-insert cliché disclaimer here-

I'm not exactly sure why I'm, once again, straying away from EN again…Oh well, I needed to break in my new laptop and this seemed like an appropriate way to do it.

Mm-kay! So Phineas is narrating. Not intended for the easily disturbed. Yadda, yadda, yadda…

Rated M because of…well…you'll figure it out.

Enjoy!

--

The Seventeenth Year

I sat on his old bed, a red jersey he used to wear resting in my open hands, and red hair hanging like a veil over my face.

My door was closed tightly, keeping out anyone who was to walk by and catch me in my current state. Though, I highly doubt they would blame me.

It had all started out by just a simple little thing. A simple thing…like most snowball effects do.

My head hung low, and a depressed sigh escaped me.

Everybody looks at what his or her other options were during times of tragedy. I did that a lot. More than I needed to for my health. I'd lost count how many people tried to convince me that it was all an unfortunate circumstance. Even he would have said so.

I knew better.

We broke character, anyone would agree with me on that. We broke a tradition that had been held together for so many years of our life. And because of that, everything fell apart.

…

It all started on Saturday, one summer day, like it always did. School had begun to very dangerously slaughter what we treasured dear: our imagination and creativity. But that's the way things always play out once a child has grown.

The two of us were slowly putting together a simple plan. One that would keep Ferb away from boredom and me from homework. We weren't too sure what it was going to be, but that didn't matter. Candace was staying over with a friend that weekend, so we didn't have to worry about her normal interrogations and yelling.

I can't even remember what I had said to him, but it wasn't pleasant.

Ferb brushed his hair out of his eyes, glared daggers at me, and retorted back with, "You don't tell me what to do."

It had gotten ugly after that. I never could remember what I said to him, and I couldn't recall what had started that fight. I threw words at him that I instantly regretted. If I weren't in such a fit of rage, they would have been taken back in an instant. I was blind with anger, and couldn't see the hurt on Ferb's pale face.

He crossed his arms and turned his back to me. As he headed for the house, muttering incoherently, I fumed under my breath:

"I never want to see you again…"

…

I still hate myself to no end for saying such a terrible thing.

A tear ran down my cheek. I quickly whipped it away with the back of my hand. The jersey in my hands was ripped badly and covered with dirt. Mom hadn't washed it since all those years ago. She wanted to "keep the memories."

That jersey always held the strong scent of grass and sweat. He never played football, but he claimed it was comfortable while playing on bright days.

I chuckled, though mixed with the tears it sounded as if I was choking.

…

Ferb loved to go for daily walks after he had turned thirteen. It was a way for him to clear his head and think, while I wasted time watching television. Saying that those few years had separated the two of us would be an understatement. Ferb and I were as different as night and day after he became a teenager. He enjoyed reading, while I played video games. Our taste in music had differed terribly, to a point where he couldn't stand my choice of radio stations. The bright green hair was almost the only thing I could still recognize about him. Almost the only thing.

He had left for his daily walk just after our fight, only going inside to change shoes. Normally he was only gone for an hour, and Mom became worried.

She questioned me: "Do you know where Ferb is?"

"No idea."

"When did he say he would be back?"

"He didn't tell me."

She gave up, and began dinner. Soon, Dad arrived home from work and Ferb still hadn't returned. It was seven thirty; Ferb had left at three o'clock.

Panic began to bubble in my stomach, and I waited on the front doorstep for his return. I rehearsed my apology over and over again, hoping and praying that he would forgive me for all my harsh words.

My concerns for that quickly disappeared and turned to terror when Mom made me come inside at ten o'clock at night. As she led me through the kitchen and towards the staircase, Dad was on the phone. He had called practically all our friends and any other acquaintances. None had any idea where he was.

I didn't get any sleep that night. Not with the bed parallel to me empty. All throughout the night, I listened to the sounds of Mom and Dad through the walls. They had searched all inches of the neighborhood until two in the morning, and found nothing.

Many of the neighbors pitched in that night. Flashlights trailed up and down the roads outside my window, and I heard my brother's name being called multiple times.

When I came down the stairs the next morning and entered the living room, puffy eyed from lack of sleep, I saw Mom crying on the sofa. Dad had his arm wrapped around her and tried to calm her, but the worry on his face was just as clear.

I helped with the search all day long. Isabella, Buford, Baljeet, and Django all aided the search as best as they could. We basically left no stone or pebble unturned. Literally. Buford made that clear.

The search was hopeless. No one had even seen him since the two of us were in the back yard and fighting. I tried my best to push back the tears that formed in my eyes as we all headed home. It didn't work. I wound up breaking down right there in front of them all.

Isabella took me the rest of the way home while the others went to face their own sleepless nights.

Baljeet had sobbed practically the entire time, while Buford expressed his fear in his own ways. Yelling at Baljeet and Django seemed to do the trick.

Mom and Dad made me sit on the couch when I got home, drilling me with questions about everything that had happened when we were outside the night before. I told them about our fight, spilling every regretful thought, resulting in me whimpering uncontrollably again.

Mom hugged me and stroked my head, whispering that it would be all right and it wasn't my fault. I knew she was lying. We all knew it was slightly my fault!

It wasn't long until the doorbell rang, and a police officer entered our home. He took all the information he needed in order to file a missing person's report, and left us with his best wishes. Candace came home shortly, questioning the officer's car outside.

Mom burst into tears, and Dad sat her down and told her everything. I'll never forget that look on her face: a mixture of confusion, denial, and horror.

Candace locked herself in her room all the rest of the night and most of the next day. I knew she was in there crying; I could hear it through the walls. She didn't come out, not even when our parents went to search town with a few more policemen. Of course, what was the point? Everyone knew Ferb was nowhere to be found in the neighborhood.

That missing persons report soon turned to kidnapping.

After a week passed, the only evidence the police had to go by was a shoe Ferb had been wearing at the time.

…

The shoe the police had found rested on the mantle of our fireplace. Sometimes Dad would stop what he was doing, be it cleaning or simply walking by, and stare at that size seven shoe. He would often pick it up and hold it for a while.

I could always see his heart breaking in his eyes.

…

My once straight A grades began to slowly dwindle down to Ds and Fs. My teachers tried to talk to me, but it did no good. I was sure they knew that. The only thing I could think about was my brother. Where was he? Why was he gone so long? What had happened?

And more importantly, was he alive?

Mom, once obsessed with the grades of her children, didn't even acknowledge them. She spent lots of time by the phone, pacing back and forth and biting her nails. She was waiting for news, good or bad, from the police. This caused her to seriously neglect her home chores. All the furniture soon became covered in a thin layer of dust, and the windows and glass doors were stained with multiple handprints that would normally have been whipped clean.

She didn't even cook during those painful days that passed so slowly. Dad would bring us dinner from a fast food restaurant, but our parents hardly ate.

Dad continued to go to work, but came home earlier and took off a few more days than usual. We were sure his boss wouldn't hold it over him.

Isabella came to visit me every day, bringing along things in an attempt to take my mind off of the situation. Board games, books, video games, a baseball and glove…anything she could think of. I wasn't making things easy for her.

She began crying one day just before she was meant to leave. Her ebony hair stuck to her face and several strands clung to her lips as she wept in my chest. For the first time, I didn't cry with her. I sat on my bed and held her to me, not sure of what to say.

All our other friends rarely dropped by to see how I was doing. They never stayed too long. There was hardly anything they could do to bring out the old Phineas.

Perry remained the same; the only one unaffected by the turn of events. He spent many hours of the day sleeping on Ferb's empty bed, undisturbed by its vacancy.

Candace spent lots of the investigation time locked in her room. It really threw me off to go days without hearing her rants about Jeremy, or even seeing her most of the day. On rare occasions, usually the days we received a call from the FBI (who were by that time on the case as well), she would be outside sitting in a chair and gazing into the sky.

Mom tried to talk to her, telling her to just have hope and it would all turn out okay. Candace knew that wasn't the case, and Mom knew it, too.

"Why did he have to go out that day?" Candace asked me one day. We both sat on the couch, watching the news. It had been raining for practically three days, never letting up.

"Why didn't he just stay home?"

I knew her questions where rhetorical. She didn't expect me to answer them. Not anyone. She was voicing the questions we were all wondering, but didn't bother asking.

"What kind of person would take Ferb?"

I left after that. I didn't want her to see me cry.

The investigation had been going on for a month, and still hardly any leads. My twelve birthday came and went in a flash. I barely acknowledged it, even when handed a brightly wrapped present that I had been looking forward to for months. We didn't have candles on my cake, and half of it was thrown away. Nobody felt like eating something that was meant for celebration.

Nights became incredibly difficult. I would usually lie in bed and talk to Ferb about anything my brain would scamper across.

I lost it one Tuesday night, around midnight. I began randomly talking about the color of our walls and carpet, how I thought they were so ugly. How could someone think they were a good combination? Why were they so hideous?

Why wasn't anyone answering me?

I didn't get any sleep at all that night, and wound up staying home with a fever of one hundred and two degrees. Candace stayed home as well. For a high school senior, she was very organized. That one day wouldn't effect her.

The officer I became adjusted to seeing every once in a while in our living room, dressed from head to toe in black and silver, dropped by every now and then to inform us personally on the findings and information. Sometimes, Mom and Dad already knew what he was going to say. We all appreciated the gesture of kindness, but it didn't help.

One day, after nearly two months, it was a totally different situation.

I was in the kitchen, sipping at a cup of milk, when I heard the doorbell ring. I answered it, and let the man inside.

When I fetched my parents, he explained to them that it would be better to talk to just the two of them alone. Dad shoed me upstairs, but I watched the scene from the middle steps. I could see everything from between the railings. Hearing was a different story.

The officer took off his hat, wringing his hands on it and wrinkling it something fierce. His inaudible words drifted from his mouth, and Mom gasped loud enough for me to hear. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she began to scream.

I was scared, but stayed in place. Dad grabbed hold of her arms to keep her from falling to the floor in her fit of emotions. He wound up embracing her, but her cries were still loud and clear.

The officer had left, and soon appeared back in the doorway, this time, holding something tattered in his hand. He handed it to Dad, and my heart skipped a beat when I recognized it.

It was Ferb's shirt…

Dad gripped it tightly while hugging Mom just as hard. Her screams eventually died down as well, becoming heavy sobs.

I was too shocked to cry. I made my way up to my room and sat on my bed for hours on end. Part of me was still processing what had happened, the other part not wanting to believe what my instinct was telling me.

My head was buried in my pillow when Dad came into my room and sat on my bed. He didn't bother making me sit up, only began his story with a cracking voice and numerous sniffles. It didn't seem like Dad. I didn't want to look…

Dad told me how the officer came by to deliver bad news. He paused for a while, and I turned my head to stare at him.

His words flowed carefully from him, making sure not to come off too emotional.

Ferb's body had been discovered thirty miles outside of Danville. He was dead from four gunshot wounds, and internal bleeding. The shirt had been found just a few miles separated from the body.

Weeps crept over my body and shook my frame. They became muffled wails soon, and Dad rubbed at my back and cried, too.

I cried out of anger, of most things. My brother had been murdered! And the FBI, the police…all the people I had grown up believing were heroes, who were able to solve anything, like most kids do, had no idea who did it!

Eventually, my sobs put me to sleep. When I woke up again it was nine o'clock at night. For another twenty-four hours I lay in bed, hardly getting up only to use the bathroom. I wept the entire time.

The depression was overwhelming.

The funeral was held as soon as the investigators were finished with the corpse. It was a disgusting way for them to word it! My brother, a 'corpse'.

I wanted to punch someone when I heard the words. I was so angry that, even in death, he had to suffer…

They held the body for a week. During that time, they discovered fingerprints beneath his clothes and on the bullets that had been removed, dried blood under his fingernails, and silver hairs clung to his jeans.

There were a few other ways that found DNA samples, but no one explained to me exactly what. Whatever it was, it caused Dad to go into a fit of rage and Mom to sit on the couch hopelessly for a long time.

But, it was enough evidence to discover exactly who they were looking for.

The search began post haste, while we prepared for the most difficult day of our lives.

On the night of the viewing, Mom dressed me in a tuxedo with a black tie and matching shoes. She took a step back, and told me how handsome I looked as glistening tears streamed down her face.

Candace even told me so. She was dressing a pure black dress, the one she was going to wear to prom. Her face was lifeless, even as she applied her makeup.

Dad was silent the entire time, only stopping to tell Candace and I that during the viewing, the casket was going to be closed. Candace became angry, and I wasn't sure why. She told me exactly what it meant, and I became shocked.

I took a look in the bathroom mirror for the first time in months that night. I could barely recognize who was staring back at me. My hair was matted and oily, mirroring the look of a head full of gel or something similar. My face was pale, too, and large bags had formed beneath my blue eyes.

I looked so drained, dirty and miserable, but I didn't care. Before we left, I didn't even brush my hair.

The car ride to the church was depressing and far too long. No one spoke and Candace, who sat in the back seat right next to me, didn't even look at me. She stared out her window the entire time. I knew she was thinking the same thing I was. Yes, it was all really happening. There was nothing that could change that reality.

The service lasted about two hours. There were so many people there: Isabella and her mom, Django and his dad, Baljeet and his parents, Buford and his mother, Jeremy and his family, Dad's boss and co-workers, some of Mom's friends, about twenty or thirty friends from school (both mine and Candace's), and a few unfamiliar faces.

All our grandparents came. Ferb's were greatly astonished upon hearing the news, and left early from the service because of Grandma's condition. She was crying the entire time, breaking all our hearts.

The other set, my legitimate grandparents, hardly talked to a single person, save my parents. Ferb may have been their grandchild by marriage alone, but I could always tell how much they saw him as true blood.

Candace sat in the lobby of the church the entire time. She didn't go to his casket, talk to relatives or friends…I could barely tell if she was even breathing. I figured, with Jeremy sitting beside her the entire time, she would be elated. But, she looked like an empty shell of her former self…

I stood by the casket at one point, debating whether or not the person inside was really my thirteen-year-old brother. Dad had told me before we entered the church not to open the casket. That it didn't matter how badly I wanted to see his face again, and that the casket was closed for a reason…But I didn't listen.

I lifted the top, and immediately regretted that choice. What I saw would forever haunt me, burned into my mind for the rest of my life. I had to throw up afterwards.

The service lasted a while longer, giving everyone enough time to pay their remorse and respect to the family. I was given more hugs that day than I ever had in my life. I stared into the face of strangers and good friends, wondering exactly how much it effected them. Really? In comparison, how much did they hurt?

That night, back at home, I stayed up for hours flipping through the television while everyone else slept. The only light in the room flickered painfully, burning my irises and retinas. Nothing I watched even sank in; they may as well be speaking in Spanish or Japanese. But, it was the only thing I could think of that would keep me occupied.

However, when scrolling across the news channel and hearing of someone else's misfortune, I went over the edge. I turned off the TV and sat alone in the dark.

The next day was the day of the funeral. It finally sank in that, even if I went, there would be no difference. Ferb was dead. Nothing was going to change that.

Mom and Dad discussed it, and I stayed home during the ceremony. I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life, but I couldn't see it again. That chestnut casket that held the mangled body I'd grown so accustomed to.

That face that I would normally wake up with, head to school with, laugh, smile, cry, and enjoy life with was gone forever. Seeing him lowered in a four-foot hole would only make that more clear.

I sat in the kitchen the entire day my family was gone. It was just as bad being left alone to marinade in my emotions. The thoughts were even worst.

By the time everyone got home, I was already in bed. I thought about so many things that night. Most of them had to do with the investigation of the murderer, but they always circled back to my brother.

I wished with all my heart I could tell him one last time how much I loved him. How much I appreciated everything he ever did for me. Most of all, I wanted to apologize to him, for everything I'd ever done.

I went to sleep, dreaming that the two of us were in the yard, sitting beneath our usual tree. Not talking, planning, sleeping, nothing. Just enjoying life.

For the first time in months, I was truly happy.

We received the news about Ferbs murderer a few weeks later. They had found an unidentified body just outside of the neighboring state, and it had been the one they were looking for.

His name was Joshua Little, a wanted murderer in three states and an authorized sex offender. It took me a long time to figure out exactly what that meant.

He was in his forties, roundly plump, and short for his age. When I saw his picture myself, I became furious. His smug face just made me want to rip the photo in half and burn the pieces to ashes. My parents didn't take too kindly to his appearance, either.

Turns out, Joshua had committed suicide just hours after he killed Ferb. The guilt must have finally gotten to him.

He bled to death with a single bullet, which rested in his skull.

I remembered that name for the rest of my life. And, for the first time, I hoped that a person was burning in Hell! No. Even that was too good for him.

The suicide was too good for him. He deserved to be tortured by all the families he tore apart. Death was too simple for someone of his stature, and I was sure others agreed.

If he were still alive, I would have asked him. "Why?"

He would have stared me down with those cold, beady eyes.

"Why did you take my brother¾my best friend!¾away from me!?'

Of course, I'll never get that answer. No one who has to go through this pain will. And that's the worst part. No matter how much I cry and plead, I'll never know why life had to take such a torturous turn.

All I could do was move ahead in life the best way I could, trying to keep my mind off of the pain.

It didn't last too long. Eventually, my lifestyle became a comatose stroll on Earth, hardly thinking of anything other than one thing. I wondered how things would have been if I hadn't been such a brat that one day.

And, I'll admit, it looked a lot brighter than the current present.

…

It's amazing how much a person changes just by a slight alter of their world. Buford hardly ever expressed his aggressive side anymore. Though none of us provoked him in any way like we did before. When he did talk, it was usually to Baljeet.

Baljeet stayed an anxious bookworm. Nothing could change that. But, the light in his eyes vanished a long time ago. And when he talked, you could tell he was always on the brink of tears. The two of them were hurting, that much was obvious.

Django moved away a year after the event. His father, like many other parents at the time, was scared of the possibility of loosing his son. I saw the way Django's dad looked at mine when he talked to him, and I knew what it really was. He was unsure of what to say to him, and couldn't face him. I was only twelve when I thought of this, but the truth was obvious.

I haven't talked to Django, or his father, since the day they moved.

Isabella and I began dating a few years ago. I knew she wanted to because she sensed my sadness. She wanted to make sure I wasn't lonely.

Isabella was never the same again, as well. Her happiness had been knocked down a few pegs. Almost everything that made Isabella….Isabella! was gone. Her smile came off as fake and her sense of play had vanished.

Then again, practically all of ours had.

The worst part was how the events changed Mom, Dad, my sister and I.

I hardly saw Mom smile anymore. She spent much of her time reading the newpaper or a random book. Dad would often pull her into a hug and kiss the top of her head. She didn't cry anymore, the funeral being the final time. I guess, after so long people just cry themselves dry.

Dad must have taken it pretty hard, but he tried desperately to hide it. Loosing his biological son definitely stirred him. He became much more protective, sometimes unnaturally strict, over his remaining children.

Mom, Candace and I often tried to get him to open up and talk, but Dad was stubborn. His son was just like him…

Candace had thrown all her hopes and dreams of becoming a professional singer down the drain. Even the fact that she had over six thousand dollars in scholarships didn't keep her from changing her motive in life. She threw it all away, and decided she didn't want families to go through what we did. She dedicated her life to criminal investigation, which was what she would be majoring in at college as soon as she cleared her basics.

I looked up to her for that. After fifteen years, I still had no idea what I would do with the rest of my life. I always thought Ferb would be there with me to help figure it out…Funny how things don't go according to plan.

The death of her brother really hit her hard. She wasn't as happy and spirited as she used to be, making it difficult for me to talk to her the same way. On occasion, I would see her smile. That was usually when she talked to Jeremy or her close friends. They were the only things that took her mind off of us. We, of course, were only a reminder.

And then there was me.

The youngest one in the house and the closest one to the victim. Being eaten alive by guilt wasn't even the hardest part, be it difficult to explain to others. The hardest part was knowing that everyone around me knew, but refused to admit it.

I could tell. Even if they didn't experience it first hand, my blubbering as a child was proof enough to fuel their ideals.

There I was, now. Three years later, having only really grown physically. My grades were proof that my smarts had dwindled and were the last of my concerns. Mom gave little attempt to try and encourage me now. She barely did with Candace when she was still in high school. I found the entire thing exhausting.

The red jersey was now wrinkled in my clammy hands. I hadn't realized it, but in my reminiscing I had bundled it up multiple times.

It had been the same garment I last saw my brother wearing…the one that the police officer handed to my father that day. The worst day of my life.

I clutched it to my face, letting loose a cascade of tears. The smell of blood filled my nose, though practically invisible on the dark fabric.

My body hitched a few times, offended by the scent of that familiar odor. I didn't care.

Finally after sitting on Ferb's empty bed, which had remained made up neatly for nearly four years, I got up and kneeled down to the floor.

As a few more fresh tears streamed down my face, I reached beneath the bed and pulled out a large cardboard box. On the side, Dad had written in large black letters, MEMORIES.

I opened it up, revealing a large collection of Ferbs old possessions. They consisted of small toys he would play with when he was a child, a few old t-shirts, a couple drawings he did, pacifiers he used as a baby, worn photos from over the thirteen years, some of his school work, and last, the jersey.

With care, I smoothed out the wrinkles and laid it gently in the box on top of everything else. It looked so out of place compared to all the other trinkets, but at the same time, fit perfectly.

I sat there on my knees for minutes on end, just staring at all the things my brother left behind in this world.

Today was August the eighth.

He would have been seventeen…

--

Wow…twelve pages in two days…-is tiered-

This is probably full of mistakes, seeing as I didn't run it by my beta reader. But, most of them got filtered out by my friends.

They left good feedback; wont you please, too?

Signing out! –salutes-