Chapter 1
Cold, salty tears pour out of my eyes like icicles.
Warm, crimson blood drips out of the cuts on my wrists.
Quiet, trembling sobs escape my lips.
And I drop the knife, covered with blood, blood of my own kin, on the floor.
I pull my knees up to my chest, trying to catch my breath.
I stare straight ahead, replaying the scene over and over in my mind.
It won't go away.
I close my eyes tightly, shaking my head. I grind my teeth together.
Go away! Get out of my mind!
It remains.
It lingers fresh in my mind. The horror. The pain.
And as I sit there, I get reminded of why this all happened.
It's not my fault. It never was. It never will be.
Because it was all his.
Flashback
It all started with a letter.
It was that summer. June, exactly. The summer of 2007.
While most kids my age were going to movies or heading down to the beach, I was inside.
I was that kid who was a pariah. I only had one friend.
I didn't need any friends. I didn't need anyone because I had my brothers.
Shane and Jason.
They were my best friends all through my junior high years.
Right around that time I checked the mail, Jason had been missing for almost two years. And of course, we were all worried.
Everyone except my father.
For some reason, he didn't seem to show any emotions towards anything, really.
So on June fifth around noon, I went outside to check the mail. I opened the mailbox expecting a load of mail like we usually got.
They were mostly bills. Mostly from the credit card company. We were in debt and while Shane tried so hard to get us out of it, something just didn't work out, and we kept getting phone calls, being harassed by those people.
Eventually I threw my phone out the window.
Why?
Because it wouldn't stop ringing.
Then I threw my TV out the window.
Why?
Because it kept telling me lies.
And lastly I threw my computer away.
Why?
Because I would sit there, hours on end, checking my email.
Refreshing the page, over and over.
Hoping, just hoping. Hoping and praying.
Hoping that Jason and my mom would email me.
Hoping they would just email me and tell me they were safe.
So when I opened the mail box that day, June fifth, I found something I'd least expect.
A letter.
Just one letter.
Nothing else was in the mailbox.
And it was for me.
I had given up. I had forgotten.
I had decided to move on.
To forget.
To start over.
To begin anew.
But as I held that letter, addressed to me in my hands, I couldn't help but to have my heart stop beating for just a moment.
It stopped. Time stopped.
Time ceased to exist and I stood there, on June fifth, holding the letter in my hands, trembling.
I didn't want to open it.
I didn't want to know what it said.
I didn't want to know if they had found them.
I didn't want to know.
And as I stood there, contemplating what I should do, my palms began to sweat. I licked my dry lips.
Because there was an ounce of hope in me. An ity bity, teenie weenie, drop of hope that maybe they were okay. Maybe they were safe. Maybe they had sought out refuge in a different country.
Canada maybe?
Possibly even the Middle East.
No one finds anyone there.
Two years.
Two years and possibly my fate was going to be decided then.
The unopened letter I held in my hand was my fate.
It would decide whether all of my prayers and wishing and hoping were put to good use and they were okay, and that they would come home soon.
Or it would make me depressed.
Again.
I looked around a bit, unsure, and then slid my index finger under the sealing of the envelope, opening it. I ended up ripping the envelope a bit and shaking, I took out the folded piece of paper.
Right as I opened it, I saw a hand-written note in purple pen. Cursive.
It was in cursive.
After I read it, I broke down in sobs and collapsed on the green Summer grass, laying there, crying on my front lawn.
Because I read the letter.