Brother

This journal is suppose to be about “what makes writing good”. I really do not want to write about that. Not because I’m a stubborn student, but because I have heavier things weighing on my mind. So, take that.

My brother died around 11:40 Sunday morning on July 13. I remember waking up thinking “blah, I wanna shower”. But when I walked out of my room I saw that my parents were running around, grabbing this and that. When I asked what was going on my mom told me that something had gone wrong with Boyd, my brother, they thought that a blood vessel in his head had burst and he was being transferred to another hospital for a cat scan.

“I want to go!” I said, I must have said it a dozen times before they left. “No,” they’d say. “Why??” “Because we need you here for your brother in case something happens.” I was hurt and angry. And really wanted a shower, even though I wasn’t dirty. Why couldn’t I go? Nothing was going to happen, he was going to pull through like he always did. And even IF something DID happen, we could tell Rickey, my younger brother, when we got back.

Well, my parents left, my brother slept, and I stayed. Instead of taking a shower while I waited to find out what all was going on, I watched t.v. and ate. It seemed to be taking them forever to call and tell me what was going on. So, I decided to call them and ask if I could get on the computer. There was no answer. I was annoyed, thinking that my mom was doing what she usually does to me; sees that it’s me calling and ignores it.

Of course, it really hadn’t been that long since they had left. Maybe a half hour, so, they wouldn’t (or shouldn’t) be at the hospital yet. More and more time went by and I must’ve called half a dozen times, not to ask if I could get on the computer, but now to ask if everything was okay. It had been about an hour and a half, I should’ve heard from them and I was starting to freak out.

Around noon I was able to get ahold of them. I don’t remember if it was that I had called and they finally answered, or if they had called me back. I could tell by my moms voice that something was not good. But I was not, though I should have been, expecting what I heard next. “He’s gone.”

Some more words were exchanged, I can’t remember what they were. We hung up and I put the food I had been holding down and sat on the couch. I wasn’t crying, not yet. After a bit, my brother got up and I asked him to just watch t.v. with me instead of playing his video games. He really didn’t want to, but I can only guess that he could tell that something was wrong so he sat with me.

When my parents got home my mom sat down on the couch with my brother. I was on the loveseat and my dad was in his chair. My brother cried, of course, when she told him. Boyd and Rickey were like buddies, always hanging out, doing what they could together. Rickey didn’t like seeing Boyd sick so he only saw him about 3 times during the time Boyd spent in the hospital. I can’t begin to imagine how he was feeling.

Boyd’s funeral was the following weekend..I felt so bad that I didn’t finish the book I was reading him. I had chose to get high instead. I don’t want to write anymore. And I don’t care if any of you read this or not.

Sena