Why does it have to be the one that hurts the most?

by Drea
(CA)


It's been a month since my brother, Alfred, passed away. I'm not doing so well. I think about him constantly. I stay on the verge of crying. I can see the light peeking through the abyss for a few moments, but the darkness quickly consumes it.

He was 24, one year younger than me. To clarify, we did not share blood. He was actually my friend of 10 years, but the bond cultivated in that time was even stronger than blood. He IS my brother. Out of the 8 billion people in the world that I could have loved, trusted and called "brother", I chose him. And he chose me.

The connection we had was...intense, to say the least. Often unspoken. We were soul siblings. We never had to talk a lot or share secrets because we already knew. And we were the same in the strangest and scariest ways.

When he was alive, I knew I loved him more than most. I knew that he meant a lot to me. But it wasn't until he died that I found out just how much he meant to me. The moment that I got that final text after much worry and waiting: "hes gone drea", my world ended. I crumbled. There was no denial, no shock, no bargaining. Just pain. Nothing but pain. That's all I feel. Every other emotion is fleeting or shallow.

I've heard a couple different bits and pieces about what might have happened to him. Something about him being attacked. Something about excessive police force. Something about drugs. It's all fragmented and unconfirmed. His death, at this time, is still a mystery that's currently being investigated. We know that something happened on the 3rd, he was in a coma for 6 days and died on the 9th. The hospital did not contact the family until the 8th. No one knew that anything had happened until the day before he died. He wasn't sick. He wasn't suicidal. I want to know what happened to my brother.

It would be one thing if he was a bad person. If he wasn't the greatest person that a human being could be. I could try some sort of desperate rationalization of all this. But he was kind, generous, attentive, brave, protective, funny, passionate and full of life. He was a true gentleman, a wonderful friend and the greatest man I've ever known. He was BEAUTIFUL.

I didn't want to go to his funeral. I didn't think I could handle it. But I went. Even went to the wake. Seeing him in that casket...it messed me up. I remember walking up and seeing him, expecting him to get up with that famous smile and laugh of his. I wanted to greet him as we did so many times in the past. But seeing his body. Cold. Still. Dead. It hit hard. He's gone. He is gone.

I could have dealt with never seeing him again, as long as I knew he was alive. As long as I knew he was happy and living his life. But to know that he's not in this world anymore makes everything so dim.

I think about what could have been. The future. The fun times we were to have. Adding to the illustrious history of our friendship. But it can't happen. It won't happen.

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