Bits and pieces

I saw it. I know I did.

No one believed me. They all told me I was crazy, but I know what I saw. My brother had been murdered in front of me. I watched the dagger sink into his chest, saw the blood pour out, saw his eyes glaze over as his limp form fell to the ground. I heard my screams when I rushed to his side, felt the shooting pain in my heart, the agony of loss.

Yet, in a mere instant, he was gone. But he was there, he was there. I know he was. Police found me slumped over air, screaming, and crying my eyes out. They dragged me away, I clawed at them, trying desperately to reach my way back to where he was. I failed, I failed him. It didn’t take more than a week for my doctor to decide to throw me into a white room, four walls, no doors, no windows. Clouds painted on the ceiling, as if looking at it would trick my brain into thinking I wasn’t trapped by my own thoughts. As if the tiny picture could magically glue my head back together.

After what felt like forever, I actually didn’t have an accurate perspective of time, I mean, how could I? My mind lost itself in a sea of jumbled memories and broken hearts. The real me slowly slipping further and further away. My mind tearing itself apart and getting enveloped by the darkness.

It wasn’t long before they entrapped all of my limbs, holding me down in order to force nourishment into me. Most people called it insanity, I called it being lost. Lost in my own brain, lost in the thoughts that swallowed my conscious, separating reality from my imagination. It would get better, eventually. After years of throwing myself to the wall, trying to end my life, trying to escape. After countless pills shoved down my throat and straight jackets strangling my freedom. My vision wasn’t as blurry anymore. I could think better, my world, didn’t seem to tip every time I thought of him anymore.

The bruises on my head after banging it off the walls for hours would never fully fade away, and the mental scars from that place would never leave me. Once I got out, I immediately dedicated my entire life to finding him, to finding my brother. All of the therapists and doctors that I had worked with told me he wasn’t there, that he had basically vanished off the face of the earth. But he had died. I know he did, I watched it. I wasn’t crazy yet. I had to find him, I had to know the truth.

I began my search with the place where it all started, in the alleyway behind the old tattoo shop. I shoved my hands into my pockets, shivering slightly, my breath clouding around me in the crisp cold air. My boots silently bringing me forward. I examined the area with narrowed eye, trying not to miss anything. They were right, there was absolutely no sign that he had been murdered here. None.

What I thought would be stained crimson, was just dirty grey concrete. I could feel it though, feel him. The shrill of my cries were embedded in my brain, I could remember them as if the screams were still erupting from my throat. But they weren’t, and now, I was questioning if they were real either.

I tore myself away from the spot, my head telling me that I couldn’t mentally handle being there any longer. For once, I listened, refusing to give in to the waves of panic that struck me, overwhelming me, dragging me under. I fought back, battling the anxiety and depression that tried to steal me back, I couldn’t let it win. Not again.

I left as quickly as I came, shuffling through the narrow entryway, slipping back into my friends car. I (naturally) wasn’t allowed to drive, at least not yet. I live with my best friend and he drives me pretty much everywhere.

As soon as I got in his arm shot out to bring me comfort, but the warmth of his skin on mine made me miss my brother more, made me long for him back. I shied away, he didn’t question or try to help, he just let me have my space, choosing instead to rest both hands on the rough steering wheel. Curling up and wrapping my own arms around myself, tilting forwards and backwards ever so slightly, struggling to keep my head from floating out of my body.

You’re ok, it’s ok, it’ll be ok.

Doc had taught me that, repeating certain phrases to yourself, it helped. Sometimes. My esophagus was closing in on itself, my throat shrinking, the breath slipping out of my mouth shaky and fast. He again put his hand on my shoulder, I didn’t pull away this time. I used his hand as a reference point, the pressure of his presence holding me to my body and keeping me stable. When we reached his house, he got out quickly, knowing that losing that point of contact would make it harder for me to hold on. He opened my door and immediately wrapped his arms around me. His voice low and sure, muttering that I would be fine, offering words of reassurance and comfort.

Slowly, as we stood there, our feet glued to the sidewalk, my mind pieced itself back together, giving me the wheel back. Finally, I had control again. I straightened up and we went inside, the pain evident on my face. I had control, but it still hurt. I let the tears of my sorrow fall down my face, like rain trickling down a car window.

My shallow body dragged me to my bedroom, falling limply onto the soft mattress. He was by my side in a second, covering me with blankets and stroking my tangled hair softly. I thought I recognized him from somewhere, but I couldn’t fully piece it together. I know he came to visit me but… something about him, the way his blonde hair fell across his eyes, blue, almost gray. His smile, so warm and full of joy. I knew that he was my best friend, but I knew him from elsewhere, I just, I couldn’t figure it out.

My head screamed at me to stop thinking, I chose to listen. Rolling over and letting my eyes fall closed softly, slipping into a deep yet unrestful sleep.

I would find him, I would find, my brother. And tomorrow, I would continue the search.