Toxic (42 page)

Nothing that was any part of him, not anything to define who he was.

But I know who he was.

He was my older brother.

He was my best friend.

He was a good man who didn’t always make the right choices but had the best intentions.

Sadness lingers, as I think that I no longer have to wonder about him or worry about him. Now all that’s left is for me to miss him, but I already miss him so much.

I’m alone.

Growing up, we only had each other—and our grandmother too. Our grandfather died before my grandmother gave birth to our mother, so Mimi knew single parenting well. She was amazing. She taught us everything she could, told us anything we wanted to know, but she refused to talk about the club. Mimi said she didn’t believe in that old family legend.

Too bad destiny isn’t something you can choose to believe in—it just happens.

Now, it’s become more than a legend. It took him dying for me to believe. My constant reminder is the fact that Zach is also dead—he, like my grandfather and my mother, will forever be twenty-seven.

The question is: will I be joining my ancestors at the same young age?

Is that my destiny?

I hope not—but how could it not be?

I set the dish down and emotion overtakes me, the magnitude of my losses and my short life becoming all too real.

I collapse on the bed.

If I die at twenty-seven, will I have even lived a small part of my life?

Did my grandfather? Did my mother? Did my brother?

My head spins and I find myself back at that place I can’t seem to crawl out of—I feel like screaming, but I can’t because the idea of yelling seems like too much work when all I can think about is myself being next.

I yank off my wet T-shirt and shorts and bury my head under his pillow, wanting to block out that small voice telling me to push through this. I thought coming here would give me hope that life is worth the chance of what might or might not happen, but the sterility of my brother’s home, the lack of anything he was surrounding me, stirs an uneasiness I can’t seem to shake.

I feel like I’m already dying.

I’ve felt like this for many weeks.

Validation of a life worth living and dying young for was what I hoped to find by coming here. But instead all there is is a reflection of what I see when I look in the mirror—emptiness.

I close my eyes, wishing for all of this to be nothing more than a dream. But I know my first impression was right—I’ve opened Pandora’s box.

Photo by Studio One to One Photography

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