I swallow, thinking about the early morning nine years ago before the mission that destroyed everything. “Nine years.”
“Who was the last person to make you laugh?” She asks curiously, wanting to know because she wants to learn more about me.
For nine years I have been a closed book, but for Grace I’m allowing her to open it and read the pages.
And maybe, hopefully, I’ll begin to write more pages. And those pages will include her.
My hands grip her waist as her fingers trace the lines of my tattoos.
Her touch is a soothing balm to my soul and I’m finding it easier to be more transparent with her when her hands are upon my skin.
“Miguel,” I say his name for the first time out loud in nine years. The last time I did was when I went to his funeral. I paid my respects as a brother should but it was more than that. It was saying goodbye to a brother lost too fucking soon. I still remember his mom clutching over the casket, crying her eyes out. And I remember feeling a guilt so fucking heavy that it made it impossible to walk away.
And so I stayed. I stayed for the whole ceremony and burial. And I stayed for a long while after that.
It was Miguel’s funeral that hit me the hardest. Not because he was the heart of our group but because out of all the brothers he was the last one to be buried. And out of everyone’s burial he had the least amount of family and friends.
It was a devastating blow worse than a detonation of a bomb.
And the part that wracked me the most?
His mother coming up to me after he was buried and clutching me fiercely in her arms as her tears soaked my shirt.
But it’s what she said that never left me and to this day it fucking eats away at me and haunts me at night. She told me, you became Miguel’s brother overseas and that makes you a part of my family. Miguel was blessed to have you in his life. I know you loved him and protected him. And I thank you for being here for your brother today. I’m so very sorry for your loss.
I never said a word back to her.
How could I when what she said was a god damned lie.
I didn’t protect Miguel, my decision to proceed ahead led them to all their deaths.
Yes, I loved him but look where that got him.
I wanted to scream at her,look what I have done to your son. You’re seeking comfort in the man who brought his death. You’re consoling his killer.
But she looked so sure, so confident in the fact that I was a good man that I didn’t want to say anything and ruin her perception.
She was the only one out of all their burials who didn’t shout in my face and blame me like they rightfully should have.
I didn’t understand her compassion. I sure as fuck knew I didn’t deserve it.
I deserved to be the one lying six feet under, not him.
To this day, Sofía will reach out to me and talk about Miguel as if he is alive. On those days, although they don’t come as often now, maybe once in a few months, the guilt suffocates me.
The last time I talked to Sofía was nearly five months ago.
That very same night I had the end of a glock in my mouth and my finger on the trigger.
It was the closest I had come to swallowing the bullet.
Her fingers then move to my arm with the sleeve tattoo that is a memorial for all of them. I know which one she’s tracing right now because the skull on my forearm has the name Miguel scripted in the jaw bone.
“Was he the jokester of the group?”
My fingers flex against her hips. Despite opening up my body grows tense. “No,” I reply hoarsely. Clearing my throat I respond with a voice less strained, “No, that would have to go to Isaac.”
Her fingers then trail upwards to where Isaac’s skull is, on the upper left hand side of Miguel’s. “He kept things fun while you were overseas?”
