Story for English 206

Eww\

I hate first drafts, yeah

Remember the Autumn Rain
My father killed himself when I was fifteen. I came home that weekend to see him; I only got to visit my parents once a month. It was a warm spring day, flowers were blooming again and birds singing. Winds were soft and delicate; they carried the sweet scent of the season. It was the kind of weather people long for during the cold months of winter; it was the kind of day that gives people hope. My father had no hope. He chased thirteen Vallium with a fifth of whiskey. I found him that morning, lying on his bed with his tie loosened and his shirt slightly unbuttoned. I paced through the room analyzing his lifeless body. He looked much more like a wax figure than an actual human being. His face was expressionless, his eyes were closed, his lips thin and blue. He hadn’t shaved in several days and his chin bared the shadow of a beard.
I went downstairs to eat breakfast. My mother never made pancakes anymore. She never ate anymore. Her body had been reduced to sullen skin stretched over frail bones. Her fingers were long and thin, her hands used to be so beautiful. She used to hold mine with her right hand and Connor’s with her left. Once we got too old to hold our mother’s hand she held only my father’s. She used to use her hands to cook meals that brought our family together around the dinner table. Her hands used to hold so many beautiful things, flowers which my father bought to make her smile, the lipstick she applied only when my father took her out, books full of her favorite stories and the pen she used to label mine and Connor’s school lunch and to write post it reminders of her love for us. Later her hands only held cigarettes.
I watched the fruit loops float in the milk in my bowl. I pushed them around with my spoon and watched the trail of color they created. I looked up at my mother who was gazing into space while the ash at the end of her cigarette was growing. Her cobalt eyes used to shine with resilience, now they were just dead. The ashtray in front of her was beginning to overflow.
“Dad’s dead.” I said.
“Your father has been dead for five years.” she replied without looking at me; and she was right. He was dead long before he took his life.

I think my father secretly always loved Connor more than me. Connor was interested in cars and sports while I preferred drawing and music. Connor was usually more intrigued by dad’s war stories than I was, and as much as I loved playing soldiers, I never really connected with dad in the way Connor had. Every Saturday Dad took us to car auctions. He and Connor would talk about their favorite cars while I would wish to be at home with mom. She always baked cookies on Saturday. I stayed home with her once and helped. I had more fun that day than on any Saturday spent with Dad and Connor. They teased me about it for months; I didn’t stay home after that. Dad handed me a stack of car catalogues and lectured me on football. “I will make a man out of you yet” he would always say.
After the funeral my mother moved away and I went back to the psychiatric hospital I learned to call home over the past five years. She stopped writing after several months and soon the only person I kept in contact with was Grandma, who told me that my mother had met and married a new man. Grandma seemed somewhat resentful, after all my father had been her only son. I accepted that my mother made a new life for herself; I tried to be happy for her.

I stared at the Victorian lamp situated on the mahogany desk. Dust had started to gather atop its gaudy shade. This is where I spent most of my time writing in a journal composed entirely of letters to my brother, each one signed with an apology.
I’m sorry Dad couldn’t live without you.
I read that line over and over again. I read it silently to myself and I read it out loud. Whenever my roommate, Kyle, was not around I would talk to Connor. Sometimes I carried on entire conversations, even discussions and arguments with him. In life Connor had been my other half. That sense of completion never ceased to be. He did not need to talk back; I knew exactly what he would say. Connor always had an uplifting spirit. In autumn when blue skies turned to dull gray; he was the first one awake whereas I wanted to stay cuddled up in bed. He couldn't wait to greet the day by jumping in fresh puddles of water. I longed for the closure of walls, while he was comforted by the mere beauty of nature. Outside the trees scattered along the sidewalk, covered in a blanket of golden brown leaves. The wind blowing through the branches singing songs of precision, this was the only sound we heard on the abandoned streets where we played. To fill our lungs with cold air and watch our breath for the first time in months was the highlight of these days.
Most of my time at Sky Crossing was spent inside; I never got to admire nature anymore. At night I stayed up reminiscing about the incessant beauty of the seasons unfolding, while Kyle read the bible. I wondered whether it was genuine faith that inspired him or mere fear. I remember the first day he moved in. My old roommate James had apparently recovered from his manic depressive state after four years and got sent back home. Kyle moved in with a beat up looking leather suitcase covered in stickers with names of places and rock bands.
“Kyle this is your roommate, Ethan.” Nurse Amy said, waving a hand in my direction. Nurse Amy was the object of affection for all the troubled teenage boys completely deprived of sexual encounters at Sky Crossings. In her early twenties she was not much older than many of us. Scrubs make for relatively unflattering attire but the way she wore them they hugged every curve on her slender frame which she carried with such grace. Her delicate facial features were framed by her honey colored hair which was always loosely tied into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She was surely beautiful but I never thought of Nurse Amy that way. I never thought of any girl that way.
“Score!” Kyle said as soon as she closed the door. “That nurse is a babe.”
“Yeah she’s cute.” I mumbled barely looking up from my journal.
“I guess being locked up isn’t going to suck as much as I thought it would.” Kyle was several years older than I, or at least he looked that way. His auburn hair shaped a widow’s peak above his high forehead, and he looked like had had more than mere whiskers to shave. He was tall with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His forearms revealed an array of obviously self inflicted scars. His left wrist was wrapped in white bandages sealed by medical tape. He must have noticed me staring when he announced a deliberate disclaimer.
“Yeah, I’m pretty much here on just here on suicide watch. Momma’s orders.” He laughed as though he had just told a joke. “You?”
I watched him take off his shirt and toss it on the bed. I noticed his narrow waist and the creased v-shape of his torso. Kyle was certainly more of a man than I ever would be.
“I killed my twin brother.” I replied. I had gotten used to saying that out loud. However I still hadn’t come to terms with it.

It was a cool October day spent at our grandmother’s cabin. Inside my dog Spencer laid spread out on the buffalo skin rug in front of the fireplace. That was his favorite place to be. Familiar photographs decorated the wall. One was a portrait of our family. Mom, Dad, Connor and I neatly aligned side by side. Connor and I were six and he had just lost his first tooth. In the photograph he wears a triumphant smile revealing his gap. I had not lost any teeth yet, as the envious frown on my face might suggest. The picture next to it is one of my father at his college graduation. He looked young then, clean shaven and laughing, not at all like I remember him. The bookshelf in the corner of the room had been collecting dust for ages. If you looked close enough you could make out doodles in the dust. Connor and I left a mark every time we went to visit our grandmother, just to see whether it would still be there the next time. Grandma never dusted that shelf; she said there were more important things in life.
On that fateful Sunday morning, the overpowering smell of bacon mixed in with the sweet aroma of waffles filled the air. It was a rainy day, where gray clouds stretched across the horizon, covering the sky completely. I could hear the tap, tap from the raindrops on the windowsill, while still content with lying in bed and dreaming the day away. I wasted so many days dreaming back then. It’s a bit funny actually, in retrospect. I don’t remember what those dreams were about.
To martyr ourselves for our country, that was our aspiration.
“It’s raining Ethan, let’s play soldiers!” Connor insisted while jumping on my bed.
“Ten more minutes” I mumbled as I rolled over.
“You have to wake up now. It’s not going to rain all day”
“Yes it is. Let me sleep.”
Connor didn’t let me sleep. He continued to jump up and down on my bed; he was full of energy, full of life. It didn’t take long for his vivacity to rub off on me; I got up and got dressed. After slinging down several waffles I was equally excited about the rain. Days like these were always perfect to play soldiers. Something about the atmosphere in which the air smelled of life in its entire splendor, helped us drift further from reality, towards these games where we could be anything and do anything we desired. From vista to vista all we saw was the battle field, the soldiers, us. Connor skipped across the wet lawn, the water pearling off his hair, dripping down his face, Spencer was trailing right behind him. What heroic soldiers we were. The fence was our frontline and no one could get past us. Our imaginary army was unsurpassed and the only thing that could ever separate us were the ten minutes in age difference. Make-believe weaponry soon became tedious, we needed something tangible. Dad refused to buy us toy guns. I never understood why, something about encouraging violence. Nonetheless we had to look for something, anything we could use in place. It was a toy, we didn’t know any better. No one had ever told us to stay away from the breakfront in the shed, and even if they had, it would only have prolonged our curiosity.
Our grandfather’s old shed was a junkyard of sorts. He never spent any time there but whenever Grandma asked him to get rid of something the shed is where it went. Grandfather died when we were eight years old and the shed had been unused since then. Underneath piles of tools, stacks of old magazines and miscellaneous collectibles we always found something to entertain us. Although I doubt grandpa would have appreciated us ransacking through his former belongings.
“Ethan I found a toy gun, Ethan come look! I think this will do” Connor called out of the shed “Finders keepers” I hurried along, skipping through several mud puddles on the way to the shed. I laughed as the water splashed up and hit my face. Withstanding such harsh weather conditions, I felt like a true soldier. As I walked into the tool shed, I wiped the mud from my forehead, smearing it all over my face. I found him with his fingers clenched around the handle of a silver gun. It was beautiful, the ideal toy, nothing short of perfect for our imaginary battle. I wanted it, but Connor was the one who found it. If he had let me hold it I wouldn’t have given it back. I knew the only way I would get to hold that gun is if I took it from him.
“Cool.” I said “Where did you find it?”
“It was lying next to the motorcycle magazines” He laughed “I think grandpa was planning for a drive by shooting.”
“Do you think it’s real?”
“Of course it’s real. Grandpa was too old for toys.”
“Let me see it.”
“Yeah, right. It’s mine find your own.”
“That’s not fair.” I was beginning to get irritated with him.
I could have let him have the gun, eventually he would have given it to me. But I didn’t want to wait that long. Instead I leaped forward and grabbed the handle in attempt to snatch it from him. In that moment both of our hands wrapped around the gun. Not willing to let go we began a game of tug a war that resembled Russian roulette rather than that game with the rope you play in PE class. Connor found the gun, it was only fair of me to let him keep it, but I never liked to play fair. I pulled on the handle, still wet from the rain my hand began to slip. I never expected an old gun to be loaded. In a split second, in a moment that seemed unreal, with the barrel pointed at Connor I pulled the trigger. In that instant I thought though it was me that had gotten shot. When the sound of the gun went off I felt as if my stomach had caught on fire. I let go of the gun and held on to him as we both collapsed. Connors hand was now clutching mine as the blood began to seep through his waterlogged shirt. The sound of that gun reverberated in my mind for years to follow.

As much as I tried to omit the reason for being at Sky Crossing from my memory, I could not forget what I did. After all I was there to learn to cope. However, hours of confessing to numerous psychologists did nothing to clear my conscience. Every week I talked to Doctor Something. I made a point to forget his name. His name didn’t matter. His job was to help me, so that could some day lead a normal life. To him I was nothing more than another day at the office.
“How has your week been Ethan?” Doctor Something asked
“Fine.” My answers were not always this vague. I generally used the hour and a half I talked to Doctor Something to align my mind. There were so many thoughts that needed to be encrypted, mostly dreams. Doctor something usually asked about my dreams. Mostly he just nodded and took notes. Anyone could have done that job.

After our first conversation Kyle didn’t talk to me again for seven months. I didn’t blame him for being afraid. I’m not sure what exactly changed his mind but eventually he must have realized I would never intentionally hurt anyone. The first time we spoke again he asked if I wanted to join him for a cigarette. His sister managed to sneak him a carton. It was after midnight, the nurses were only doing hourly bed checks. We climbed out of the window and up the roof. From here we could see the glow of the city lights. We smoked in silence while admiring the view. Every yellow speck represented a person each with their own story to tell, some troubled like myself while others lived blissful lives. I missed the real world sometimes. I was safe at the hospital but I was not free.
That night I had a dream that it was me that died. I awoke in a panic, drenched in sweat. Gasping for air and with trembling hands I reached for a pen to describe to Connor the deviating episode brought on by my subconscious mind. I began to write watching ink rapidly pour across the page while I attempted to put into words what I had just witnessed.

Dear Connor;
When the bullet penetrated my skin, excruciating pain pierced my entire body. It started in my stomach and then moved to my legs and arms. Unharmed, you must have gone down just as quickly as I did. With what little strength I had left I begged you not leave me to lie alone. You didn’t and I was so thankful for that.

I am dead.

When alive you hear a lot about death. People who describe the concept make it out to be something concrete. The truth is, there is nothing substantial about death and until you experience it there is nothing that even compares. The best way to describe what I felt is falling off a cliff. Just free falling, desperate to stay alive I tried to find something to hold on to, to keep from flying faster, to break the fall, to live. I can’t reach anything, my arms are numb and too heavy to lift, the cliff is disappearing from above; I am slowly descending into nothingness. But right as I begin to lose hope of ever standing on my feet again I see the ground approaching. This is when I realize death is not the end; it is simply a new beginning, the beginning of eternity. Most rational people would argue that eternity does not have a beginning, since it does not have an end. Most rational have never died. Time is no longer a concept of significance once you understand forever.
I don’t hit the ground hard. Once my feet touch I find myself walking barefoot on a beach; the sand feels soft beneath my feet but it is riding up between my toes causing familiar discomfort. I walk faster as I start to notice the scenery. A father is teaching his son to surf; a group of children is hunting for seashells, a teenage couple shares a kiss as waves crash over them, and a young boy is playing fetch with his golden retriever. I keep striding along when I notice the water rising and the people leaving, the tide is coming in. Instead of following them back into town I walk the other way towards the ocean with the water at my ankles I begin to run, the task becomes harder the deeper the water gets until the ground beneath my feet disappears. I find myself swept away by the tide but instead of panicking I calmly close my eyes as water fills my lungs, I am in complete control.
With a mind that is determined to hold on but a body that needs to let go, I dissolve from reality. With the tide I commemorated the end of my physical existence, but only the beginning of endless lessons and comprehension.
I’m sorry it wasn’t me
Ethan
Writing down my dream gave closure for the night. “Goodnight Connor” I said before going back to sleep.

On my eighteenth birthday I got a letter from my grandmother asking me to come home. She welcomed me with open arms and genuine love.

Few things had changed about the cabin. Spencer had gotten old and arthritic, he was in good spirits nonetheless. He greeted me at the door; his entire body was trembling with the wagging of his tail. The wall decorated with pictures was still the same; the bookshelf had yet to be dusted. I ran my fingers along its splintering edges. You could no longer make out doodles under the thick layers of dust that had built up over the years I spent away. On the surface I wrote:
Connor was here.
I traced the words with my fingers. I looked around the room, the familiar sights, the familiar smells and I realized it was true; Connor was here.
I walked across the lawn toward the tool shed in which I had shot my brother eight years prior. It wasn’t raining that day, the heat of the sun poured over my tired skin like a long forgotten flame. It had been too long since I felt the sun that way. The door to the shed creaked as I slowly pushed it open. No one had been here in a while. Looking around I realized that the shed looked no different from that day. Piles of antiques and old magazines were aligned in multiple piles and stacks, some taller than myself. I sat on Grandpa’s old rocking chair and took out my journal.
Dear Connor;
Someday I will lead a normal life. I will do everything you never go the chance to do. Coming back to this shed I feel alive for the first time in years. I need to live for the both of us.
I’m sorry I didn’t realize that before.
Ethan.
On that note I closed my journal I walked over and set it atop the stack of Grandpa’s motorcycle magazines.