I sat on the big window seat in my room, staring at the raindrops leaking down the glass, mimicking the tears on my face. The house shuddered and creaked, as if it too, was crying.
A thick fog surrounded the house, choking it, trying to push its way in through the windows. I looked through the fog, through the rain, at the swing in the back yard. It was still swaying slowly, gently.
The images that began shooting through my mind sent a shudder down my spine. My little brother, swinging on that swing. His floppy blonde hair. His big blue eyes, lopsided smile. His dimples. His laugh. As he swung, he swooped higher and higher, saying that if he went high enough he could touch the sky.
The stream of tears seeping out of my eyes intensified with the rain. Thunder boomed. I dropped my head into my arms folded on my knees and let myself be taken by violent sobs.
Pain. Regret. Loss. Guilt. These feeling crashed through me like a raging river. Pain, regret, loss, guilt. Mostly guilt.
I had been sitting in the grass a few feet away from my little brother as he swung higher and higher. His giggles were infectious on that bright, sunny day; and I felt as though we were inside a perfect little bubble. Mom and Dad were out, it was just me and my little brother at the big house we had made our home. A perfect little bubble.
He’d swung higher than he was that day, so I ignored the little voice telling him not to swing so high. I didn’t want to ruin his fun in that perfect little bubble.
A strangled cry escaped from my lips as guilt and regret washed over me in a new wave.
I asked myself “Why?” a thousand times.
I was supposed to keep an eye on him that day. Why?
I should have told him not to swing so high, but didn’t. Why?
My little brother, so small for his age. He would never grow bigger, would never catch up with the other kids in his grade. He always talked about them to me, how they would pick on him for being so small. He always told me one day he’d be bigger and taller. One day, he’d be so tall he could touch the sky, he told me.
I shook my head, but the more I tried to rid myself of the memory, the more it tormented me. I saw my little brother reach up as he swung high into the air, reach up to try to touch the sky. I saw the chain snap, saw him fall back, head first. He would never touch the sky now. The bubble popped.
Knock, knock. My mother entered the room, eyes downcast, wearing all black. She looked like a crow.
“Why aren’t you ready to go?” she asked, but refused to raise her eyes to look at me. I squirmed uncomfortably. She blames me, and why shouldn’t she? I was supposed to watch him.
“Are you coming?”
I shook my head. Stupid me. She wouldn’t look at me, so I’d have to answer her verbally. “I’m not going,” I murmured.
She didn’t say anything as she turned to go. She didn’t want me to go, I could tell. She blamed me; she had always loved my brother more than she loved me.
And it was my fault he was gone. All my fault.
I buried my head and dug my nails into my scalp in frustration and pain. All my fault. My own mother thought so too. Maybe my father as well. I wouldn’t blame him, though the thought stung my eyes with tears.
I had always been jealous of my brother for the attention he had received from my parents.
A new thought stabbed through me. My parents probably thought I had intentionally let him fall. I was sure they did.
What if they were right? No. They were wrong.
Were they wrong?
Yes!
But what if?
I wouldn’t do that, couldn’t do that. I loved my little brother just as much as they had. I was jealous though, and love isn’t jealous, a voice told me. It was my fault, all my fault.
I heard the front door slam as my parents left for the funeral. I dreaded their return, dreaded the days, weeks, months that would follow. I couldn’t live with people who believed me to be a murderer.
I screamed inwardly at the voices tormenting me. Murderer, they said. Killer, they said. My fault, they said. Murderer, killer. All my fault.
Something had to be done, the voices(or me?) said. I rose from the window seat and walked into the kitchen so I could see if my parents were still in the driveway. I saw the tail end of their car as the drove away, away from the house, from the swing in the back yard. Most importantly, the drove away from me(murderer.)
Now’s your chance, the voices(or me?) said. I turned away from the window that looked out over the driveway and went into my parent’s bathroom, opened the cupboard on my mother’s side of the counter. The ugly orange bottle of pills stood out from everything else in the cupboard.
My mother used them as her relief, now they would be mine.
My relief.
My escape.
My punishment.