The Road to Nowhere

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

*Flashback*

High school. For some people, it wasn't important to be at the top of the food chain. But for people like me, it meant everything. Somehow, I had become the cliche, stereotypical high school girl. A girl that now made me sick. 

Things used to be perfect. It was like I was a celebrity, keeping up my appearances for the press. I fed gossip to anyone who wanted to hear, yet people trusted me with their deepest and darkest secrets. Because that totally makes sense.

It soon became clear that being a celebrity was a lot of work. It would be just plain cruel to feed around the rumors and secrets people entrusted me with. Instead, I created stories of my own, feeding the gossip addicts things they wanted to hear.

A boyfriend was never in my scopes, however. I had always felt that confiding things in someone--like a girlfriend and boyfriend do--is too risky. Breakup blackmail was a bitch--one that I had no intention on meeting. There were too many girls that flaunted their boyfriends, but I never saw the purpose. Why let someone else help your image? If it's really that important to you, be independent and be yourself.

Outside of school was a different story. Life at home never proved to be a challenge like many people faced. I had my friends and my brother had his. When our friends weren't around, we were best friends. We fought all the time over stupid things that didn't matter, like what TV show we were going to watch, but he was always there for me.

*end of flashback*

Looking back on it now, I could have been there for him so much more. Just the thought of how I used to be…how I used to act. Nothing really mattered to me. Not like it does now. I thought that I was there for him, but I wasn’t even really there at all. I had become the girl that I make fun of now, the obnoxious girls that I wish I could punch. Yet, there was never a time when he wouldn't stand by my side, regardless of whether or not I needed him.

I just struggle to see why he did it. Our parents fought, but it was just the average arguments; nothing serious enough where we would question divorce. He seemed to be the big shot of his grade. Most of the seniors knew me because of him. 

He bounced between a few sports, but he wasn't notably good, which was one of his favorite things about himself. That way he didn't have the stress of the whole team relying on his performance. His grades were amazing; he had no worry about getting into college. He applied himself enough to do well but not too much where he was stressed out all the time. To me, his life seemed to be going well.

We always talked to each other about everything, even if it was just the basic gossip or filling the other in on what happened on last week’s episode of a show we watched together if the other missed it. Most importantly, we ranted to each other. He never seemed to have many problems; just petty high school things that everyone goes through. But he would still listen to my problems and make an attempt at understanding girl logic. Although he failed epically each time, I made him feel better by telling him he'd be a very good boyfriend.

All these memories flood my head as a constant reminder of the good times that I will never experience again. The pain was so bad that I still can't say his name, even if just in my thoughts. It's the unfriendly reminder that I don't feel like welcoming.

In the front seat, my parents chattered away about pointless things just to fill the silence. I can't help but wonder how they are handling the death of their son so well. Out of everyone in the family, I think I was hit the hardest. It's not easy coming home and finding your brother hanging in his bedroom.

The doctors think that's why coping is so hard, because I was traumatized by the sight before my eyes. The sight that I see every time I close my eyes. Maybe they're right. I don't even know what the hell is going on in my life anymore.

Trees rushed past us in a blur as we continued down the highway, centered between the two lines. My parents’ voice's hushed and my mother turned around in the passenger seat. "How was the appointment?" my mother's blonde hair fell in her face sloppily. I was just thankful that she didn't call it therapy or another word with a bad connotation.

"Fantastic," my voice coated in unnecessary sarcasm. I'm not sure why they sent me there in the first place. Maybe because the doctors suggested it? Beats me. But they know that they are putting me through hell yet they push on. 

Since I was a child, my father had drilled into me that crying was a weakness; that therapy was for people who couldn't work their problems out themselves. It was the concept I grew up on and came to believe. As a child, I had thought that my parents were always right, but that idea came and went as soon as my parents started to contradict themselves. Like my father pushing for me to go to see the counselor for example.

Instead of continuing on about how I really felt, I masked it with something they wanted to hear. "It was fine. Ms. Demillo seemed to really understand that I was going through a difficult time and worked through things with me in my own way." None of this was a lie, it just wasn't what I would have chosen to elaborate on.

That answer had satisfied my parents enough for them to get off my back. I felt that they were afraid I was going to do the same thing my brother did. I love my brother, and I always will. And no matter how harsh this sounds, I'm not stupid or selfish enough to make the same mistake that he did. He left me…our family. And I bet he didn’t think about who would find him there. I’d like to think that if he did, he hoped it wouldn’t have been me. I just don’t understand. How could he do that to someone he loved so much.

The pain wraps around me like a scratchy blanket in the winter. I’m just wondering when this winter is going to be over.