My brother’s death left me utterly despondent. Not a day goes by that I wish I could take it back. Those days are interminable, and so is the pain.
My parents tend to go on tirades about me being too reclusive these days, mostly because of my brother’s death. But I’m not worried about what they say, or his death. I just can’t believe…it was me who caused it.
One dark cold night, my brother, some friends, and I were coming back from a wild party. It was all the drinking, and trouble we were getting into that made the sage of my brother decide it was time to go home. We were all profoundly wasted; sadly it was me who was forced to drive. And as soon as I started the car my tremulous hands led us into deep trouble. A left turn down bleaker street turned out in the death of my brother, and the death of the old me.
I sat there, sobbing over the dead body of my beloved brother. With no one to answer my urgent entreaties to bring him back. Don’t take this amiss I knew he couldn’t be resurrected. But sometimes it’s better to dream and hope, rather than to be struck by sudden reality.
30 days since have made me colder, because the events that occurred that night still haunt me to this day. And it’s those events that make me abhor death and the consequences it brings not only to its victim, but those who love him as well.
My brother was known for his affable behavior. I don’t want to be known as the irascible man who took that away. Because if having those painful images reverberate throughout my head wasn’t enough. There’s the guilt, the guilt that impels me to be a better man.
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