To Be Continued

“This is all my fault,” Andrew whispered to himself. He curled into a ball while lying on his bed in his dark room. The police left six hours ago, and he had no tears left to cry. Instead, he waited in silence knowing that tomorrow would come, and with it, the deafening reality that when he woke up, his brother would still be gone. Regardless, he didn’t believe he could, nor did he want, to sleep.  

“I don’t want to dream about him,” he thought.

If he told his dad, “This is all my fault,” his dad would say, “Nobody could’ve done anything, and you were an amazing brother.” He would then embrace Andrew so tight he would feel like he was going to be crushed. If he told his mom, “This is all my fault,” she would kiss him on the cheek and comfortingly hold his hand. She would then say, “You were by his side the entire time. You were his best friend.” If Andrew told his older brother, who lived in a different city and couldn’t be granted the blessing of family comfort, “This is all my fault,” his older brother would blame himself instead for not being closer.

If a miracle could occur, and Andrew could be granted the chance to tell his brother, “This is all my fault,” his brother would shake his head and laugh. He loved to laugh. “My last words were I love you,” he’d say in his don’t be ridiculous tone. His brother would then apologize for the sorrow and the pain, not just for today, but that which will come everyday hereafter.

Of course, he couldn’t ask him, and asking his parents or older brother would only result in sympathy, and so he said it to himself. He accepted the blame because in the strangest of ways, it made him feel better. To blame God would be blasphemous, to blame family would be shameful, to blame society would be pointless, and to blame the brother he had lost would feel wrong. Someone had to be blamed, so Andrew blamed himself.

Six years prior, he saw his brother fall into a terrifying pit of depression. He watched him climb desperately for the light clinging to the hope that he would find the magical enigma that is “happiness.” The metaphorical rocks of this pit cut and bruised him. Andrew saw his pain. He saw his struggle. He encouraged him. He took care of him. He loved him, but he had to accept that his role was only that of a spectator. Some could say the pit won, but Andrew chose to believe in eternal life.

“If life is eternal, how significant can our pain be here,” Andrew thought.

Through it all, there was nothing to regret. They had fun together sharing laughter, success, failure, and pain. The optimistic Andrew would later come to accept that he didn’t lose 60 years of his brother’s company, he was gifted with 25. But for tonight, Andrew had to accept the grief.

Perhaps, it was his fault. To say this outcome was unexpected would be a lie. There were previous times when Andrew and his family believed the most recent, “I love you,” was his last.

Earlier in the day, He received a text from a friend. For reasons he can’t recall, he chose not to look at it. Later that day, his brother sent his final goodbyes in the form of a video text message. The image of him crying and telling each member of his family that he loved them and finishing it off with, “And I’m sorry,” will forever be emblazoned in Andrew’s subconscious. Andrew didn’t see the message until an hour after it was sent. He assumed the icon telling him he had a new message was the text from his friend.

Even though He was living with his brother specifically because of his concern for his mental state, He didn’t bother checking to see if the text was from him. Funny enough, he loved getting texts from him. For starters, they shared a sense of humor, and he was often sending jokes for the family to enjoy. Mostly, however, Andrew cherished his brother’s texts because no matter what they actually said, they told Andrew, “At least for now, I know he’s safe.” Therefore, Andrew felt perplexed that he would choose to give up this chance for comfort. In a way, Andrew never has to worry again. As sickening as it felt, a weight had been lifted. He knew wherever his little brother was, he was safe, and he could only hope that he was happy.

“If I saw it on time, maybe, I could’ve called, and he would’ve come home.” His eyes teared as the thought flashed in his head. “Maybe, the police would’ve shown up earlier and talked him out of jumping.” The feeling that his brother would come through the front door, as he had so many times before, persisted despite Andrew’s knowledge to the contrary. He desperately wanted to hear that this was all a horrible misunderstanding.  

Andrew rolled off the bed. He felt compelled to enter his brother’s room. He saw the desk in the back of the room with his computer and the equipment he used to create music. He made hundreds of songs in his 25 years, and Andrew had heard and adored every one of them. His brother loved music and excelled at it. He taught himself how to play the piano at the age of four. He was a prominent member of his high school’s band. He even had a small, regular gig as a DJ in a local club for a brief time. In fact, Andrew believed music was the only way his brother felt heard and understood.

Andrew admired the display his brother set up on the shelves of his room. Some people collect memorabilia or cards, but Andrew’s brother collected memories. On his shelves, he carefully displayed VHS tapes, books, toys, and various trinkets he had acquired over the years. Each one held a significant meaning to him. Andrew picked up an adult coloring book from one of the shelves. He bought the book for him a few years ago. He hoped it would help him destress and not obsess over the many intrusive thoughts that clouded his mind. To Andrew’s knowledge, his brother never colored in it.

He opened the book to confirm and found his theory was correct. He flipped through the pages seeing nothing but the intricate, black, and white designs. Then he stopped. On the back of the page, he saw a drawing. He inspected it closely and saw the image of a minimalist owl drawn beneath a branch. Above the branch were the words, “The Night Owl.” Below the branch were the words, “To Be Continued…” Never had Andrew seen this image nor had he known anything related to his brother resembling it.

The picture brought him an inexplicable comfort despite its vague nature. He smiled weakly and took the book to his own room placing it among his personal collection. He shuffled down the stairs and entered the backyard. He didn’t want to do anything specific but felt like being outside. His parents sat on the patio chairs and stared at the glass table. Many joyous conversations have been had on this patio set, but tonight, the family remained silent. Andrew sat down and stared at the large tree in the backyard.

After a few minutes, his mom asked in a defeated tone, “What do we do now?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter what we do,” Andrew replied shrugging his shoulders and throwing his hands up.

His dad sighed. “I just wish I could know that he’s safe.”

They nodded together. Among their sniffles and throat clearing, they heard the branches of the tree shake. Andrew and his dad didn’t budge, but his mom peered up to investigate.

“Is that an Owl?” she asked.

Andrew swiftly glanced up. In his entire life, he had never seen an owl, but one had decided tonight was the night to sit in his family’s tree. Its circular eyes glowed bright and pierced them with its focused gaze. The family gawked in awe. Their mouths hung open, and their eyes twinkled before it as though they were prepared for the owl to speak magnificent words of comfort. The owl dramatically spread its enormous wings and majestically flew away fading into the dark night sky.

For the first time since the news broke, Andrew and his family smiled. “I think he’s okay,” Andrew’s dad said. They wished for the owl to return, but they were permitted the one visit. Andrew did get to sleep that night. As expected, he dreamt of his brother. He found comfort knowing in his dream his brother was happy. Before he departed from the most tragic day of his life, one final thought entered his mind, “His name is Connor, and his story will continue.”