Just like the last few months, I woke up with a fucking head ache and crusty eyes. It took a lot of effort to open them; they were basically stuck together, always swollen and dry. It was like my body was screaming at me to not wake up. Yet here I was, another day pushing forward when all I wanted to do was let it all go, carrying on even with the weight on my back and pain in my chest.

I rolled out of bed reluctantly, but I knew I had no choice. I couldn't let down my parents; they needed me here. And just the same, they were my anchors, keeping me here on Earth because the last thing I wanted to do was break their already broken hearts. When it was their time I wasn't quite sure what I would do. All I knew was that I had to hold on until then because no parent deserved losing both of their children within the same year.

My head spun as I stood up and I wobbled a bit, but that was something I was used to. My dreams and nightmares swirled around in my head, making me dizzy and slightly nauseous. They were getting worse; thinking about the one I just woke from made me shudder. But I didn’t think about them—I became good at pushing them to a far corner of my head right after waking up. I barely even sweat anymore. I’d only go back to them later when I had my therapist to help sort through them. I wouldn’t dare try and deal with them when I was by myself. At first I couldn’t help it, but now somehow, even when they were bad—really bad—I was able to shut them out without even a single consideration. It was like they existed in a separate room of my brain; I could close the door in their face and lock them inside. The only problem was that the door to the other room in my head—life—was also locked and I couldn’t seem to get in. I was always stuck lingering in the hallway.

I exited my room, deciding to skip out on washing my face this morning. I needed to be around people—my mom. When I surrounded myself with my parents or friends, I was somewhat okay.

"Michael, hijo," mama greeted me happily as I stumbled down the steps.

"Hey," I replied coolly while kissing her cheek.

"I made your favorite!" She said, her smile widening but also diminishing in her eyes. She gestured to the waffles on the counter and I knew why her eyes had saddened. They were my favorite. But they were Vic and Drella's favorite, too. We didn't have to talk about that out loud though.

"Ah, sweet!" I cheered. I wasn't that hungry—I never was—but I happily sat down with her, anyway. Dad had probably already gone to work, so it was just us two.

"How are you feeling today, baby?" Mama asked quietly, gently touching my arm. I shrugged my shoulders, forced a smile in her direction, and nodded. She knew what that meant so it required no more elaboration.

“Do you have therapy today?” she asked, even though she already knew that I did. I hated that word. Therapy. It made me feel a bit pathetic, even though I knew deep down that it wasn’t. It just didn’t seem right to me that I was given a chance to heal when Drella and Vic were not.

Drella and Vic. I clenched my fists angrily while my heart thumped in my chest. I was fucking depressed over it, but I was also angry. Vic had taken the easy way out, out of the bad situation. He had left me. His little brother. I wanted to scream at someone, at him. But he wasn’t here.

So I glared at my mother. Words bubbled up to the surface, about not wanting to be treated like a baby anymore, about not wanting anything, but I held back. I wouldn’t mean the words anyway, and I didn’t want to push her away. I just felt so angry. Not at her, but the situation. I was angry that Drella and Vic had, in their own twisted way, solved everything perfectly. Wherever they were, they were together and probably happy. Yet here I was a train wreck of emotions, trapped.

My glare softened when I noticed my mom staring at me strangely, probably wondering why I was glaring. I sighed and looked down. “Sorry,” I breathed out.

“It’s okay, Mike,” she placed her hand on mine. She was always so understanding.

“I’m sick of it,” I muttered. I blinked once and my eyes burned. I blinked again to keep the tears from falling.

“I know, hijo. But it’s important,” she said gently.

“I feel stuck in there.”

“I’m not going to force you to go anymore, you can make your own decisions. But it’s healthy to talk about things… you need to talk about them,” she encouraged. I nodded. “And you feel stuck because you don’t really talk, right?” she assumed. I nodded again.

“I do talk some… it’s just… today’s not good,” I mumbled. She nodded.

“Did you take care of what your therapist and I asked you to?” I gulped. “Michael…”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t get rid of them. I was going to, I swear!” I quickly defended myself.

“Do I need to do it?” she asked. I could see in her eyes how much it would upset her to have to do, though. She didn’t want to have to look at them, to be directly reminded of what happened. I couldn’t let her feel that pain anymore.

“No, no. You know what, I’ll go do it right now. And then I’ll have to leave for therapy. Then later I’ll take you out to dinner since Dad’ll be late, yeah?” I asked. She nodded and smiled.

“Good boy. It’s for your own good. You can’t hold on to those bad memories any longer,” she said. “And okay, that sounds wonderful baby.” I smiled weakly and stood up, kissing her cheek and retreating back up to my room.

I sighed heavily, opening up my closet door. I had a nicely sized closet, one I could actually walk into. On the left side I kept all of my clothes, making sure everything was neat and in place. As long as everything was clean, the wall on the right side was clear—and that was where I kept the newspaper clippings.

They covered the entire wall. From every single newspaper possible, I had gathered reports about Drella’s accident, reports about it being ruled a murder, information about her court case, and articles about her rapist and murderer getting sentenced to life in prison. And then I had several obituaries dedicated to her, along with mine and Vic’s speeches written from her funeral.

And then of course, scattered along with Drella’s articles, were the articles involving Vic. The reports about his death, ‘local young adult commits suicide in town’. There was a lot less about him in the newspapers. He had gone out quietly. Just a bunch of pills and cut wrists, not found in time. I had a scrap of the shirt I was wearing when I had found him and used to try to help him pinned up amongst the papers. Suicide notes and obituaries, too.

I didn’t speak at his funeral.

I wrote him letters sometimes. Things I would to say to him if he was here, or if I had spoken at his funeral. I pinned those up too. There were photographs of the two of them together. There were photographs of all of us together as a group, and them some of me with just Drella and me with just Vic.

I swallowed hard. I lifted my arm, hovering my fingers over the papers and getting ready to just clench my eyes shut and tear them down.

But I couldn’t do it.

I bounced on my toes, trying to force myself to get amped up enough to just do it. But every time I reached forward to scratch the papers off the wall, I jolted to a stop. I was petrified that this wall was the only thing keeping them alive in my head. Keeping them here versus throwing them away… each option brought me pain, so did it really matter?

I sighed and stepped back. I shook my head. Just one more day up, I thought. I’ll take it all down tomorrow.

I exited my closet and closed the door. I checked the time, finding that I had been in there for a while. I had to go soon, so I quickly got ready and cleaned up for the day in the usual sweat pants and t-shirt. The time passed quickly, my body and brain numb during routine activities like this. Everything I did was zombie-like, unless I was with my family because then I actually had to try.

“How did it go?” Mama asked when I jogged down the steps, car keys in hand. I gave her a thumbs up with my free hand. “You did it?” she asked, seeming surprised. I nodded and forced her a smile.

“Yes. It was hard. But you’re right. It’s healthier not to have that shit,” I said.

She nodded happily. “I’ll see you later then,” she said, waving as I exited the house.

In a blink of an eye, I was already at my appointment. I was hardly even concerned with the fact that I couldn’t remember driving here at all. I sighed when I finally sat down on the soft cushion in my therapist’s office. She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear, leaning forward with her hands holding her head under her chin and her elbows resting on the top of her legs.

“What’s up, Mike? You look bothered today,” she observed easily, furrowing her eyebrows. We didn’t have to discuss the fact that, no shit, I was always bothered—but today was worse than normal. Normally everything just stayed in the back of my mind, like a thunderstorm in the distance—you could hear it but it wasn’t really directly affecting you, not yet at least. But today the thunderstorm was over my head. The lightning was bolting through my veins and the rain was weighing me down.

I sighed and leaned back, biting my lip anxiously and taping my fingers against my thighs. “It’s getting hard,” I mumbled.

“It’s not supposed to be easy, Mike,” she reasoned gently.

“No, I know. I know every day is a fight. But… I can’t breathe, Sam. I can’t fucking breathe anymore,” I said, my throat closing up. “It’s hard, my brain doing this to me… and I’m stuck thinking about if I had done something different…” my voice trailed off and I shook my head.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself, Mike. You know that’s not healthy.”

I shook my head. “It’s not even that anymore…”

“Talk to me,” she encouraged softly. “What is your brain doing to you?”

I sighed and wiped my face with the back of my hand, catching the escaping tears. I swallowed the pit in my throat, although it didn’t do much because another one formed immediately after.

“I want to get rid of them,” I mumbled.

“How do you mean?” she asked. Her eyebrows creased with worry. I looked back down at my knees.

“I want to get over it. But then I don’t want to. I don’t know!”

“Mike, it’s not something you can easily get over. You can’t have those kinds of expectations. You can deal with it, you can cope, you can move on. But you can’t force yourself to get over it if you’re not ready,” she said.

“So you’re saying, I have to live with it?” I asked dumbly. Of course I had to live with it. She bit her lip. “Don’t answer that,” I mumbled.

“Mike,” she said softly and leaned forward. “You suffered an enormous loss, and it’s obviously still raw in your heart. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to keep living.”

“I k-know he said in his letter to not follow him out and to hold on for him, and to find a life for myself, but Jesus fucking Christ he didn’t know it would be this hard. How come he thought I’d be okay?! I’m not fucking okay! I’m never going to be fucking okay again!” I shouted, hunching forward and breaking down into heavy tears. “I’m not okay. I can’t be okay. It’s all in my head, forever,” I cried. “I miss him so fucking much… both of them…”

She let me cry for a few minutes, gently rubbing my back but not saying anything. There wasn’t anything to be said, at least until I was ready. “I want to give up,” I cried, the words hardly coming out clear, masked by my sobs. But they were true. Slowly but surely the thoughts I’ve pushed to the back of my mind every day were creeping forward, intoxicating me.

“Mike, you can’t do that. You have to keep fighting—”

“Why?!” I shot up, staring at her through blurry eyes. “Why do I have to keep fighting? After D-Drella was killed, we were all sad. We were all ruined. I kept fighting, so I could be there for Vic, but now look where I am. Why the fuck is he allowed to give up and I’m not?! It’s not fucking fair!” I screamed, throwing my head back and collapsing back into the couch. I slouched down and covered my face with my hands, groaning in frustration and agony.

“My head is going to explode, Sam, you have no idea,” I whimpered.

“I think it’s time you tell me what’s in your head, Mike. Besides the obvious stuff. What’s going on in there? You need to let some of the pressure out,” she said. I nodded. She was right.

“My head… it’s all them,” I started. She waited. “It’s all them,” I repeated, shaking my head. “It’s like a whole other world in my head. When I’m unconscious, that world comes out…” I bit on my lip. Sam didn’t seem to have anything to say, so I continued. “When I’m asleep, when I dream… it’s all them. They’re there. It hurts so much, because it feels so real.”

“Have your dreams of them progressed or changed at all since last time?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. She knew about my dreams, for the most part. But not the last few ones.

I nodded. “It’s like a different world in there. I barely live out here, when I’m awake. And when I’m asleep it’s just as worse but it’s like an alternate version of things, I guess how things would be if they were still alive. But it’s like I’m actually living it, too. I don’t know,” I said.

“That makes sense,” she said lowly, almost to herself, nodding. “It’s a coping mechanism,” she said.

“Is it, though? Because it hurts a hell of a lot. It’s not helping.”

She frowned. “There’s something else.”

I breathed out a thin wisp of air. “Yeah.” She waited. “It’s telling me what to do. If it’s a coping mechanism, then obviously it’s telling me that I can’t cope… I can’t go on…” her eyes widened with worry but she stayed quiet, letting me continue. “The past few nights… the dreams… they’ve really escalated,” I murmured.

Shakily, I lifting my hand and touched my pointer finger to my dry lips. I closed my eyes dreamily for a moment. “I kissed her,” I murmured. “It felt so real. I can almost still feel it.” Silence. “But Vic saw. I hurt my brother. He saw and then ran away.” I opened my eyes and smiled a little at my shocked therapist. “He had proposed to her. It really was so beautiful, and I was really fucking jealous. But it’s okay, she’s his,” I said. “They’re each other’s.”

I looked up at the ceiling. I closed my eyes and reality flooded into my head. When Drella died, when we found out it was murder, Vic and I had gone crazy—Vic more so than me, only because I had to look out for him. But now Vic wasn’t here. Vic had killed himself to be with her, and now there was no one besides my parents to be sane for. And I mostly was sane, around them, for them. But when I was with myself, in my own head, alone, asleep… I was fucking out of my mind. Or, maybe it was I was too much in my mind…

“I died last night,” I said.

“You died?” Sam asked, her words coming out tightly.

I nodded. “Yeah, a fucking hit and run. I ran away after upsetting Drella and Vic. Right into the damn street. I didn’t really feel it though. And then I was conscious a little bit, for a split second everything hurt, but I got to talk to Vic for a second. He was so sad… maybe now he knows what it feels like, to lose a brother,” I rambled. I tilted my head to the side. “So now what? I’m dead in that world, now. Where do I go? What do I do?”

I shut my mouth quickly. My therapist shifted uncomfortably in her seat, probably because she was thinking what I was thinking.

“You’re talking about your dreams as if they are a reality,” she said slowly. I nodded, looking down. “It’s okay, Mike, look up,” she murmured. I bit on my lip and stared at her concerned face. “I want to help you. Your parents want to help you too. Do they know about these dreams?” she asked. I shook my head. “And how would you feel if you told them?”

“Upset. ‘Cause I don’t want to disappoint them. I need to be there for them… I can’t hurt them.” She nodded, understanding. “…But, I’m scared…”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, what do I do tonight? When I go to sleep…what will happen in my head?” I asked quietly.

She tapped her finger against her chin thoughtfully, humming a little. “Would you like to find out now? Try going to sleep, and I’ll be here for you if you need me. That way you’re not alone,” she suggested. I nodded slowly, yawning simultaneously. This caused both of us to crack a small smile.

“I guess I am tired,” I laughed a little. She nodded and nudged on my shoulder a little, encouraging me to lay down. I felt a little weird laying on the couch with her looking right at me—it made me feel like a little kid—but I got over it. I closed my eyes.

“Just let yourself relax for a few minutes. Would you like music?” she asked. I started to open my eyes but she touched my shoulder. “Eyes closed,” she said. I nodded, to her instructions and also to the music idea.

A few second later, a soft tune floated through the room. It was something Zen. A few months ago I had trouble sleeping, so she had given me a series exercises to try. I used them now, focusing on my senses to try and slip into unconsciousness. I listened to the gentle instruments flowing through my ears, I listened to her regular breathing, I listened to my heartbeat. Slowly, I sunk farther into my head. I focused on my breathing, to keep myself from panicking and waking up. I was returning to my dream—but in my dream I was dead. I couldn’t be scared—this was what I wanted anyway, right? Might as well see what it was like…

“Fuck!” I yelled and shot up. My therapist jumped a little in surprise and then stared at me questioningly. “I can’t do it. I can’t sleep. I can’t. I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead,” I muttered.

“No, Mike, you’re not, you’re not dead. You’re right here,” she eased. But I didn’t listen. I shook my head.

“I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m sorry mom and dad. I’m not here,” I rambled on. My body shuddered. I was dead. I had to be dead.

“You’re not dead, Mike. You’re here. I’m going to touch your arm, okay? Feel that it’s my hand. I’m here, you’re here. You’re alive,” she said, staring at me intently. I watched her place her hand on my arm. I felt nothing. I shook my head.

“Nothing.”

She touched my arm again. I saw her hand pressing into my skin but I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t feel my heart in my rib cage or the pulse that was supposed to be in my neck and wrists. I was dead.

“No!” I shouted and pulled my arm away from hers. I brought my right hand down on the top of my left, clawing at the skin. “No, no, no, no,” I mumbled. I dug my nails into my flesh, pulling and scratching, trying to break the skin. I had to see what was inside. I was dead. There should be nothing, right?

“Mike! Stop!” Sam yelled. I didn’t listen to her, though, I just continued scratching. I lifted my hands and pulled at my hair and attacked my face. I didn’t even know what I was doing, I might have been screaming or crying. Or maybe I was already so dead that I couldn’t bring emotion to my face.

“Mike!” she screamed, grabbing my wrists. I tried to wriggle from her hold but quickly gave in. I was dead anyway. Dead people couldn’t fight back. I collapsed forward and she gripped my tight, rubbing my back. I just shook my head. I didn’t know how I did that; I was dead.

“Just relax, Mike, it’s okay. You’re not dead, you’re not going to die,” she said. I shook my head in objection.

“Lying,” I breathed out. I kept my eyes closed because dead men couldn’t see. “I’m dead…”

My body felt tingly. I was breaking down; I could feel it. I was kind of okay with it, though—or I was just too out of control to try and stop it. My throat closed up and I wasn’t breathing. I was scared. If I went to the same place as Drella and my brother, would they leave me again? Or, would I leave them?

Sam gently pushed me back and my body was mush, laying down. My eyes rolled open. She was already across the room, talking into a phone. I saw her mouth moving but I couldn’t hear her. I knew my head was on a pillow but I couldn’t feel it. It felt like I was floating. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, sinking my teeth into the fragile and dry skin—nothing. I closed my eyes slowly and then opened them again. She was crouched down next to me, her hand reached across my body and up by my neck. Her other hand lifted and she looked at her wrist—her watch. Her lips moved as she muttered something to herself but I couldn’t tell what she was saying. She kept mumbling short things, like she was counting. She moved her hand back and I saw that her pointer and middle finger were out together. She moved it down to my hand, my wrist, pressing her fingers into my skin. I couldn’t feel it. My body shook.

I closed my eyes because I didn’t want to see myself not feeling anymore.

When I opened my eyes, they fluttered easily. They didn’t feel as crusty and swollen as usual and I didn’t feel anything painful in my head.

I made eye contact with my mom. She stared at me sadly. It seemed like she had gained a hundred new gray hairs overnight. I saw my dad in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pocket and his head down. He was never good with these situations—we used to be here all of the time for Vic. When Vic got bad in early high school, he came to hospitals like this all of the time. They helped him though, so maybe this was a good thing. After Drella died, everything that used to work for him stopped working. But maybe it would work for me. Was it selfish of me to want to try?

My eyes darted around the room. I’ve been here before, not for myself, but I knew my surroundings well so I didn’t have to take them in. It was interesting though, having this perspective. Being the one in the hospital bed instead of the one standing next to it.

“You don’t have to cry, Mike, it’ll be okay,” someone said. It was Sam, my therapist. I didn’t even know I had started crying.

“It’s just, I wish they were here,” I mumbled. I wished that Vic and Drella were here to stand by me when I needed them, like I always was for them. It was hard though, because they were also the reason why I was here.

I sighed, looking at the people in the room again. There was a heavy sadness and a hint of disappointment in the air. My parents looked even a bit ashamed—one son dead, the other crazy.

I always thought that things were going to be okay. When I brought Drella into Vic’s life, I saw how his eyes seemed brighter. I always knew they’d end up together. I thought that it would help him, his relationship with her. And it did for a while, until everything went wrong. I guess they were too intense, after all. Too invested in their love to make it out alive.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Everything was supposed to be okay. We were all supposed to make it; we were all supposed to work things out. It was supposed to be us three, against the world, always. We always made it. We were always supposed to make it…

“I guess I knew I’d end up here eventually,” I mumbled.

We weren’t going to make it.

Notes

Welp, that's it y'all.

Thanks for sticking with me through the prequel and this :) It means a lot that you read! I hope you liked it even though I crushed what could have been a happy ending. But I just don't do well with those, I guess. This felt more right. Sooo yes. Let me know what I think and sorry if I broke any hearts :(

xoxo <3

ps. if you read any of my other stories, i'm trying really hard to update those. my collab with @precious_preciado, screams of silence, is first priority. everything else is on a bit of a hiatus until i get inspired. with that said t's a miracle that i got inspired to finish this.