Amanda

I see his crooked smile and hazel eyes, the dimple on his chin as prominent as ever as he laughs, throwing a handful of flour across the space of the tiny kitchen. Ashton is wearing his favorite t-shirt, a smeared hand print of white powder marking the place above his heart where I placed it against the faded gray material. The sunlight flits softly through the open window as we fight, playfully warring with dry pancake batter and a glass of orange juice that I splash at him. I'm happy then; right up to the second that I remember the truth and the room blurs, the image fading, curling at the corners like a burning photograph.

When I open my eyes, it hurts. My God, it hurts. My brother still lives in my dreams and every time that I see him, I smile and forget that I'm only asleep. It is the only time I'm ever able to forget that the accident actually happened, if only for a moment. I think that he is still sleeping in the next room, that he will still be grinning and roughhousing with me when I wake up, treating me like the brother he never had. I imagine that he is still here, still himself and still alive. Still cooking something in the kitchen with his back turned to me as he chopped at a cutting board or tossed something on the stove, still making too much food for the both of us to possibly eat because he never knew when to stop giving. Then my eyes open to this harsh reality, full of the agony and sorrow that never leaves me, crushing, like one of his cast iron pans on my heart.

My brother is dead, and he is never coming back.

I gasp for breath in the darkness as I clutch a hand to my chest, trying to get a grip on the disorderly tears that stream down my cheeks. The afterimage of my brother still lingers in my mind, choking me with the sadness that it brings, squeezing any feasibly decent emotions from my heart like the juice from an orange and exchanging it for bitter ashes. This happens every time that I dream of him, and it's happened at least three times a week this past year. I can't see through the water in my eyes and I hyperventilate against the agony, wishing that I could just be alright again, that he could just be here, where he belongs. I think I might be having another panic attack as I lean over my legs, a hand clutching my t-shirt as I desperately try to calm myself down.

Breathe. Breathe. I try to force my body to accept the repeated command, focusing on sucking air into my defiant lungs between the sobs that rack my withered frame. I place a hand over my mouth and breathe in through my nose, trying to regulate my air intake, changing it into something steady.

The same series of questions runs through my mind, the way they always do when I have an unexpected assault of grief; Why did it have to happen? Why Ashton? Why my brother? Why? Why did he leave me alone?

It was my fault for letting him go. I should have said something to him, something to stop him from leaving that day. It's all my fault.

Like any siblings, Ashton and I would quarrel over things, but we could never stay angry. We had just gotten into one of the worst arguments in our lives when he stormed out of our shared apartment. Our piece of crap car was dead again, and I hadn't gotten the chance to fix it yet, so he tore his favorite jacket from the back of a kitchen chair and walked out the door, into the clear November afternoon. He did this whenever something bothered him- if he didn't cook to release his simmering frustration, he walked or drove the steam off to keep from saying something irreversible. He was always good at controlling his temper when he was with me, no matter how close to the edge I pushed him. We were all that each other had.

An hour later I received a call from a stranger, telling me that Ashton had been hit by a car crossing a side street in town. My brother laid in the dark for twenty minutes, suffocating as he tried to breath through one of his collapsed lungs. They found out that his skull was cracked, so he was unconscious for the majority of the time that he was still alive. The one who found him knew to call me, because Ashton was trying to as he died. Ashton had his phone open to my contact and his finger halfway to the call button before his breathing stopped. I wish he had called an ambulance, instead of trying me. He must have been terrified as he died alone in the middle of the street.

The bastard that originally hit him just drove away. They left my brother to die in the middle of the road with no one around, no one to help him until it was too late. He might have lived if the driver had stayed with him and taken responsibility, but they didn't. And now my brother is dead and I'm still here, alone and suffocating in the dark. The last family that I had is gone, and I didn't even get to say goodbye to him. I should have never brought our mother up that night. Then he wouldn't have gotten so angry and left so late. I should have told him that I loved him. I needed to tell him that. But I didn't. I let him go, fixed the damn car by myself, and he got killed. And now I'm alone. Alone with our father's Ford Pinto and a shattered spirit.

Once my panic attack subsides, I push the comforter back and put my legs over the side of the bed, fumbling around for the lamp on the table beside me. I pull the switch and the room is illuminated with the dull, yellow light. I stare blankly at the wall for a while before reaching for my brother's lighter and a pack of Marlboro reds. I light a cigarette with violently shaking hands and try to numb the pain, allowing the glowing heat of the burning ash to calm me. I remember watching Ashton smoke, and it actually used to calm me down, too, after one of mom and dad's fights.

I don't like smoking, but Ashton used to do it. I always thought it was disgusting and tried to get him to quit it, told him that I didn't want him to end up with cancer. But now I buy the same brand of smokes that he used to and I try to be more like him by putting them between my teeth and inhaling poisonous clouds, letting the tar weigh down my lungs, slowly suffocating me. Call me a hypocrite if you want, because it's true- I am one. I wouldn't mind dying of anything at this point in my life, so smoking doesn't scare me like it used to. It's a part of my brother that I can keep alive and it makes me feel closer to him in a way, even though I know that he would slap the cigarette out of my hand and tell me to get a grip on myself if he were here. But I can't, not anymore- not like I used to be able to. I could only be strong because Ashton was. He was always the one who made me able to think, but now that he's gone, my rationality seems to have disappeared with him. I used to be more sensible, I think, but since Ashton died a year ago, my shit's gotten discombobulated and I can't think straight. I don't even know who I am anymore.

I did make it here, if only because he would have wanted me to. Ashton said he wanted me to go to college so that I could put my brain to some use, especially since he never got the chance to pursue his own higher education. He barely passed high school as it was, since  he had to work two part time jobs throughout in order to support us. I don't want his life to have been a waste.

As I inhale a long puff of smoke, I look around the room at the boxes that are stacked against the walls, my cheeks stiffened with dry salt. I moved here a week ago in attempts of starting over again, using the majority of the small amount of life insurance money that Ashton was able to leave to me in order to rent this apartment. It's nice and close to the campus of the college I chose, and he would have wanted me to move out of that crappy one bedroom we used to live in. Besides, I knew that I wouldn't be able to live with a roommate. It would be unfair for them, with my irregular sleep patterns and my random, explosive moments of grief, and I really don't want to be that close to anyone. I'll have to find a job to keep this place, though. This may be a small apartment, but it's really decent and within walking distance to the area's college, so rent isn't cheap. I won't be able to live off of life insurance for long, but Ashton wouldn't want me to do that, anyway. He would  want me to support myself, because we didn't allow ourselves to rely on other people.

Now that I've calmed down a bit, I am able to tell that behind the closed blinds the sun is rising, the soft glow of it beginning to bleed the neutral colored room into shades of mango and peach. I finish my cigarette and let my tears dry up before I gather enough courage to take a shower, which consists of mainly sitting under the scalding water and trying to get some control over my raging emotions.

When I wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror, I see that my inexpressive mask is firmly set into place, ready to be seen by the public. I comb my tangled hair and pull on some clean clothes, all the while mentally preparing myself so that I don't back out of the day's plans. I begin my first classes this morning, and I'm looking for plenty of excuses to crawl back into bed instead of facing reality. Though, I know that if I did that and he was here, Ashton would strip my blankets off and kick my ass out the door, giving me a peck on the cheek to remind me that he loved me.

So, instead of wimping out, I finish making myself presentable, and start a pot of coffee. I haven't done any shopping since I moved in, so in my search for something to make a breakfast out of, I come face-to-face with a half-empty box of instant rice, a pack on ramen noodles, and an opened box of cereal left in the cupboard. I sigh, closing my eyes and tossing my head back. Since I moved in, I'd been living off of every last morsel of food to avoid going out into public, and have only been to the store once when I first moved in last week. Even then, I only bought a handful of items that were essential, and that I could carry in my arms.

I don't like going to new places anymore. When I had Ashton, I was more extroverted and friendly, but now I do all I can to keep an arm's length away from other people. I hate having to force a smile to keep people from asking if I'm alright, because I'm not alright- I'm the farthest thing from it. But they don't want to hear about that, and I don't like to lie, so I just avoid putting myself into those situations to begin with. That way, no one gets their feelings hurt.

With a sigh, I reach into the refrigerator and pour the rest of the half-gallon of milk into a dainty cup, setting the empty jug on the counter as I watch the white cloud gently roll into the coffee. I could have drank it black to save the thimble of milk, but even then there wouldn't have been enough for even a small bowl of cereal. I'm not very hungry, anyway, and the handful of dry crumbs and dust that the box has to offer doesn't sound tremendously appealing to me. I decide to save the dehydrated ramen for dinner, so I can at least put off shopping for one more day.

I always think too deeply when I drink my coffee, and today is no different. I would usually distract myself by scrolling through social media websites on my phone or with talking to Ashton if he hadn't already left to go to work, but my brother is dead, and I have no interest in seeing everyone else complaining or bragging about their lives. If it wasn't one of those things, it was the other. The general populace tends to be either content with their lives, or whining about some aspect of them. Besides, I haven't bothered to turn my phone on since I moved here, knowing that there would only be one person who really cared to get ahold of me, anyway. And I don't want to cause that person anymore pain or unhappiness, so after ignoring their calls for months and then refusing to see them, I figure that they will eventually forget about me and allow me to fade away. I hope so, at least. I can't get close to anyone again- not after Ashton. I had never thought about how terrible it is to love something that death can touch before, and decided that it's best to keep a distance from others. I can't withstand another blow like that. 

I finish the pot of coffee and head out the door, feeling no more confident than I had before with an empty stomach and a head full of troubled thoughts. I turn my phone on and quickly switch the device to airplane mode to avoid any incoming calls or messages. With a sigh, I put my headphones into my ears and listening to the calming strings of Bach's Suite No. 1 as I wait for the elevator. When the doors open to reveal four people inside, I try not to cringe at the sight of other humans and step out of the way as one moves to come out.

A woman wearing a bright shade of red lipstick steps into the hallway with a fluffy Shih Tzu in her arms. The dog has a scarlet bow keeping a tuft of hair out of its eyes, and it gives a single wag of its tail as it looks at me. I glance at both owner and canine before looking quickly away as the lady turns her gaze onto me. My closed body language, however, doesn't deter the woman who stops in her tracks and whirls to look at me with bold curiosity.

"My goodness!" She exclaims, stepping uncomfortably near to my personal bubble. I pull an earbud out of my ear to listen to her, eyes wide at the sudden encounter. She smells strongly of perfume, making me wonder how her tiny dog can withstand being so close to her without dying. "Just look at you! What a pretty young thing. You've just moved in, haven't you? My, my, sweet girl, you must come see me when you return! I am your neighbor, Ms. Matilda, and this is Sir. Hamilton. I saw you bringing groceries home last week while I was preparing to take Hamilton on his walk. You locked your door before I had the opportunity to meet you, though. Don't be shy, just knock on our door and we'll have some tea and a nice chat." She offers me a smile, apparently confident that I will, in fact, stop by when I get back. Ms. Matilda gives me an elegant wave and turns to walk back down the hallway with a flourish.

I stand for a moment with my mouth partially agape, looking after the woman in awe.

"Hey, are you getting in?" A voice asks impatiently from the elevator. "I have to get to work."

I snap to attention and scurry inside, skirting past a woman's arm that holds the door open and tuck myself as far away from everyone else as possible. "I'm sorry." I mutter, avoiding eye contact and pushing my earbud back in, hoping that no one else tries to initiate conversation with me. Once the elevator stops at ground level, I wait until everyone exits before leaving. I want to stay by myself for another few moments to regain some composure, but if I wait too long, the elevator will only fill with people again on the next run.

I take a deep breath and push myself out into the brightly lit lobby, and force my legs to walk towards the doors. Just go to school. I follow the sidewalk around the brick building, trembling hands stuffed into the pockets of Ashton's corduroy jacket. I'm not entirely sure if my worn, yellow shoes match the brown material, but the lingering scent on the fleece lined collar matters more to me than the aesthetics of my outfit.

My car is one of the few parked in the lot beside the building, as most people around here go by foot, bicycle, or bus to their destinations. I glance at the Pinto to make sure no one has vandalized it or anything, as if anyone would mess with it, before continuing past. The ugly brown car is exactly where I left it last week, completely untouched. I originally intended to drive to school, but it isn't much of a walk to the campus and I decide that the cool autumn air is good for my nerves.

I light a cigarette in the hopes of calming my shaking hands. Someone is walking a dog across the street, and I can't help but look at them as they pass. The Grate Dane is gigantic, but walks so politely on its leash that I feel impressed at it's manners. It could easily drag the person behind it, but it stays right beside them, occasionally sniffing at the ground at it's feet. Maybe a nice, gentle dog like that wouldn't be so bad to have.

I take a long drag from the cigarette, turning my attention back to my feet. I count the cracks on the sidewalk as I listen to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, visualizing the sound of the piano wrapping around my heart and enveloping me with the feelings that it evokes. Ashton's favorite music genre was classical, strangely enough, though he looked like someone who would enjoy punk or classic rock, like me. He preferred the mellow, thought provoking serenades of the Classical Kings, though. Since he left, I haven't been able to listen to anything else, trying to feel what he must have when he listened to it. Maybe I'm trying too hard, because all it makes me feel is sadness.

Someone's shoes rush passed mine on the sidewalk, but I don't look up at the hurried stranger who runs in the opposite direction, avoiding eye contact with them. The air they leave behind smells faintly like cologne and something strangely herbal. I wait for a few paces before exhaling the smoke from my lungs, trying my best not to subject them to breathing in my poison. They had clean, leather Oxford's on their feet, quite the opposite of my Chucks. My eyes don't deserve to meet those of someone like that.

The campus is much closer than I originally thought, and I appear in front of it before my second cigarette is finished. My hands begin to shake again, but I try to convince myself it's because of the cold, even if I know it's a lie. I knew I should have come earlier to familiarize myself with the layout, but I couldn't bring myself to go out again to explore.

The campus is already dotted with students who chat away with each other beneath the trees and on the gently winding walk ways, trampling dead, yet vibrantly colored leaves in their wake. They all look happy to be here, content with their lives and excited about their futures. I watch them as I inhale the last of my smoke, observing my peers from the corner of the opposite street, hiding against the wall of a building. A small part of me wishes that I could be like them.

I crane my neck back to look up at the clouds as a new symphony starts in my ears, dragging me back to a time when Ashton and I were riding in the Pinto together, sometime after he got his driver's license. He may have been around seventeen, and he was smiling out the windshield as he drove, taking us away from our problems at home, drowning them out to the sound of the engine and Ludovico Einaudi. I remember picking on his music taste, saying that it was for old people. He looked at me from the corner of his eye and said, "I like it. It makes me feel human." And proceeded to turn the volume up loud enough to mask the roar of the Pinto. If anything was good about our father, it was that ugly car that we inherited.

I wish I could have stood there longer reminiscing, but the painful coil in my gut won't let me forget about the time I'm wasting. Even though I did get here an hour early, I've already wasted over half of that time procrastinating and standing around feeling sorry for myself. I still need to get my schedule and find my classes, too. I sigh and reluctantly flick the butt of the cigarette on the ground and grind the ash out with my shoe. I close my eyes for a moment before forcing myself to move to the cross walk, stuffing my hands into Ashton's jacket and trying my best to blend in.

Somehow, he was always good at that. Even if he was dressed in rags, Ashton knew how to hold himself, so that even a king would respect his presence, as if he were a royal. It was one of his superpowers, along with being able to cook better than a French chef without any outside training. He really was amazing.

Though this is my first day starting classes, school actually started a week ago for everyone else. I signed up late, but they still allowed me to enroll for the fall semester. Every one around me knows one another and is familiar with their classes and the campus, which is somehow intimidating to me. A normal person may find it lucky, because they could ask nearly anyone about their class locations, but I was never the best at asking for help, even if I needed it. Luckily, the woman at the office who gave me my schedule also printed me out a map, so I don't have to admit that I don't have the slightest clue as to where anything is. With five different buildings on campus, it would have taken me too long to figure it out on my own.

I attempt to ignore my trembling hands as I try to hold my map and schedule steady, trying my best not to look like a new student. I feel eyes burning through me from every direction, so I take one last memorizing glance at the map before tucking it away, so no one will bother asking me if I need any help. I stare at the ground as I shuffle along the edge of the sidewalk, staying as far away from the other students as I can get without being too obvious.

I glance up to make sure I'm heading in the right direction, just in time to see someone dodging through the pedestrian traffic, apparently unable to see me as he attempts to pass two people who are walking side by side, barreling straight into my path.

Having expected him to notice me before then and slow down, I don't move. After realizing that he isn't going to stop in time, I side step off of the walk way, evading the worst of the collision with a bumped shoulder.

He stops for a moment, just long enough to put a hand on my back, I think, to steady me in case he knocked me over, and pant, "Woah, I'm so sorry! Please, pardon me!"

All I notice are the bright color of his eyes before looking quickly down at his feet, remaining silent. Brown leather Oxfords turn and jog the other way, and the hand leaves my brother's jacket. Was his accent English?

"Elias! You need to be more careful!" Someone calls after the guy, emerging from the congestion to stop beside me. They lay a gentle hand on my elbow concerningly. "I'm sorry about that, are you okay?"

I flinch away from their touch and can't bring myself to look up from their Combat Boots, the stylish footwear obviously belonging to a woman, matching the stranger's voice. I look away from them and back to my own feet. "Sorry, I'm fine."

Their hand is awkwardly suspended for a moment before they move it to the strap of their backpack, recovering quickly from the abrupt recoil. "Don't you apologize, he's the one at fault. He must have forgotten his bag again. His morning class is all the way across campus, and he's totally anal about being late."

I feel everyone in the vicinity looking at us, every person walking by taking their turns staring, trying to figure out what happened. My chest tightens and I have the overwhelming feeling to run away, to leave this campus and never come back. This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have come here. I knew this would happen.

"Do you need any help? I don't think I've seen you around before." She continues, obviously going out of her way to apologize for the guy in the Oxford's mistake.  I know that she's just trying to be nice, but my heart is about to race out of my chest and I can't focus on anything that she's saying. I can't hear my music anymore. I can't stay here any longer.

"I've got to go." I say too loudly, shoving my trembling hands into my pockets and hurrying passed her, practically running to the nearest building. I follow a sign to the bathrooms and shut myself into the last stall. My knees buckle as I sink to the tiles, leaning my head against the metal of the door as I stare at the ceiling.

I don't have time to check that no one else is occupying the restroom before the floodgates open and I begin to sob. I clap a hand over my mouth as the tears stream down my face, and I try to focus on breathing through my nose, feeling myself trying to hyperventilate again. I clutch on to Ashton's jacket, needing so badly for him to be the one inside of it.

I feel so pathetic, and I'm going to be late for class. The thought of going back outside to find the right class room makes my panic rise even higher and my breath hitch in fear. The world tilts and my head spins, and I feel like I'm going to be sick. It takes all that I have to focus on my breathing. I can't do this today. I need to get out of here, but the thought of leaving this stall terrifies me.

Breath.

I didn't used to be like this. I used to be strong.

Ashton, what's happened to me?

It takes fifteen minutes for me to calm down enough to be able to stand up. My class started at 9 A.M. sharp. It's 9:15. I'm too late. I unlatch the stall door and step out, blinking back a fresh wave of tears at the realization. I can't go to class this way. I can't show up this late. Would Ashton be disappointed?

I wipe my face and step out of the bathroom, too ashamed to glimpse my reflection as I pass by the mirror. I can't even bring myself to look at anyone's shoes on my way home.

-

If we wait for perfection to appear like a magician, then we will never get anything done. Even if it is imperfect, take it and run with it at your heels. Everything else will follow.

-A.