Before I go.
When I was five my brother died. I knew before anyone else because he told me. I remember sitting outside in my sandbox, shoveling into my red plastic shell when I felt it: a sense of relief. I never completely understood why I started shedding tears or why I felt like a heavy weight dropped from my shoulder. I just knew that it did. I didn't question it.
I calmly listened to the rhythmic pounding of the ocean and I silently walked to my mother on the beach. This is the part I blanked out, no blanked out isn't the right word. More like temporarily drifted out, I was there but not enough to remember. When I came back too, my mother stared out me with a pale and confused expression. I had the sense that I said something, but I never asked what it was. I just knew it had to be said and I had to deliver it. I left my confused mother on the beach and returned to work on my sandcastle. The rest of the day my mother kept shooting worried expressions at me like I might disappear. But even at that age I was an expert of covering things up, after all I learned from the best, so with each glance I received I ignored. I know this sounds calculating and unreal for a five year old, but you have to understand my family relied on analysis. My father Cal Mccomick, an Egyptian archaeologists and former loan broker, knew how to manipulate dirt. More importantly, he could cultivate notable finds- ancient pottery, pharaohs- but he could never dig up the important things. He liked to keep some things buried. Things like emotions, family, secrets oh- and his twenty year old girlfriend. He was very good at keeping his sites clean; no one could get into them…no one but me. Anyways back to the point, my father taught me how to cover the imperfections up. To only bring out the cold metal and dead bodies when no one else was looking. I like to say that I grew out of it, but I haven't. Even as a kid, I knew this. I didn't question it.
Finally I remember picking up my faded red pale and standing back. I admired my sandcastle which, adorned with tiny pieces of glass, gleamed in the sunset and looked, at least in my eyes, like concrete had encased its foundation. Stronger than any waves that could erode it. The sky had darkened as the sun set in a range of bleeding rays and for a moment I could only stare. Everyone loves the sunset, it's an ideal romantic backslash, but as a kid I didn't get it. Where was the beauty in something that leaves? Something that dies? Why mark Romeo and Juliet as a tragic, but beautiful romance. They died. They left their families for a hormonal impulse. Didn't Juliet know how much her family, maybe her sister, needed her? I watched the sun throw its last ray of light, not in a desperate way, more like it was sad to go, but still happy to turn away. To rest. Suddenly the impulse to laugh struck, so I did. I giggled like I had a beautiful secret that no one would ever dig up. In the background, I could hear my mother's cell phone, I could hear her sudden intake of breath, and then her wailing, sobbing for the son who never wanted to be. I covered her sobs with my giggles, the presence in my head didn't mind. So, I continued, but softly because that's what I was told. I just knew. I didn't question it.
Author's note: Creeppy. Ok this story is a work in progress, so don't expect instant updates. Also, REVIEW. I want to hear what you think so far. Don't be shy, just click the button you guys and you might not die. (ok sorry for the creepy rhyme, I couldn't resist).