Page 183 of Five Brothers

Macon

For a long time, I was happy I was born first. Not because being the oldest gave me more power, or because I didn’t have to share my shit and always got to have my own room, but because I got to leave first. It was the ultimate screw-you to my father, who thought being his son meant I’d help him raise his kids, cook the meals, change the diapers, do the laundry …

As soon as I turned eighteen and graduated, I bolted. I joined the military and got far away with barely much thought to my mother, because over the years and the constant threat hanging over our heads, I stopped believing she was ever going to do it. I didn’t want her to. I just couldn’t stay anymore. It would be fine. Life was getting easier for her. The kids were growing up. It would work itself out.

Joke was on me, though. Five years later I was called home for a funeral and two months later, another one. At twenty-three, I was the sole guardian and provider of four minors, and my parents had left us nothing but this house.

I regretted ever leaving, though. Not because I thought staying would’ve done my mother any good, but because the burden of being the oldest fell to Army when I left. And he didn’t deserve it. I was already angry, fighting the fog in my head every day. But he’skind and calm, patient and warm. He didn’t deserve the stress. He deserved a brother who wouldn’t abandon him.

And he deserves Krisjen.

I trace the lock of her hair falling down her cheek and across her neck, the end lying over one of my pillows, and drift my eyes back up to her closed ones. My arm is folded under my head, facing her as she faces me, the curtains billowing with the early-morning breeze. She opened my windows last night. Must’ve done it while I was asleep, but the fresh air feels good. The scent of flowers and fresh earth blows in, the sounds of palm fronds rustling in the wind.

But I smell her, too. That perfume in her shampoo and the coconut on her lips, and I want her to wrap her arms around me again, so I can close my eyes and pretend the sun will never come up.

He deserves her. I don’t want to tell her to go, though.

Just then, she blinks, her eyes opening more and more, and I watch as her gaze focuses, and she realizes that I’m staring at her.

We stay like that, and I know she wants to ask me if I’m okay. If I need anything. But thankfully, she doesn’t. I’m so tired.

Propping herself up, she checks the time on her phone and then looks at me again. “I need to get the kids up,” she says softly.

I stay silent as she turns over to climb out of bed, but then … she comes back around, dives in, and leaves a kiss on my cheek.

All of the adrenaline in my body rushes to that one spot.

She flips around, jumps out of bed, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

I sit up, a wave of nausea and an ache in my head hitting me. I look over, seeing she left me a glass of water. Grabbing it, I drink it down and plant my feet on the floor, slowly standing. The walls close in, and I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t eaten since before yesterday, or because I’ve been sleeping for nearly a day, but I force myself into the bathroom. Refilling the glass, I drink it and refill it again, drinking until I’m not thirsty anymore.

The sickness rises, though, and I rush to the toilet, vomiting everything I just drank. There’s no food in my stomach, but I lurch and lurch, spilling everything I have until it’s gone.

I rinse out my mouth and drop my ass to the edge of the tub, trying to get my stomach to stop churning.

The house starts to wake. Laughter. Kids. Doors creaking open and slamming shut. I miss my sister in the house. She would keep that shit in check.

I stare at the floor, trying to feel my feet under me. Trying to stand.

Get up. Go. Get up.

Another day. Same as yesterday.

Stand. Don’t think. Stand. Get up. Work. Don’t think. Do a job. Fix something. Build something. A car. A bike. The broken shutter. The door to the backyard. Turn it off. Move.

Fucking move.

Another day. Same as yesterday.

I can’t leave the room. I can’t get my muscles under me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the wetness under my lids.

I don’t want to see people. I can’t talk. I can’t stomach the conversations. It feels like everyone is on a carousel around me, swirling and laughing, and I’m losing my balance. I sway. I’m going to fall.

How can they just go through their days not feeling how cold everything is? I can’t just act like I’m not cold.

I rub my hands over my face. What the fuck am I talking about? They don’t feel it, because they don’t feel it. Because it’s not happening. Why do I feel this?