I don't understand. You never learn how to deal with death. You would think the second time around it would be easier but I cannot pick up my soul off the ground, there's so much weight pushing me down.
It has only been two week since I found him. When I saw him I didn't understand, his red cravat hid the blood till I touched him. Mu hand was covered in fluid and my heart was in denial. My mind had broken open my skull to let common sense leave as I suddenly believed in the miracle of resurrection. In no time his white shirt was painted in fear and death as I tried to get his heart to start.
I could hardly talk when I called 999, he was still warm and the tears in his eyes rejuvenated them but the reality was something I refused to believe. My broken heart was shattered enough, I couldn't lose another piece.
What if I hadn't listened and simply stood up for him? What if I hadn't listened and stayed? Would he still be alive? Would he have survived?
Why must I live in the universe when I lose him?

It's been an incredibly trying and stressful time, regarding the funeral and his will. One of the first things I found was a letter that he does not want his unfinished books published. But my mother overruled that as I had expected, my mother has already started the process of six books they'll publish. Or at least those six are the ones I know of.

If I could be honest I would say that I've been avoiding life, I don't want to see my mum, I do not want to answer to the endless journalists. I do not want to answer to my own guilt, I should've said, I should've know, I should've recognised the pain. I cannot lie Evyn, I do not understand. I know life was torturing you but the little glimpses of happiness with me... Was I not enough?

I step out of bed and look around my room. It's unnaturally messy, I've been reading his books and scientific papers and because of that my room is full of them. It's the only thing I've been doing. His books... his research, again and again and again. To have the feeling he is still with me, when I read his books my mind produces his tone of voice. His hand appears on my shoulder and everything seems to be alright for a small moment.
I yawn and walk to the mirror, I pick up some of my favourite pictures f him, on one he is playing with a young Sheratan, the other one is in black and white, he is smiling and not looking at the camera with his hand on my cheek while I look uncomfortable. I hate pictures of myself but he said that if we would never make pictures together we would be lying to the camera. That will always stay my favourite picture of myself.
However my favourite picture of him is framed I my room, it was a project for school, I need to discover the bounds of gender through art. He is wearing almost all our mothers pearls and her wedding dress, although we couldn't close it. There are two pictures: one where he is in the house sitting on a red chair with a glass of red wine in his hands and manspreading and black aggressive combat boot and you can hardly see his face because of the shadows. And my favourite is where he is lying in between flowers, staring at the camera and his face is slightly overexposed making it seem almost heavenly or like he is some kind of elf. But he died, so maybe that is wishful thinking or he looks like that now in heaven. But I know that's not true because God does not exist. Because a good God would never abandon my brother like that. God would not abandon me like that.

I slick back my half white hair I've decided to let it grow to honour Evyn. I put on my black suit and grab my black cravat. I take a deep breath and try to tie it but I get lost in the stars and memories again and again.
"Fuck off!" I scream you my own thoughts as I throw the cravat on the floor. I groan in frustration and fall to my knee and wheeze, trying not to cry. I punch the floor and lie down on my side in pain as I look at the ceiling and try to ignore the knot in my stomach.
"I don't understand it Evyn. Am I cruel for not understanding? When did you know you'd kill yourself? Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me? Were you afraid I'd prevent you from doing it? I understand why you wanted to die. Emotionally I hate you for leaving me. You must've known that. You hated your parents for leaving too." I say to one of the pictures.
"Will you forgive me for being mad?" The pictures smiles and stares into my soul.
"Thank you." I whisper while closing my eyes. My head plays his voice, breathe in, breathe out. You'll be fine Orin, I am here for you. He would say, but he is no longer here for me. The gaping hole is bigger than the one Antigone left and I can't explain it. I don't understand why I must survive this. Why must I like life?

My father enters the room. I open my eyes but I don't look at him.
"Orin, stand up. We don't want to be late to his funeral." I nod and wipe away the tears and swallow my hesitation. My father sits down on the floor.
"Orin, can I ask you to behave normally towards your mother at the funeral? It's hard enough as it is on all of us. With the fans, and the journalists. We need a united front. We are all grieving." He says.
I stand up and walk away.
"I seriously doubt that!" I say.
"Orin! Be sensible."
"You are not blameless either dad!"
"None of us Orin, please, you can blame your mother but not in front of a whole country."
"She is the one who decided to have an open funeral!"
"Please, I beg you Orin...."
"Fine." I say "But if she says anything bad about my brother I can't guarantee anything."

I step onto the stairs of the manot. I can see the reporters at the gates. My mother is wearing a simple black dress with a turtleneck, a string of pearls and an extravagant hat. I shake my head and chuckle, even now she needs to be the centre of attention. I can no longer forgive that woman. I open my black umbrella and offer it to her. She steps under it.
"Good so you're behaving again." She says.
"Don't think for a second that I have forgiven you." I say while flexing my hand.
She shakes her head, I open the door from the rolls Royce for her and bow lightly while she gets in. I sit down and look down at my hands.
"Look at the crowd Lewis." My mother says as we nears the crowd of reporters.
"You are insane." I whisper to myself and for a brief moment I understand exactly why brother slit his throat.

I do not understand as we pass the flowers meant for my brother, above it the picture he loathed displayed. He said he looked like a bad parody of Kafka in that picture, wide eyed and afraid of the world. Mayve because he had seen too much. But all those flowers....first near out house and now near the chapel. How is it possible that these people mourn him? They only know the character he produced and the surface level person he used for the media. How do these people have the delusion of caring. I am moved by the people who care about him but what have they ever done for him? What does admiration do when your brain is collapsing onto itself?
I envy this hollow mourning of these people. I wish I could swap this agony for the light sadness making me feel sanctimonious because: 'he was such a brilliant writer.'. They might not have known but they were funding abuse, their money turned red in the hands of the noble house of Rhys,
I want to hurt someone, I want people to understand the noose of guilt tightening around my throat. I lost my brother and the hope that my mother is a good person deep down. I wonder how long it takes to feel alive again. I wonder what Evyn's kids would've looked like, I wonder how he would react when I called him on his honeymoon. I wonder what his partner would have looked like or what would happen if he started getting wrinkles.
But these people do not have to ask these painful questions. They have the luck of knowing only the good parts and feeling included in it and now that they can mourn and be empathetic they feel important. But it is insulting, they don't know how his voice breaks, how he cries in the evening, how he laughs when winning Risk. The way he smiles and spreads his arms while running through the field of our estate.

It's unfair, why must I live through this, there is nobody who feels the same. My mum and dad are both the causes and apart from that my brother didn't have anybody. How sad is that? A church will be filled even though you never had anybody important in your life.
He deserved better, he deserved more. I deserve more, I don't want him to be gone. I hate myself for wanting him back. I'm bit a sadist. I do not want to torture his but my future always included him in some way. He was my brother, my best friend, my saviour. He would treat the pain when I scraped my knee, he calmed me down the first time I broke up, took me out drinking, he smoked with me when I smoked my first cigarette, and he held my hand when I got my ears pierced. He was for me what a mother should be and more. He cared, he cared so deeply. He had tenderness that lacked in this family, he had a look that listened, a touch that understood and a voice that sung. He was a perfect Rhys whilst being diametrically opposed to everything the house stood for. But as he became the golden boy he became the house: A Rhys, whether we like it or not. What he'd say publicly goes. A perfect storm it was.

The church is still empty and we enter it and walk up to the coffin. The doors will open in ten minutes so now is the last time we'll have you for yourself. I put my hand on his cold cheek and wished I could still see his eyes. But they might've frightened me. I look at the suit, he would have wanted something more flamboyant. I shake my head as I feel a tear fall and lean in, I kiss his temple and pull the turtleneck down to see the cut. I briefly touch it.
"I forgive you, will you forgive me?" I whisper and sit down on the front row. The muscles in my face are tearing up to make sure I do not break down. I look at my mother who looks at him and wonder if she has ever worried about him.

My mother calls out my name.
"Come here, we need to stand at the coffin when the photographers come in."
I roll my eyes but I follow her instructions. I step up to the coffin and look at the pictures standing everywhere in the church. I can't help but betray my mask when I see what kind of pictures in they chose, there is only one where he smiles. The one in the snow when we were visiting his old town with our grandparents. I remember him getting excited by a certain bakery because he recognised it. I didn't understand the smile but it was devoid of the worst things in the world. It was all the things I admired about him in one expression. But all the others are professional pictures, they are the ones his expression is frozen in a condemning pride. Pictures where he doesn't even look into the camera but commands a room with surprising cruelty, my brother was never cruel. Apart from your body I cannot find your soul in this building Evyn, It scares me, are you leaving already? Please stay for a while.....
Don't be cruel......

The church doors open and my parents both put a hand on my shoulder and put on their lying grieving masks. The grip on my shoulder is all too familiar from the old family pictures and portraits as my brother and I were the ones putting on the mask.
As the first flash blinds me I feel like a tall child, a betrayed infant, ripped away from innocence. I sigh as I am reminded why I am scared of photographers. They can read your soul I'm afraid, the lens reflecting your psyche to you. I feel nauseous as my eyes stare higher and higher without seeing anything. I feel the pools of despair coming in while desperately trying to hide them from my parents. I catch myself praying to the God I curse every evening. I wonder how desperate I look to all these spectators. My eyes find a statue of a wounded Jesus. Martyrdom is nothing to be proud of. You will not fool me into thinking it is or that either my brother or Jesus were willing. They had a life ahead of them and I refuse to believe that my brother would enjoy heaven if it exists. He was hurt in and by your name. By your deadly fate. You are not fair God. You are flawed God. Who will be there pointing out your mistakes? No God, Damn you, damn fate, damn heaven and damn hell.
The one who blesses slowly takes breath away as my eyes fill with lakes of sadness, drowning again and again in its own fluid. But I am torn back into the world as the shuffling feet approach. I recognise his colleagues, family and family friends, but no friends, no one I don't know. Everybody I do not know is sitting in the fan section, I hate the fact that it only now dawns on me how lonely he must've been. How he must've suffered when I was gone. I finally understand why he cursed me out when I didn't want to spend time with him anymore because I had boarding school friends. I understand his envy of normality.

The mass commences and I've sit down in the front row next to someone I do not know. I cannot listen to the priest. I cannot focus on the well wishes of a second life he did not desire, my tears drown it out and in a way I am thankful for it. I look at the sun shining through the church windows, reflecting happiness in a life escaping. He would like this day, it's just as unpredictable as his life. He would've written a poem about it. He would've mused about this church and its hope while condemning its faith.

My father nudges me and I look up. It's my turn to give a speech, I stand up and the world slows down as I walk up to the front. I look at the crowd, a flash blinds me for a second and disoriented I look at my speech. I sigh and close my eyes. "Stand by me Evyn." I whisper and put the paper with the speech back in my pocket.
I must speak from my soul.

"Where to begin? I am sorry if my speech is a bit shaky, I've only done this once before and to be frank, the attendance was not as massive." A few people laugh. "O, gallows humour is not appreciated." I shake my head. "I'm sorry..... Well, I originally planned to talk about all my memories with my brother. But I could fill a lifetime with them and I'd still wonder if everyone would understand but my memories of him would never begin to describe the intricate life of Evyn. But still the memories matter to me, I remember the first time I smoked, both of us were strictly not legal yet. It was a full moon and I asked my brother why he was sitting on the roof, I grabbed a cigarette while he shrugged and lit it. I asked him whether he was planning to kill himself. Not anymore, was his response." I feel the tears in my eyes. "I didn't leave his side for the whole evening. I did leave him three weeks ago, on his own request. We make the gravest of decisions when we aren't aware of them. That night three weeks ago I made the decision to leave my brother alone in distressing circumstances. I'm still afraid that if I hadn't, he would still be here." I hear my voice break and I look down to hide my tears, I feel an imaginary hand on my shoulder, lovingly and so I proudly straighten my back and breathe in. "In honour of my brother I shall use as much literary figures as I can. I believe that's what he would've wanted. Charles Bukowski, a write he greatly admired once said: 'I've had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can't quite make out what it is. It takes time.' It would have taken my brother more than one hour to figure out it was a flower, he could not recognise kindness anymore." I nod and look at the people in the church.
"It's easy to glamourise a life you do not truly know and I applaud you for it. I am grateful for the fans and reader my brother has.... Or had but do not get stuck in the illusion of perfection. Although my brother was the closest to perfection I've ever seen, his life was far from it. But I'm not here to dwell on all things desecrated" I say and I pause for a while. "No, I want you to remember the Evyn I know but for that we need to remember the good and bad. Both the stray cat he called after a star and how he looked at it like it was one, and his scars. I remember the way we wrote a comedy to perform in our ballroom but I remember the tragedy of reality too. I remember how he taught me to swim but I also know how he drowned in that same lake, and lastly I remember the time he called my mother, his adoptive mother, mum. I remember him crying, wailing, screaming it one last time too." I try not to cry as my tears slowly burn into rage.
"Kurt Vonnegut wrote a letter, a beautiful letter it says this: 'Mother is dead. And I can't tell her what I know. I need someone to tell me big wonderful lies about myself, someone to be deeply concerned about me. I want to feel that someone is watching my every move and giving very much of damn. I want a deep and boundless love that I can brashly abuse and be forgiven for. These playthings were mine.' They were never Evyn's he could only wish and pray for these. Evyn never had the pleasure of a mother like that. Because to my mother he was a genius, just like he is to you.." I say while staring at the crowd before resting my eyes on my mother. Her eyes filled with malice and my eyes filled with arrogant pleasure.

"My mother wasn't his mother, she was a fan. She was nothing but a manager. But I will not dwell on that for too long.
My brother hardly ever left the manor, I wonder if he has ever experienced real life. No, he was homeschooled for a long time and when he went to university he was about ten years younger than the average student. He was harboured a home, creating his own world in his books and experiencing life vicariously through me. He once got upset with me when I chose my boarding-school mates above him. I didn't understand but now I see how incredibly lonely he was. He was locked in his own cage of being a genius. In hindsight it is easier to see how isolated he was. I left him when I got my own life, I didn't know it but I did." I say while wiping away my furious tears.
"He was so alone. I believe it was Steinbeck who has said: 'In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layer of frailty men wants to be good and wants to be loved.' My brother wasn't different. He wrote to feel something near love. He wasn't some kind of alien without the longing for love, He was tragically alone in his suffering and he has lacked love all his life, And even if I tried I don't think I could've made up for it."
I sigh and want to walk away when I see my mothers eyes hateful but somehow happy. As if I've said the right things..... I clench my jaw and look up at the dying Jesus. No, I won't make him a martyr, he deserves to be a victim of life, not his mind.

I look up and arrogantly shake my head.
"You know, scrap this. I know it's not polite to talk a long time at a funeral but my brother..... My brother did not deserve this! And I hear the thoughts, I hear your minds screaming 'but he did it to himself.' No he didn't he was the victim of the worlds circumstances! My brother was a genius we all know that, but he would give everything to be normal. To be happy. He was one of the hopeless people who were born with power. With geniality but with that gift he was forced to learn how to fight, he was taught to be strong by the world, he wasn't born brave, he wasn't born extraordinary. He was born screaming just like all of us! But the universe put this great weight on their path. And I know there are people who are just like this in the crowd! That is why you loved him! You were born fire and metal in their blood! You will be tested by everything, this cosmic medal, this duty of bravery, they will face the world again, again, and again! And again! Thet are broken, they are crumbled, they are born for slavery, born for bravery! Born for more than distress! And some lay down their arms, some become pacifists of depression but this is not failure. This is the courage to defy their destiny. The destiny the world put on them without consent. And still these people fight! Endlessly! Phillip Larking wrote 'Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave lets no one off the grave.' But they fight! Damn well, they fight! And my brother, my beautiful, kind, perfect brother knew nothing but battle. I will forever admire his determination and I will never forget how he has fought."

I sigh and look at the people who are crying.
"And now, I would like to end with crime and punishment his favourite look. Because his crime was to exist and his punishment was life; 'Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness of earth.'"
I look at my mother and smile before walking back to my seat.

I hardly listen to my fathers speech, I don't think I care about how he feels. I don't know whether he really knows his kids and because of that I sometimes wonder if he loves us. There's something ultimately passive about my father I don't know what caused this and if it will ever change but to be honest my prognosis is that he'll be a coward forever. But maybe I blame him like I blame myself, not as if he has done anything wrong. But he hasn't done anything.

I perk up when my mother starts to speak her voice laced with poisonous sounds like nails on a chalkboard. The first words are words my brother would curse if he hear them.
"My darling son, a genius, an author, a role model. I never thought I'd be here while he is buried but he has returned to God. On his own terms." She says.
I frown and try to stop the tears in my eyes while I listen to the lies and accusations of this woman. She makes my blood boil from the inside, she makes me choke on my own families' blood. I am disgusted by her. She is cherry picking the things she talks about, she cherry picks the wrong one. She talks about everything he hared about himself, his reasons to die. I know she knows she is singing the praises of all things he has come to hate about himself, the poisonous aspects of his life, the double edged sword of his geniality. She is still fighting for dominion. She has no words for who he was or what he made people feel.
I know what she is doing, she is glorifying his suffering. She is torturing him in his grave, passive aggressively blaming him while she is his murderer. She is blasphemous against my brother.

"His early death left at least 80 unfinished books in its wake and some finished ones too. Which we shall publish."
My face relaxes, he wished to burn them. I stand up and walk towards the podium. I look my mother deep into her eyes.
"You are absolutely heartless"
I turn around and look at the jesus above the great door before I walk out of the door in total silence, I turn around.
"He didn't even believe in heaven. Or a catholic god for that matter." I say without a smile.

I walk through the gravel in front of the church and look at the stupidly sunny sky. I curse it as I light my cigarette as fiercely as sunbeams. I look at the hearse and whisper "Oh fuck it." As I want to walk away I am stopped by a voice, a voice that almost feels familiar.
"Wait."
I turn around and see the lady that was sitting on the front row with my parents. Her eyes beam with tears as she walks towards me, she has familiar eyes.
"What..." she stutters, I tilt my head slowly. "What was he like?" She asks.
I sigh in disappointment.
"I don't talk to reporters."
She grabs my hands and shows me a picture. I recognise my brother but the people standing next to him seem strangely unfamiliar. I do not understand but when I look into her eyes I see his.
"I am his mother, I should've been his mother..." She says silently. I feel my lip tremble.
"I miss him so." I whisper as she hugs me and we sit down on the bench near the hearse. "I need him back." I cry.
She cradles me in a motherly way I've not known. But it's beautiful, it is welcoming, it is incredible. I've missed love. I've missed my brother and the caress of this women seems the closest thing I will get. She looks at me.

"What was Evyn like?"
"What was his original name?"
She sighs "Arsène."
I smile and say "He loved Arsène Lupin books. He was a wonderful person. A wonderful brother. There's so much I want to tell you but I don't know where to begin."
"We can sit here in silence too" She says.
I grab her hand and stare into the sun. She starts singing a song he used to sing when I was younger I feel a tear fall down and I say: "He was... magnificent." She smiles. "We used to run through the fields together and he would always let me win. He would do anything for me, he would give up his heart for me. And I would do anything for him. We were the only ones we could fully trust." I go on. "He found a cat, it was a beauty. His fur looked like soft dust, the forgiving grey of normality. His name was Sheratan, my brother was a dog person but for me he kept it. That's how much he loved me. He taught me everything, from love, to philosophy, to smoking, to treating wounds. He needed me to treat his wounds often. He was an easy target, the guilt of life inside him was so much that he saw no logical reason to fight back. And I had not found my voice yet. Mayve if I had been more brave he would have been alive. I don't understand why he didn't tell me. I could trust him, he could trust me." I gasp lightly. I remember the time I messed up in front of our parents and revealed my brother had suicidal thoughts which landed him in a mental hospital. He could trust me until his last months on earth. I have let him down." I put my head in my hands. "I'm just..... I'm just o angry. I don't understand, I don't want to be angry. And I don't know who I'm angry at.... God, why is death so confusing?"
She pats me on the back
"We will never know I suppose." She answers

The people slowly emerge from the church and both me and his mother decide to follow their lead. A selected group of people are allowed to follow the hearse back to the estate and the others quietly exit the mourning period. They can take a deep breath and go on with their lives. They can stop mounting than and there. Their grief was a cheap display of self-importance and intellect. They somehow shape themselves into someone of some importance in the life of an important person. They cannot see how they are stealing the privacy of grief of others, feeding of sadness. But I don't know whether that makes sense.

I step into the car and it is deadly silent. Normally my brother would've made a joke. He would've said something that everyone hated but would love at the same time because the tension would be gone. But not I refuse to get rid of the tensions, it's the deadly cost of murder. Poetical, mental, maternal, murder.
I stare out of the window and cannot see anything poetical in the green grass hill, hill like the ones we used to run over. How many hills have they stolen? How many steps have they taken? How many memories have they erased? How many futures have they damned? How much shame do my parents have? I think they have none. But maybe that's my own fault, my own dark sense of guilt wrapping around my heart.
When we arrive at our own estate the funeral procession gets in line. Everything is how it should be. The funeral procession slowly walks to our family graveyard. I look as my brother is unceremoniously lowered in a grave. A grave that should not have been filled with him. He deserved better. He deserved a long life, he deserved old age. He deserved to be a wise old man who teaches his neighbours about Shakespeare. He deserved to have a voice, he deserved to scream, he deserved to wake up the world. But maybe now that he cannot, I must.... But do I have the courage to do that> I've never been like my brother, he was hardened, I am only angry. That does not provide enough power.

The funeral procession leaves to go to the lake but I wait a little. I want to be alone with him. I sigh.
"Do you want me to move on or be there for you brother" I throw a poppy in his grave and leave. Hopeful for a miracle, or at least and answer.

We arrive at the lake. The black water scares me as I think about what kind of abyss it must be to kill two people at the exact same age. I grab my own hand to stop it from trembling. Will I survive 23? Have we angered the thing killing us? I shake my head and laugh to myself.
I wonder what the thing covered with cloth is, it's standing in the lake near the edge, near us. My mother walks up to the lake and turns around.
"My son was brilliant, he helped so many people in his life. I also want him to help people in his death and so we will create and organisation in his name for mentally unwell youth."
I applaud and I am quite surprised my mother would do something as thoughtful as that.
She sighs and dries her non-existent tears.
"We want to remember out son. We want to honour both him and his fans. We made a statue for him."

The white cloth is removed and I hear myself gasping. Between the sparking waterlilies stands a perfectly disturbing spitting image of my brother, his stone blouse almost sensually cascading down his shoulders, like his wet hair. His carved lips are begging for help with their sad expression and a frozen tear is streaming down his right cheek. His neck cruelly showing the gash of his dishonourable death.

"Both the grave and the lake will be open for the public at set times."
I feel my blood boiling as I look into the eyes of my brother cursed by medusa, to be abused, romanticised and idolised in death. His forever torture.
"And we will release all his books as you know."
I turn around and leave the people pretending to mourn to their intricate play. All they do is break my heart further. I need to focus on healing my confusion and helping my brother. I want to understand him more, but I won't force it. I have more right to honour my brother than the murderers outside.

I enter the manor and wish I could go anywhere else. His presence is in everything. And as comforting as it might be my heart is still too weak. I wipe a tear away as I walk up the stairs. I just don't understand, life s so beautiful and so many people take it away. Why? Why do I love life dearly? Stupidly? naively? My sister killed herself. It wasn't an accident, I know that. It could not have been. And Evyn......what have I done to deserve this? Why does everybody around me hate life?
I frown.
Evyn never hated life. He loved life dearly. He taught me to love life.... I remember it clearly. I know that time he took me to Scotland without our parents permission. I had confessed to him in rage that I felt neglected by my parents. I remember that period, I hated myself and the world too. But Evyn seemed so happy he knew things, he understood the world. And so he understood what I felt so he took me on a forbidden road trip to Scotland. That was Evyn, he always understood. Even if he didn't. The time we went to Scotland it was perfect. There was understanding, fun and light-heartedness. I remember how we woke up with a hoard of wild ponies around our tent or how we skipped stones on the lakes.
You've always loved lakes. I never thought your likeness would end up in one. Your strange love for water was even present, but the strangest things happen in life I suppose. The lake where both my siblings died in the same lake where one of them taught me how to swim. One of the few hobbies he was allowed to have, swimming and surfing. Other hobbies were chosen for him. He was a terrific swimmer and a masterful teacher, gentle but fun. He never took himself too seriously. I wonder if his heaven (If it exists) would be a lake or the ocean. Maybe it would be both. I sigh.

I walk past the bathroom where he helped me after the hair debacle. I had gone out with my friend from boarding school. After a stupid idea my long hair caught flame and half of it burnt up. I was in tears in that bathroom, I had forever ruined my perfect long hair. At that time me and Evyn weren't close, he felt abandoned by me. But when he heard the sobbing he came in, And in the gentlest and kindest way possible he cut my hair in the same style I still wear today.

I pass the writing room, which I'm not allowed to enter. But I stop and turn around. He didn't want his books published. I can fix this, I can fix his last wish, I check if I still have my lighter in my pocket and enter the room. I am amazed by the world I step into, the tens of candles mounted everywhere they can. Art deco art and lamps are shining in every corner. It's filled with papers, ink, typewriter, books and trinkets. It reminds me of the room of the wizard he used to tell me stories about, which is the same wizard that is in the children books series he has written. It's like I am standing in his mind. I walk up to his desk and see a cabinet labelled: Finished. I open it; empty. I shake my head and look down, stupid hope... I turn to the desk and sit down in front of it. I see a jar full of lemon drops. I smile, his favourite, of course. He'd eat them when he was nervous. I grab one and put it in my mouth when I see a little not in the jar. I open the little letter.
An ode to lemon drops, it reads. I chuckle. Classic Evyn, if there is one thing that he isn't it's demure. He loved the imagined stage of life, he loved absurdism and camp. He loved the beauty of the world, the humour and stupidity. How grateful to the world he must've been I read the letter.

Sour and sweet is alright with me.
There's a pleasant way about how mind numbingly intense the flavour is that rolls over my tongue.
Making me forget the red iron, the bitter taste of hatred and sour taste of guilt.
what guilt?
Why do I need to feel guilty?
Cleaning my mouth of all the words I have not said
So I will never say them again.
And that is alright.
That is okay.
Lemondrops: the saviour of today.

I chuckle and put it down, the sour hit of the lemon hides my stinging sense of guilt. I look around the room the beautiful colourful gems catch the sunlight and guessed that it would be so colourful in his most trusted room. I always thought my brother didn't like colour. He wore a lot of neutrals and his room was filled with dark colours. And this, while still overshadowed by dark tones, is hopeful, colourful. Perfect even I admire the beauty, and wonder if he used to do that too. I smile, maybe he was an aesthete at heart. Of course it is hard to despise Oscar Wilde but he had a strange fascination with him. He tried to fine ugliness in his books to find even more beauty. I never understood, I wondered if Wilde had mean it like that, beauty is nothing without ugliness. My brother used to say.
"What is truly beautiful about Dorian Gray?" He asked. I chuckled, thinking it was a joke.
"The illusion, beauty is nothing but a well maintained illusion." He said while hardly looking up.
I smile, everything about him was a well maintained illusion. Out life was a well maintained illusion.

I shake my head and sit down at the piano and open it. I look at the keys, the ivory white is contrasted by the red fluid that has dried on the keys. I sigh and look at it, he must've either been playing Stravinsky or Ravel. I slowly try to play the moonlight sonata but the dried blood guides my fingers towards other notes, fucking it all up. I slam on the keys and groan with a voice full of tears.
"There goes another dream" My brothers voice says.
I feel tears buy I want to demolish the keys and hang my hope from its neck on the strings. I want to know why and I want to deny. I want to talk about my brother but I don't want to dwell on it or use it as publicity. I want to be human and I want to be dead, I want to understand, finally understand. This room is too much for me, this life is too much for me.

I walk away from the piano and leave the room. I walk through the torturously large halls. I look at the floor my feet are monotone against the excessive art everywhere. I sigh and shake my head when I bum into somebody. It's my mother. I plan to ignore her when I suddenly see that she is taking Evyn's portrait off the wall. I feel myself stiffen up and lifting my head in an arrogant expression.
"Put it back." I say.
"He is not part of our family" She says equally as arrogant.
"Put it back," I lean forward and start to whisper. "Otherwise, I will let the dig my brother up. I will reveal the things you have done but I will misremember how he died.... Oh yea I remember suddenly. You accidentally cut his throat didn't you? I don't misremember do I?? Oh and I have written proof of your abuse."
She looks at me, terrified.
"You wouldn't..." She whispers.
"Are you afraid mother? Give my brother the respect he deserves and I shall not harm you. If not, I cannot promise anything, after all, I learned from the best." I say as I leave her, absolutely speechless.

The dinner could not have been more awkward, I refuse to eat. I refuse to talk to my mother and my father is still trying to talk to me.
"So what did you think about the funeral?"
I don't respond for a while.
"Fine." I say.
I do not even look at them.
"Let's forget about it, we need to get ready to publish." My mother says.
I shake my head and leave the table.

I walk into my bathroom and open the cabinet. I grab my razor and put it in the pocket of my dark green suit. I slowly walk to the door of the manor, my feet feel incredibly heavy as I walk towards the door.
"Go to hell." I whisper as I open the door.
I look at the sky, it is snowing. I chuckle and step into the white powder that smother the colours of the world. The snow is as quiet as my mind but it creaks as I walk through it towards the lake. The dim light of the early evening is shining on the statue and the snow seems to melt on his face creating tears of illusion. I walk into the water, the cold hugs my body slowly as I approach the statue. I put my hand on the cold colourless stone that feels like my brother. I hug the statue, am I mad or just hopeless? I feel the beauty and soul of my brother in my arms but the love lacks. I close my eyes.
"I'm going to miss you." I say and sigh. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."
I walk around statue and look at the back. I get the razor and close my eyes, remembering his scars and start to carve.

The stone makes a horrible sound as I tell the truth thought it. I open my eyes, not I see my brother; damaged and all. The bare truth. I wet the carvings in the shape of his scars slightly with water, it is too cold for the blood but it still reminds me of the last night I saw him.
I hope I said I loved him.

His death day, a month later

There's snow and I smile as I near the graveyard until I see someone standing there.
"Hey, excuse me. You are trespassing." I say.
"I have a ticket." He says as he buries his nose further in his scarf.
I shake my head, my parents were forced to quadruple the price for today so we'd have some privacy (granted they were forced by me.) He must've paid at least a hundred pounds. I look at his wavy auburn hair that sticks out of his cozy wool hat.
"You don't even know him, you are mourning for a stranger."
"Shut up." He says silently, the snow getting caught in his long lashes as he flutters them in frustration.
"Excuse me!? You have a lot of damn nerve!" I say but he interrupts me.
He turns to me and his stance goes from mourning and shy to bitter and upright,
"Lemon drops are his favourite, he likes to collect typewriters, button and books. His favourite smells are oranges and warm cherries. He has a beauty mark in the form of a heart just under the burn scar on his thigh."
I frown, "How do you know?"
"I loved him, I still love him. I would have married him. But we were so afraid....or he didn't love me."
I sigh and look at him. "What's your name?"
"Magnus." I nod, he has written about a magnus, in one of the books I stole so it couldn't be published.
"I wish I had said I loved him" he says.
I smile and nod "Me too."

I feel a tear. You still manage to surprise me from the grave Evyn.
"Did he love you?"
"He tried but it was....casual. I loved him, I know that." I smile.
I'm sorry Evyn. It hurts that deep down he did not fully trust me. But I know it will be my fault. It was my fault. I am sorry brother.

My life changed after Evyn's death. I started following my heart and stopped caring about my parents. I wrote a bestselling play and directed it too. It was perfect, it was the story of Evyn's life. My brother helped me become a celebrity while I also told our shared tragedy. I called the play: The Other Side of The Coin; The Syrhas Fortune.
I made it clear enough it was autobiographical but not so that my parents could sue me. This year, a year after his death they are adapting it to a film. My brother is still a bestseller and his works are considered classics. I remember him every day and he lives within my heart I have taken a tattoo of his scars across my back. I love him. I know how to live with it, but it still hurts but my brother he got the loving memory he deserved a king brother not an emotionless genius.