Omega

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes related to hazing, physical harm, guilt, grief, and injustice. It explores the devastating consequences of a fraternity hazing incident, including permanent trauma, emotional distress, and loss. Readers who have experienced or been affected by hazing, peer pressure, or similar tragedies may find some content distressing.

This story does not depict any real individuals but is inspired by true events that have tragically occurred in various communities. It aims to raise awareness about the dangers of hazing, the long-term consequences for victims and perpetrators alike, and the urgent need for accountability and change.

If you or someone you know is struggling with the effects of hazing or related trauma, consider reaching out to a trusted support system or professional resources. You are not alone.

Omega

Dear Omega Brother,

I don’t know how to begin this letter.

Maybe because I don’t know if you’ll even read it. Maybe because I don’t know if you care. Or maybe because the weight of what happened is too much to put into words. But here I am, trying anyway. Because someone has to.

You left him there. Alone. Cold. Barely breathing.

You called it tradition. Brotherhood. The next step in proving loyalty. But the moment his body hit the floor, shaking, struggling, silent—what was it then? Did it still feel like brotherhood? Did it still feel like something to be proud of?

You say it wasn’t your fault. You say you didn’t mean it. You say no one thought it would go that far. And yet, here we are. A mother without her son. A father without his heir. Friends without their brother. And him—trapped in his own mind, unable to speak the words that could tell us what it felt like to be left behind by the very people who called him family.

I’ve heard the whispers. “He should have known better.” “It’s part of the process.” “We all went through it.” As if that justifies anything. As if his silence is some necessary sacrifice to prove his worth. As if the bruises, the scars, the breath that barely filled his lungs meant nothing because you made it through, so why couldn’t he?

I’ve said too much. Or maybe I haven’t said enough. Either way, silence is what got us here. And I won’t be part of that anymore.

Justice isn’t just about punishment. It’s about making sure this never happens again. So I’m writing this letter. And the next. And the next. Until someone listens. Until someone realizes that the cost of so-called tradition is too damn high.

He can’t speak. But I can. And I will.

— A Brother Who Remembers

Dear Brother,

I read your letter. Every word. Every sentence. Every truth.

You are right. We failed him. I failed him.

The night started like all the others—laughing, chanting, pushing limits. No one thought it would end like this. When he struggled to stand, when he reached for my arm, I told myself he’d be fine. I told myself he just needed a moment, that we all went through it, that this was just part of becoming one of us.

But he wasn’t fine. And I didn’t reach back.

I can’t take it back. I can’t undo what’s been done. But I can tell the truth. I can stand before his family, before his friends, before the world and say: We were wrong. I was wrong. And I won’t let silence win.

I don’t know if you can forgive me. I don’t know if I can forgive myself. But I want to try.

I went to see him today. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me. Just sat there, eyes staring past me, as if I wasn’t there at all. Maybe that’s what I deserve. Maybe that’s the only justice he has left—to make sure I live every day knowing what I took from him. What I took from his family. What I took from all of us.

I don’t expect you to understand, but I needed to tell you. I needed someone to know that I do care. That I’m trying to be better than the coward I was that night.

— A Brother Who Won’t Forget

Dear Omega Brother,

I don’t know how to begin this letter.

Because every time I try, it feels like the words aren’t enough. It feels like I’m screaming into a void, hoping someone, anyone, will listen. But maybe that’s what justice is—shouting into the silence until the silence finally breaks.

The guilt doesn’t go away. The questions don’t either. Why didn’t we stop? Why didn’t we listen? Why did we let him suffer for the sake of a name, a legacy, a so-called bond? It wasn’t worth it. None of it was worth it.

I met his mother. I saw the way she looked at me. There was no anger in her eyes. No hate. Just sorrow. Just loss. And that was worse than anything else I could have faced. Because I wanted her to scream at me, to curse me, to say I was just as guilty as the ones who led him down that path. But she didn’t. She just looked at me as if waiting for me to say something. Anything.

I couldn’t.

If you’re reading this, if you’re feeling this, then maybe you know that, too. Maybe you know that we can’t change the past, but we can change what happens next. Maybe you know that we owe him more than regret. We owe him truth. We owe him action.

I won’t stop writing. I won’t stop speaking. I won’t stop until this ends.

I hope you won’t either.

— A Brother Who Will Keep Fighting

Dear Brother Who Will Keep Fighting,

I don’t know if I deserve to write this. Maybe I don’t. But I need you to know—I’m listening.

You’re right. Silence got us here. And silence will keep others suffering if we don’t break it. I can’t erase what happened, but I won’t let his name fade into a cautionary tale people ignore. I’m standing beside you now, not as the person I was that night, but as someone who refuses to let history repeat itself.

I don’t know if we can ever make things right. But we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Keep fighting. I will, too.

— A Brother Who Won’t Stay Silent