They say death is the worst thing that can happen to somebody. That's a lie. Death is the worst thing that can happen to the one left behind.

I can't rid this constant feeling in my gut, that sick feeling we get when something is wrong in our world. It's as if someone has stuck a knife there and I can't pull it out, it just keeps twisting my intestines, cutting my flesh as blood pours out, leaving me cold and dead.

But death would be a gift.

I'm standing in an old abandoned house, I've been here for three days, I can't leave him, not ever, not even in death. The walls are black around me, rotting and decaying like the body that was once my brother. The scent of this place is putrid, it's thick and deep, the kind that clings to your clothes and nostrils until you can barely stand it, makes you cover your mouth to keep the scent out and the vomit in.

I don't care anymore though, I'll wait here for him, ignoring the scent of death until it no longer phases me.

The cold here is chilling, the dampness sinks into my flesh and makes my blood freeze within' my veins. I'm numb, but that's o.k. because it's better then feeling the pain that death brought with him when he came knocking at my door with hollowed bones.

I'm sitting on the stairs, the carpets sticky with drying blood. It sinks into the carpet and through the oak wood, I can almost hear it forever dripping into the darkness below. My brothers life now a liquid spilled in this disgusting house, wasted as it drips from the floor, or ceiling depending on how you view the world. It should be in his veins, pumping strongly through his heart.

I stare at my brother's body, my heart clenching in my chest and seeming to bleed within' my chest, the pain is more then I can take.

Dead eyes stare up at me, they refuse to close, or maybe I just don't want them to in hopes that they'll spark with life.

They don't.

It was a poltergeist, a stupid fuckin' poltergeist. My brother stood at the top of the stairs, me laughing at some stupid joke, when he stopped as a blade came flying and lodged in his chest. It's odd to me, how I see death every single day, but when it happens to my brother, it's like the first time all over again.

The blade was deep, it handle rotting like the rest of the house, the steel rusty and chipping with age. He fell back on me, and I caught him, still reeling, still desperately trying to clutch the sudden horrid reality I had been thrown into.

He looks at me with hurt and desperate eyes, that fuckin' blade sticking out from his chest, like some kind of sick joke those bad comics use on stage. I tell him it's going to be o.k, I'm gonna take care of him, just like I always do. I lead him down the stairs, that precious life flowing from him and onto the stained carpet, fresh patches of darkness, adding just one more mystery spot.

I lay him down, I tell him I'm sorry, I'll go call for help. But he grabs me, his hands white and cold, but the grasp so strong you'd think he was Superman. He tells me not to leave, nobody can help him, and he just wants to die with his brother by his side. He was always like that, I beg him to let me go, let me get him help, but he only shakes his head no. He says he's dying, he says he's cold and he begs me not to go. So I don't, cause I'm his brother and I won't deny him anything. He looks at me with those shining eyes, a slight smile as the color drains from his face and he gasps for his lasts breath. He tells me it's all gonna be o.k., he promises.

Then he's gone. He's just…gone.

I don't understand it. How can we spend a life gaining knowledge, growing older, only for it all to be ripped away? All that's left is this body, and it's like the rest of the things in this world, it will rot away and nothing will be left behind. That's not fair, my brother was great, my brother deserves to live, my brother deserves to be remembered.

But instead he's gonna rot away, like this house I sit in, until nothing's left but a few cells that used to be him.

I stand and walk over to him, crouching down I let my tears fall on his white skin, I don't even know I'm crying anymore, it's just natural. I touch his cold face, the fact that it's not vibrant and full of life making my tears fall faster.

I sit there for a while longer, remembering the days when he was alive, and wishing that he'd just come back to me.

He doesn't.

I sigh heavily, I know what I must do, I know what I have to do because I broke my promise to my brother. I tell him I'm sorry, but those dead eyes just make the guilt burrow further until I nod in agreement.

I know brother, I know what I gotta do.

I reach in my duffel bag and pull out lighter fluid and a book of matches. He wouldn't want to be buried, to hide death from the world and its ugly reality. To lie like the weak six feet under, with the earth forever suffocating him, that's not how my brother would want it.

I spray the lighter fluid, the scent of its chemicals stinging my nostrils that have been dulled by the scent of death. I light the book of matches and throw them, the fire eating up the carpet and licking at my brothers flesh hungrily.

It disgusts me.

I say I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I broke my promise and that he lied to me. He said everything was gonna be o.k. He said it with that smiled. But it's not o.k. It's never gonna be o.k.

I reach behind me until I feel the cool metal against my fingertips. I pull out my best friend and I smile. I step beside my brother, flames burning my skin, but my smile goes unwavering cause I'm gonna make it all better.

I raise the gun and place it beneath my chin, the trigger resting against my finger, ready for my command.

"I'm sorry Sammy."

I pull the trigger.