52 Sundays A Year

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I hate Sundays. I was born on a Sunday. I wish I had never been born. Why would I wish a silly thing like that, you ask? Because. Because if I had never been born, he would still be alive. He’s dead and it’s all my fault. He died because I was born.
His name was Brian and he was my brother, my only brother, my only sibling, to be exact. He loved to laugh and I loved to make him laugh. Brian was my favorite person in the whole world. He was 18 and it was August, August 21,2004, my birthday. I was turning fifteen.
He wanted to be there but he couldn’t. I cried and complained and begged. He relented. It was 5:00 am and he was driving in from the city so he could be home when I woke up. It was 5:00 am and he was driving home because I begged him to, because it was my birthday. He crashed into a lamppost because I begged him to come home. My brother died because it was my 15th birthday and I wanted him home.
Today is a Sunday -- Sunday, August 21, 2010. It has been six years since I killed my brother. Six year since I heard made him laugh. Six years since I have seen his smile. Six years since my father has looked me in the eye. Six years since I killed my mother’s only son. Six years since I looked forward to my birthday. It has been 312 Sundays since I killed my brother and still I have not smiled. I will not sit through another Sunday, mourning for my brother. Today, I shall join him and Sundays will be joyful once more.





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Jokerstar said...
Aug. 29, 2008 at 5:21 pm
I really liked it
 
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