The first night is terrible. He wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming…hands clenching the blankets. At first, he feels disoriented. "It was just a dream," he thinks to himself. He looks over to the other bed and sees it empty. Then he remembers: it wasn't a dream. His brother is really gone. Tears well up in his eyes and he can't stop the choking sobs that begin to wrack his body. This couldn't be happening; his twin couldn't be dead. But he is. His other half, the one who finished his sentences, played practical jokes with him, and was there for him whenever he was needed, is no longer there. He clutches at his stomach and rests his forehead on his knees, as he continues to cry. Suddenly, warm, comforting arms are wrapping around him. He doesn't have to look up to realize his mother has entered the room. The distraught man leans into his mother and wraps his arms around her neck. He begins to sob into her shoulder and she just rocks him as if he were a baby. "Shh, shh. It's all right," his mother murmurs as she holds him.

I stand at the sink in a robe, staring out into the backyard. My family and I didn't return home until late at night; we all pitched in to help those who were badly injured. My family suffered a great loss tonight and it's what's keeping me up at such a late hour. A tear runs down my cheek and I try to hold it together, but can't. I sink to the floor and let the tears fall.

Ten minutes pass and the tears are still falling, but not as heavily. I look up at the clock that tells me where my children are and hold back a sob when I look upon one of the hands, which is now dark black. My son is dead and I feel as if a part of me has died inside. Slowly I stand up from the floor and start shuffling up the stairs to go to bed. Suddenly, I hear screaming and my heart jumps into my throat. Quickly I run upstairs and head for the sound of the screaming. It's coming from the twins' bedroom. I fling open the door and see George sitting up, curled into a fetal position. My heart breaks at the sight and I hurry over to the bed. He's muttering to himself and I lean in to hear what he's saying. "He can't be gone," George repeats over and over. I sit down on the bed and wrap my arms around him. He stiffens at my touch but then relaxes, throwing his arms around my neck. I hold my son and rock him as he cries. "Shh, shh. It's all right," I say quietly.

"Mum, it h-hurts so m-much," George sobs. I reach up and stroke his hair.

"I know, love, I know."