The Morning After

*Trigger warning*

The morning after, I listened as the birds sang from outside my bedroom window. The sky changed from dark to light as the sun rose up over the hill, bringing color back to the sky.

The air around my room would still be cold from the night, and I would flinch when my bare feet first slipped out and left the warmth of my bed.

The morning after, I walked down the steps, my fingers tracing the patterns of the wood on our railing. I hadn’t ever looked at it before. I didn’t know why trees had rings and lines inside them. I didn’t know how they were cut and shaved down into a railing or how they were given their glossy finish to keep splinters from cutting my hands. Maybe I would have liked to do that. Maybe I would have been good at it.

The morning after, the kitchen is still empty. The coffee pot hummed as it came to life - brewing a fresh pot and filling the kitchen with the scent of black, bitter coffee. It waited for my parents, knowing that they’ll be up soon.

When I was little, my mother would make us all eggs for breakfast when my brother and I woke up. I would lean on the counter, listening to the sizzling bacon and eggs in the pan as my mother cooked them. My brother would pour the orange juice in our glasses, occasionally spilling some on the marble counter.

It was our routine. Every morning - on the days we had to go to school and my parents left for work. My mom said that this was the best way to start the day off right.

My mother. 

People always said I looked like her. I had her strawberry hair and her bright eyes. My dad said that when I smiled, I looked just as beautiful as she did. My mother always thought I looked like my dad though. I had his thin nose and pale skin. She said she could see his strength in my eyes. Strong. Beautiful. I think maybe they were both wrong.

My brother looked and I looked alike though. He was perfect mixture of both our parents and unmistakably related to me.

My brother.

He was my best friend. I remember the day he was born. My grandma drove me to the hospital the morning she got a phone call from my dad. He was so proud to introduce me to the tiny baby in my mother's arms. I was three years old, crawling up into my mom’s hospital bed with her as I looked down on the tiny new face of our family. I remember thinking he was perfect.

The older we got, the closer we became. We would slide down the floors in our socks until we slipped and fell enough times that dad sent us outside before we broke something. Our dog would chase us around the yard, tackling us to the ground and licking our faces as we laughed.

We used to walk to school together, counting the sidewalk cracks as we jumped over them. We would watch the leaves as they changed colors, slowly falling away until they were all gone. Because everything fades. Everything dies.

As we got older, we went to different schools. He made friends, and gradually he started to walk with them instead of me. I didn’t mind. I liked the silence. I didn’t have friends to walk with. I was the type of person people talked about, but never to.

The morning after, I sat down on the couch and waited for my parents to wake up and come downstairs. I focused on the family photos hanging above the fireplace. Pictures of all of us.

I had hated that dress from the first time I’d put it on. It was bright blue, matching the ties that my brother and dad had worn. It was studded with sequins on the top, so it hurt my arms whenever I rested them at my sides. I smiled though. I had smiled in all of them. I had gotten good at that by then.

I remember the Christmases we used to spend in front of the fireplace. My brother and I would stay up late on Christmas eve, waiting for Santa Claus to come down until we fell asleep. Our parents would carry us up to our rooms, tucking us in and telling us that he wouldn’t come if we were out of bed.

My grandma would always be there when we woke up. She’d be waiting with her presents for us, and would have her roasted nuts and candies on our table. Mom would say that we had to wait until after breakfast before eating any, but my grandma would always sneak us one when she wasn’t looking. I think now that my mom always knew, but she never said anything to grandma.

My grandma.

She gave the best hugs out of anyone I’d ever met. She always knew what to say whenever anything was wrong, and she could always get me and my brother to tell her. I remember helping her as she made her famous chocolate chip cookies, telling me that one day it would be my responsibility to make them for our family. We would always leave a ball of cookie dough out of the oven, and I would fight with my brother when I didn’t want to share it.

My grandma would split it, but she would always give me the bigger piece when he wasn’t looking. She said that it was because I helped make them.

We would stay up late when I spent the night - just the two of us. She told me stories about when my dad tried to skateboard over a ramp he built in the street and ended up breaking his arm. She told me about when he first met my mom, and that she’d never seen him so worked up over someone. She told me about when my mom had first gotten pregnant with me, and that she’d never seen him more proud of anything. She said that the day I was born, my parents looked like they’d been given the world.

The morning after, my mother was the first to wake. She came downstairs, already dressed in her blue nurses' scrubs, her name badge clipped to her shirt. Her strawberry hair was pulled back into a damp braid, fresh out of the shower. She poured a cup of coffee into her insulated cup, sealing the lid around it. She drank it black. Black and bitter - like her soul, she would say. My dad would always correct her, saying that it was because she couldn’t get any sweeter if she tried.

My dad was next, a few minutes later. Even on days he didn’t work, he would still wake up before us so he could get to see her in the morning. He hugged her, pulling her in close for a second. 

When he let go, he poured himself a coffee, adding half and half from our refrigerator. 

My brother came down the stairs, his hair sticking up in every direction, still wearing the train pajamas that grandma had bought him for his birthday. Our dog trailed behind him, wagging his tail. My brother was already talking to dad about the skate park that they were going to go to later that day with his friends. They’d been planning it for weeks, waiting for it to be finished.

My mother laughed, combing her fingers through his hair and she pulled him into a hug. She kissed both of them before pulling away and grabbing her purse. She picked up the keys belonging to the silver car parked in our driveway on her way out the door.

The morning after, it was my brother who walked into my room first, starting to sing for me to wake up.

The morning after, it was my brother who screamed.

The morning after, it was my dad who lifted my body from the bathroom as he told my brother to run downstairs and get to my mom before she left.

The morning after, my body was held tight against my dad's chest and he held my head to his cheek while crying on the phone for an ambulance.

The morning after, my parents held each other. My mother choked on her tears, turning away as the paramedic shook his head after looking at me.

The morning after, my grandma was the first to arrive, helping my brother pack his bags.

The morning after, my parents sat on the couch while my aunt made phone calls, staring at the wall of pictures. Staring at me.

The morning after, my dog had tried to wake me, licking my cheek and crying next to my head. He bit one of the paramedics as they took me.

The morning after I killed myself, I wanted to tell them why. I wanted to stop the things they were saying. It wasn't their fault they didn't see it.

The morning after I killed myself, was the first time that I found myself wishing I was alive.