That morning, there wasn't a sound to be heard. As of late, Rosie's state was worsening because Caillou was the only happiness she found in life. Being only 13 years old, it was hard to imagine what prompted Rosie to fall into such a depression. She had already turned to alcohol, particularly Peppermint Schnapps, and hung out with the gangstas at her elementary school. Two years ago the doctors said that Caillou's cancer had returned. His health worsened, and his bipolar disorder had only gotten escalated as a result of the painful leukemia. When Rosie found out about her brother's returning cancer, she didn't talk for days. Caillou had played with Rosie, watched her grow up, and even gave her a couple of friendly (not really) sibling beatings. These weren't just a mild rough-up, they were full on maulings of just fists and blood. A straight up feeding of the left and right. Caillou's mom thinks this is where the problems started; Caillou in his blind rage would just jump on his little sister and completely give it to her. Throwing the punches like no tomorrow. When the rage would start, Rosie would try to hide under the tables and furniture, but it was futile. Caillou always got his way and just went to absolute town. Just a couple of days ago, Caillou's mother found Rosie in her room, with pills in her hand, ready to ingest them. To her utter disgust and upon further investigation, she found a post on Tumblr that read: I have the pills, but not the guts. Why can't I just kill myself already? She couldn't believe this.
That morning Rosie's mother got the call from the doctor. She stood frozen in place, dropped the phone and hung her head in utter shame and devastation. She just stood there, the words from the doctor held her heart in a vice and wouldn't let go. What was going to happen now? She asked herself. Such a young boy, full of life and potential, wasted. Absolutely wasted. Just a year before, Caillou's father left them. He took all the money in their bank account, and went. No trace was left of him, rumour has it that he now lives in Mexico with four wives and 12 healthy children. What was he supposed to do? A suicidal daughter, a dying son. Caillou knew what had happened, he found out himself. But Rosie had no idea why her father left. Her mother told her that he went on a work trip, and he would return in a few years, as it was very important. But just like Caillou, she also found the truth. Of course, this was also another trigger that set off the bomb that was Rosie's deteriorating mental state.
After receiving the phone call from the doctor, she paced towards the counter, grabbed her keys and wallet from it, and set out towards the garage. Rosie was out with her friends, doing god knows what. Probably downing another 2-6 of Peppermint Schnapps. On an average day, Caillou's mother found at least four bottles of the shit in her room at a time.
That morning, she started the car. It was raining; the fog and mist lingered in the air like a grey veil that covered the city. She turned left onto Escalanté, then right onto 25th, after a few more blocks she turned onto avenue Y where the hospital was. She pulled into the parking lot and turned the key in her ignition. She slowly stepped out of the shit-brown coloured Ford Prius. Every step seemed like a marathon, all energy was zapped out of her from the ever-worsening series of events over the last few years. Caillou's mother walked into the hospital, the walls were white-washed, a boring grey floor and all around, depressing décor. The lady at the desk told her she could go to Caillou's room. She gave a small nod and pushed the button on the elevator for floor 11. The jaunty, upbeat elevator music was an ironic welcoming for her. She gave a wry smile and closed her eyes as the elevator slowly made its way up the shaft. The doors opened just as the song turned from happy to an apathetic, boring piano piece.
Rosie was at the usual place, the concrete face that jutted out from under the 2nd Street Bridge. Her friends were otherwise forgettable, and predictable young people. All caught up in the latest fads, meaningless gossip, and of course, the commonly ingested poison that you can get for a mere $20 at a store. Them being aged from only 10 to about 14, they couldn't buy it. But they got it off others. Those desperate old men who need some cash, or simply a well-off man trying to be nice—remembering when he was a kid, he did the exact same thing. They were all pretty drunk, and the place where they converged was dangerous. The concrete face fell down to the highway below, only to be greeted by the rushing cars of the busy people. There was a rumor that was prevalent in the minds of the young people that were friends with Rosie. A young man was doing the same thing they were doing, drinking their youth away. He got so shit-faced, he fell off the concrete face down to the cars below. He was pronounced dead in the hospital a few days later. This was simply a funny story for the young ones, something to fill the silence that fell every now and again.
Caillou's mother sat at the bedside of her son. She surveyed his soft skin, the delicate features of a young boy. She clung to his hand; she had been there for a couple hours now. Over time, the soft, warmness of his precious hand became cold, and clammy. She wasn't crying. She hadn't cried since a couple months after her husband left, for she had no tears left in her. Just despair and pure agony. The doctor came in after a few hours of mourning. He told her that she must leave now, they had to prepare the body for the funeral. She slowly got up, let go of her son's hand, and walked out.
It was almost dark by then, and Rosie was home. She was descending from her state of happy drunkenness where she could forget everything, and only live in the present. This is where she was at her worse. She was alone, in her room when her mother returned from the hospital. She was doing the usual thing other than drinking with friends, she was on the internet. The place where she poured her heart out to meaningless strangers. All about how she wanted to change so badly, she wanted to turn her life around so badly. Always complaining about everything little thing. She never changed. She never tried. She just simply sat, and voiced the worries and troubles that lingered in her mind, but never did anything about them. It helped a little bit, but never made the problems go away. Every day when she woke up, the problems were still there. She was still the same sad, unsatisfied person that she was when she fell asleep.
When she heard her mother enter the kitchen from the garage, she got up and went to talk to her. Still, there were no tears on her face, no expression that was out of the ordinary. The same old, depressed complexion that clouded her face from the time that her husband left. Rosie's mother looked at her.
"He's gone," she whimpered, a slight crack danced over her words.
Rosie gave a small nod and looked away. It was the result that they were expecting, but wishing that the day would never come. But it had.
Rosie retreated to her room, not saying another word to her mother. She logged back onto Tumblr, and did what she was used to. What she thought helped. Typing empty words onto a screen. Sharing her innermost thoughts with people she didn't even know, people that were so quick to judge, so quick to jump on the littlest thing and ridicule you for it. Relentlessly—and they enjoyed it. It was much different from bullying a kid in real life. Behind a screen, you weren't able to see the hurt that flickered across the person's face when you hurt them.
A few days later, Rosie's mother was out grocery shopping. Rosie was at home, alone. The death of her brother was still fresh in her mind, and things were just getting worse. She no longer found comfort in drinking. She no longer found comfort in voicing her problems on the internet. She no longer wanted to be alone, all by herself. She was tired of it, but as always, she didn't do anything about it. She just lay there, on her bed. But she was tired of never doing anything; she knew she couldn't go on living like this. She knew she had to do something. She slowly walked to her mother's room, the place where she was never allowed to go, but she went anyway just to be rebellious. That is where she found a way out almost a year ago. She was comforted to know it was there, in that wooden cabinet. In the lower-left drawer. It was something she thought about many times, but never acted on her thoughts—as usual. She opened the small drawer, and found it. It was still there. She ran her hand over the sleekness of the silver metal, the coldness of the metal shocked her warm hand and sent goose bumps up her arm. She picked it up, and reached down into the drawer with her other hand, fumbling and dropping a few of the brass and copper pieces of metal and powder. She opened the chamber, and slid the piece of brass and copper into the gun. Her hands were shaking with anticipation. She closed the chamber, and lifted the gun, opening her mouth slowly and placed the barrel, resting it on her tongue. She stood there and cleared her of all thoughts. It was impossible to quell the storm and flood of words and sounds and gestures that she remembered all too clearly from her brother. She just focused on two words, still standing there. Two words ran through her mind at an awesome speed. Two words. She closed her eyes, relaxed, and rendered herself unto the fact that today was the day she did something. Thanks to two words.
He's gone.