We all atone for our sins in many ways. Sometimes, we atone for ours by atoning for those who didn’t. Couldn’t.
Your head fills with static as you watch countless men lower the body of your brother. The static feels amorphous, but it glistens at the back of your head. The static rushes through your veins, as if striking them, and plays scenes you’re indifferent to.
“Weren’t you going to kill yourself?”
“You are mean.”
“And you are stupid.”
“I’m telling Mom.”
You flee from the scene without shedding a tear. Your friend offers you a handkerchief, should you cry, you still take it even if it’s no use, saying that the scene disgusts you, and you’d rather be at home watching a film. You wear the latte coat your brother gave you, but you quickly toss it away when you set foot in your car. You think it is hot, then you hit the road.
“Fuck, you are so stupid.”
“Mom!”
“Mom is dead, stupid. You’re stuck with me.”
“I fucking hate you, do you know that?”
“Since when did you learn to cuss?”
“Since I’ve been stuck with you!”
You enter the house, which you never did call a home, and you tie your hair. It is hot. You go to the room that you and they shared. You get disgusted by the amount of spider webs attached to different surfaces of the room.
There is a broken mirror in front of where you stand, and you watch your reflection take over the static in your head.
“Don’t you fucking get it?! Mom is dead! You killed her by trying to kill yourself!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I never meant to!”
He wanted to kill you that day. He threw his phone in your direction, but the swift movement of your body succeeded in making him ashamed.
You gulp and take off the old bed sheet from the bed, then you cover the mirror. Once more, you find traces of your brother in the room. The indie albums, his old Converse that your mom got for him, the fucking soldier toy he had because he had a reverie he’d one day serve the country.
Getting out of the room, you carefully take the family photo frame from 2010 and put it in your bag, making sure it fits. In the living room, you see your medals hanging beside his. A bunch of golds, silvers, and bronzes. You get a text from your friend asking where you went, but you ignore it as you stare at that one hanging medal that didn’t feel at all real. It suddenly hits you.
“‘Best brother in the world,’ who wrote that? Did you make that?”
“I did! I told everyone you’re my brother!”
“I suppose we need to hang this in the living room. What do you think, huh?”
You cheekily say yes. Yes to everything your big brother did for you, because you knew he had it all under control. Best brother indeed.
You feel something bubble in your chest, something quite similar to anger. You grab the DIY medal hanging beside yours and throw it outside. You regret it instantly and pick it up. You sit on the sofa and shake.
“Why are you being mean?”
“Why are you being stupid?!”
“I didn’t do anything…”
“Mom is dead because of you. Don’t you understand that?!”
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
“Go kill yourself.”
But you never meant to do any of that. You never meant to weep so badly to the point of attempting to hang yourself, to the point of driving your mother crazy, and in the process, drive your brother to insomnia and self-affliction.
You were 11.
You call your friend and ask if they have buried him already. She says yes and asks again where you are. You don’t answer, so she says she’s going to hang up the call and that she’s sorry for you.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t really want to yell at you. None of it was your fault.”
You tremble and look at him. His eyes were downturned, a fact you notice only today, and you ask if you could still be his family.
“You are my sister. In every dimension.”
But he continues to scare you. He continues to break his promises. You remind yourself that all of it was your fault.
You step out of the house after getting three things: the family photo frame, his soldier toy, and the DIY medal you made for him.
You step into your car again and drive to the place where he was lowered. Once you get there, you see that nobody is there anymore. Everybody has fled the scene, and once again, you’re left with him. You feel it is hot.
You face him, you say nothing, and you place the medal you made for him with your spit everywhere on it. You sit and watch as the clouds cover the blue sky, so you think it’s going to rain, but you also think it’s your brother trying to make your life miserable again, even after he’s gone.
The static in your head comes back again, but this time it doesn’t remind you of anything. You’ve completely blocked anything from entering your brain, just like what he taught you. You don’t remember him at the back of your head anymore, and you’re glad.
You stand and make your way to your car again, but it starts raining before you can make it there completely. You’re soaked, and you feel liquid in your face trickling down. You touch it and taste the liquid because you can differentiate rainwater from seawater. You’re glad you weren’t crying—just rainwater that tastes sweet. But you don’t remember rainwater being sweet, so you grab the handkerchief your friend offered you a while ago and wipe everything on your face off, with a feeling of disgust you’d like to wash away with the rain.
You’re soaked, and you think of the one place your brother probably could not set foot in.
The Church.
You don’t care about the ruined makeup sliding off your face, and place his soldier toy in front of you while you hit the gas and head for the Church. It starts getting cold.
✶
Thea Abdullah (any pronouns) resides in the Philippines as a miserable fan of Italian author Elena Ferrante.