This is a fanfiction of "The Scarlet Ibis."

"So do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?" I asked quietly, silently preparing for his weak little voice that was so frail, it can make you break into tears.

"Of course not, Brother," Doodle barely croaked. His eyes fluttered sluggishly and if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't notice the corners of his mouth tilting up an infinitesimal fraction of an inch. His head slowly tilted up to face me as a section of his slovenly, sickly gray hair covered part of his eye. "You already work hard enough," he squeaked. "I don't wanna make you move any more than you already have to, that'd be cruel."

I chuckled darkly. "That's an interesting thought." Yeah, as if the so-called "cruelty" I suffered in a day could even begin to compare to the mammoth amount he went through every minute.

Doodle laughed, a euphonious sound that quickly evolved into a cacophonous grunt. He was coughing loudly and it seemed his true nemesis of cancer was giving another one of its intermittent attacks. I quickly buzzed for a nurse, sprinted to my brother's side and tried to assuage him until a professional could get in here.

Forty-five seconds later, a nurse was in the room and attatching a red breathing apparatus apathetically, her face never budging. As Doodle was calming down, I looked at the clipboard hanging from the edge of the bed and holding Doodle's medical report. I glanced over it to see how everything went since I left the hospital yesterday. I sighed at the true name of William Armstrong messily printed on the sheet. Again, Doodle was a docile little patient, unfortunately. The more cooperative he became, the sicker he was getting. When he was first admitted, he harbored a strong animosity with nurses and would kick and scream and fight 'till they left him alone. Now he was too weak to even slightly resist.

Putting the report down slowly, I glanced back up to my brother. His breathing was gradually regulating and his face returning to its normal ghostly pallor. The nurse quickly excused herself, still holding that infallible dearth of emotion that these people seemed to never relax.

Doodle smiled at me in a signal that he was okay and quickly fell asleep in exhaustion. As he drifted off, his salient emaciation seemed to drift off a bit as his eyes softly closed and a small grin adorned his face. He looked more like himself when he slept, more like that insouciant, naïve child I once knew. The subservient child that would do anything I asked, even though it was my fault he was here anyway. It was always my fault. But my errors made me wish more and more every day that he was never born.

"Why did you have to exist?" I whispered to myself. "Why did you have to be born? Without you, I could've lived a normal life, I wouldn't have to pay these hospital expenses, and everything would be okay. Why did you have to be my brother? Why do you have to be in my life?" With that I quickly stormed out of the room, leaving a content Doodle dreaming of clouds and an old swamp.

I rushed to my car and just drove angrily home. I glanced at my clock in my apartment: nine-fifteen. It was early, but I flopped into bed with my suit and shoes still on and slept.

The next day I was awoken by my cellphone ringing its irritating tone. I threw my arm indolently over to it and flipped it open. "Yes?" I answered groggily. A murmur could be heard from the phone and I shot up. "What?!" I half-screamed.

"William Armstrong passed last night," the nurse said calmly. "We're sorry for your loss and we wish you the best. But if you could come up to the hospital-"

I didn't even let her finish her sentence. I rushed out of bed, hair and unbrushed, clothes unchanged, shoes still on, and went to the door, quickly slamming it behind me. My car couldn't move fast enough to get there in time; it was amazing I didn't get a ticket.

I parked hastily and halfway in the spot and ran into the gray building, not even checking in with the receptionist, just running to Doodle's room. Upon arrival I was greeted by an ironic, cheery smell of flowers that made me want to be sick. I rushed over to Doodle's bedside and took my brother's hand in mine, feeling the cold surface that didn't even feel like skin. This didn't even feel like my brother.

I looked up to the face. Eyes closed, lips pursed, he looked asleep, which only added to the eerieness. His face was paler than normal, if that was even possible, and his entire body was limp. Like I said, this didn't feel like a brother. Heck, this didn't feel like a human.

A tear sluggishly crept down my face and into my mouth. I tasted the salty liquid before sighing and leaning back in my chair, releasing the stone hand I previously held in mine. I'd gotten my callow wish. Doodle wasn't involved with me anymore. He was out of my life.

Be careful what you wish for, as they say.

Two weeks later, I was standing at his gravestone, labeled "William Armstrong, may he always be remembered as we hand him to our almighty King. Birth: 1990 Death: 2009." Only nineteen years old. Nineteen short years, almost all of them spent in a bed. The remainder spent with me, being a normal kid. Why were there so few of those years? So few of the good times. Even if they led to this imminent but early end, at least he had a few. If he just stayed in bed his whole life, he would've lived longer, but what would those years have meant? Nothing would've been accomplished, nothing achieved. He'd just be laying in bed.

Again, one must always be careful of what they wish for, because they just might get it. I got my wish, but it ended up not being what I really wanted.

I glanced at the stone one more time. I was right. "William Armstrong" really was a name that only looked good on a tombstone.