AllFreeNovel
Share Us
That's okay; I don't want clarity. The blurry, hazy vision tells me that this is just a nightmare. Nightmares are never clear.
I’ll wake up. I have to.
I gaze at the black dress hanging on my frail form. I feel like a hanger, just an object that this dress has to cling to.
It’s not the same dress I wore to my parents' funeral; it's not even mine. Harper's mom bought it for me.
Children and young adults are not supposed to get gifts like this.
I hesitated before putting it on, but eventually, I did, as if pulled by some unseen force. It felt like an act of respect for the dead, adhering to societal norms that dictate mourning in black. But black felt all wrong—perhaps red would better express the seething anger inside me or white to mirror the dense fog in which I find myself lost. White, so stark and void, like the emptiness now consuming my heart and mind.
I wiggle my shoulders. Is this a dress or a cast? The fabric feels stiff and suffocating against my skin.
Somehow, my feet move of their own accord. My room is eerily quiet; the entire house follows suit. The clock on my nightstand reads 9:00 a.m., but I don't recall waking up.
Correction: I didn't wake up. I haven't slept since it happened.
Can humans die if they can’t sleep?
It sounds like a semi-painful death, a pursuit into insanity.
Maybe that's how I'll leave this earth—Poppy Moore, cause of death: insomnia driven by guilt.
Don't be stupid, Poppy. You'll sleep again because you deserve to suffer, but I will never dream, never hope. Only fear.
Nightmares will haunt my sleep because another person was taken from me, but this time, it was my fault.
I killed him.
My phone call killed him.
It was my call that put my brother on the road. My call. Me. I am responsible.
My actions took a life.
In a single night, I went from a victim to a villain in the blink of an eye.
"This can't be happening. Not again," I choke out, my voice trembling with grief. Reaching out with my thumb and forefinger, I pinch my forearm as hard as I can, hoping that I won't be able to feel it.
I do feel it, and when I unclamp my fingers, a red mark is left behind.
This is real.
I look around my empty room, its walls plastered with photographs. Now, the pictures are filled with images of yet another ghost.
I'm haunted.
Just last week, at this very hour, Peter was yelling my name and scolding me for being late for school. It was comical because I wasn't a child anymore. I'm in college, but in his eyes, I was always the baby sister he had to protect. That's why I called him that night. Peter was my savior, whereas my other brother, Henry, was my partner in crime.
Little did I know it would be our last phone call. That’s not even what hurts the most. It’s what I told Peter during that phone call. The words I spoke were the last things he heard.
That’s what eats me alive.
Last week, the comforting aroma of coffee and pancakes filled the house, making it a home once more. Peter had this magical ability to infuse our house with warmth and love after we lost our parents. He became our rock, our protector, the one who held our fractured family together. His presence turned this place from a house filled with grief into a sanctuary of laughter and shared dreams again.
Now, it's just a house again, a mere shell of what it once embodied. Stripped of his infectious laughter and the comforting assurance of his presence, it stands in solitude. Picture a rusty, deteriorating playground where a lone swing sways in the wind, emitting a frightening squeak that echoes through the air, a cautionary signal to any potential riders. No laughter, no children playing, because the rides are broken, just like our house. The love and warmth that once embraced its walls have dissipated, leaving behind a haunting void that permeates every corner.
It will never be a home without my brother, and that absence hangs heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the irreplaceable loss we've suffered.
