pulling me towards my brother. His hand relaxes inside mine. I hear my mother roar with pain and fury at the world. My dad collapses and I can feel his heart tearing.

I pull on my brother’s arm, trying to push life back into him. The nurse reaches for the blanket to cover his face. I rip it away and place it back where it was, resting on his chest. His eyes drift open, just a crack, as his face goes slack. 

That’s when it hits me. He’s gone. My little brother. The baby I grew up with. The sweetest, most annoying little angel. He is gone. He never believed in the afterlife. No reincarnation. No God or devil. He is gone and, for all I know, I’ll never see him again. He’ll never finish 6th grade or have a first kiss. He’ll never graduate high school or finish getting a black belt in tae kwon do. He’ll never see another sunrise or sunset on earth. He’ll never get married or have kids. He’ll never travel the world. He’ll never grow old. He’ll never live again.

I remember him as a toddler with a little round belly and pudgy hands, afraid a watermelon would burst out of his mouth because he swallowed a seed. I remember fighting with him, trying to win the best seat on the couch to watch a movie. I remember punching the kid who made him cry. I remember his face, beaming with pride, during his first band performance.  I remember him sobbing because he got in trouble at school. I remember the way his face looked when he saw a dead dog on the side of the road. I remember every day after school, him cheerfully asking how my day was. I remember him before he got sick. 

My mother’s face has lost its sparkle. My older brother stops going to school. My dad spends his time reading, trying to escape to another world. I try to forget him and what happened. I drown myself in school work and extracurricular activities. I stay away from home. I stay away from anything that could be connected to him. My friends beg me to see a counselor but then they would just make me tell the story all over again. They would make me reopen the infected wounds. It would break me.

The pain rips me apart. And when I’m almost healed it pulls me back under, just like a riptide.  I can’t do it. I can’t live with the pain. I’m saying goodbye.  

Goodbye, Mom.

Goodbye, Dad.

Goodbye, World

Hello Brother.