He drops the bag that’s been hanging over his shoulder.
His hockey gear, I realize.
He’s been kicked off the team.
For a single second, I feel bad for him. Hockey is his entire life, the reason why he wakes up in the morning. But then I remember that Claire is going to have to wake up every day and deal with what he did to her.
“I’m sorry,” he says, hanging his head low, not daring to look me in the eyes.
Shaking my head, I stand up. “I’m not the person youshould be apologizing to.” Walking towards my room, I don’t hear a sound, but when I close my door behind me, Nathan punches the wall so hard it shakes the whole apartment.
Jurian’s room looks the same, but it feels so different every time I walk in here. The sheets are still ruffled from the last time he slept in them, his textbooks are still open to the same pages, and his notebook is still half written in. The box that sits under his bed is still there, untouched, with memories from our childhood that he never wanted to let go of.
I come in here and sit on the floor sometimes, just waiting for him to walk in and ask me how my day was. I don’t want to touch anything, I want to leave it just like he left it because it feels like if I don’t… he’ll disappear forever.
Now I have to move all of his things out of this room, disturb the tomb, and lose the last real piece of my brother that I have left.
It’s been weeks since the accident, and yet it feels like I can turn a corner at any second and he’ll be there.
My fingers tangle in my hair, forcing the strands to tuck behind my ears as I sit down next to his bed. I always kept it long, but after I lost my brother and now my best friend, I felt the need to chop it. One hour and a pair of kitchen scissors later, and here I am… sitting on my brother’s bedroom floor with a brand new haircut.
We are—were,twins. From the time we were born up until puberty, we were almost identical, and I guess this ismy way of punishing myself further, because the person looking back when I stare into the mirror, isn’t me… it’s J.
At least short hair looks good on me, it makes my features stand out a little more, but every time I start to acknowledge it, I force myself back into the grieving hole I dug for myself. I don’t deserve to be happy, I need to remember what I did.
Silence washes over me, another reminder of what I’ve lost. Jurian’s room was never this quiet. Even when he was sleeping, he would have his TV on… he hated being alone.
My brother loved people more than anything, he always had a crowd around him, was always the biggest presence in a room, and never did anything alone. There was always someone who wanted a second of his time, so he took advantage of that when he could. And now, he’s alone for eternity. The thought of my brother lying in that dark grave completely by himself makes me want to crawl right in next to him.
Loneliness is a silent killer, and even though J was probably the last person you’d expect to feel lonely, he was. Only a select few knew how he really felt, no matter how many people smiled and laughed at his jokes, he still felt like no one truly saw him. I never left him alone longer than I needed to. He didn’t need to say it, but he knew I was always hovering so he wouldn’t have to ask for someone to distract him.
Resting my head on the side of his bed, I let the memories wash over me, torturing myself more than some would deem necessary.
“What’s this one?” Jurian asks, pointing to the fresh ink on my shoulder.
I grin at him, “guess.”
His favourite game is coming up with fantastical stories to go with each of my tattoos. He gives them meaning, an adventure that seems like it’s straight out of a storybook.
He adjusts on his bed, sitting up straighter to get a better look. His hand combs through his raven hair, “you got stuck travelling with a biker gang last month. They accidentally initiated you into their group, and you just went with it. You travelled the country with nothing but the clothes on your back.”
I giggle, knowing he couldn’t be further from the truth.
“After a drunken night,” he continues, “they bring you to a tattoo shop and convince you to get their symbol, leaving a piece of them with you forever.”
I just nod my head, letting him believe the story he’s concocted instead of crushing him with the truth.
I started getting tattoos the day I turned eighteen. At first, it was an outlet, a way to express things when I had no other way to do so, and then I realized if I made myself look scary enough, I could convince myself that’s the reason why no one would come up to me.
Every new tattoo brought me a little peace, but eventually the itch started to come back.
The itch to scream, to claw at my skin until people had no choice but to notice me. Italwayscame back, and when it did, I would run to the nearest tattoo shop.
Looking down, I trace the angry scar on my forearm.
I guess it’s time for a new tattoo…
two
