LOGAN

Normally, mom and dad's talks involve telling me where babies come from, which at the ripe age of sixteen they should have guessed I'd put on a condom or two for some girl. or lecturing me about my A- in history, telling me I would not become a doctor that way. Or asking why the fuck I didn't take Carol (our dog) out for a walk at six am. So, when they walked into my room holding hands and sat down on my bed. I did not turn from my computer monitor, not that I was doing much of importance other than avoiding my homework and flipping through mindless movies. 

"Logan?" My mother's voice, soft and a little strained, like she was trying not to cry and failing. I turned now, in my spinning chair to face them. My mom, with her perfect bun of black hair, and impeccable makeup, my father with his glasses and slender frame. Neither of them looked a hair out of place. They looked as always, perfect. 

"What's up?" I asked, nonchalantly. Wondering if my report card had came in the mail. My mom, reached out her hand to take mine. I wanted, to recoil from it as I was not a "holding hands" guy, especially with my mother. With her fingers laced through mine, it was then that I realized she was shaking. I looked at her, and my father. 

"Logan.... Elijah passed away today." He said, his shiny green eyes glossed with tears. My eyes, flitted to the photograph on my shelf of Elijah and I, at six years old playing soccer in the park. He was ten, and I was the annoying tag-along little brother. My voice caught in my throat, my mother spoke before I could.

"We got the call, late this morning, he overdosed." She said, her soft voice reaching me from what felt like 1000 miles away. I nodded, not meeting her sad eyes. My brother, only twenty years old. Elijah's picture was the one they showed at schools, for D.A.R.E programs, his photos of a face covered in scars and teeth rotted out from four years of meth use, were used to scare kids away from the powder. I nodded, removing my hands from my mothers. 

The issue, in my mine was my parents loved, to much, too soon, and for too long. They allowed my drug addled brother to take their money, food, and time all while I was left growing up on the sidelines, always searching the crowds of my hockey games for them, only to find out Elijah needed another rehab, or to be rushed to the hospital to get his stomach pumped and narcan shoved into his nose. To them, Elijah died hours ago. To me, he died years ago. I'd had the funeral, I'd done the crying, and I was now comfortably numb.

"Oh." I said, and although me burrying my brother years ago had let me let him go, I felt as if I was there again. Only this time, there would be no forgivness no thoughts of him getting better. Now, he was really gone. I spun, back around in my chair. My eyes settling back on the monitor, I picked up my headphones placing them over my ears. Signaling to my parents, this conversation was over. Instead, my father removed my headphones and looked me in the eyes. 

"Kid, he was your brother he is your brother. You don't have to act tough about this Logan." I looked down at my lap, because nor matter what I was going to act tough. I had to be, I had to be strong because my brother wasn't. And I needed it to remain that way. I retrieved the history textbook from my desk drawer.

"Logan, what are you doing?" My mother asked, I gave her a dubious look.

"Getting rid of my A minus in history so I can become a goddamn doctor." I snapped, burying myself in the Guadalupe Hidalgo bullshit I had read six times before this. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her exchange looks with my father. I rolled my eyes.

To them, their son died. To me, it was a Tuesday and I had to worry about sports and college, and keeping myself alive. To me, my brother died when I was still a child. To me, he died when he stopped coming around for my birthdays and stopped calling me "little bro." or  ruffling my goddamn hair, he died when he sold my moms jewelry for drug money. He died when he stopped being my brother, and started being Elijah the criminal, Elijah the drug addict, and Elijah the douchebag cunt of a man I was only half related too.

I heard both my parents brush out the door. I did not look at them, but once the door clicked shut I locked it. Pulling my phone from my pocket I opened my hidden photos album, unlike some guys or girls who kept nudes hidden in their phones, or sextapes and blackmail. I kept photos of my brother and I, back before I realized he wasn't going to change. The photos varied, him and I as young children, eight year old him picking up four year old me, twelve year old him teaching eight year old me basketball. Twelve year old me, and sixteen year old him playing hockey together. After all, he was the one who taught me.