ADDICTED

1

JAMES

Heavy.

That single word described the gravity of my entire world.

My body felt like boulders were strapped to my shoulders. The air felt so dense that each movement was a momentous effort.

The looks from my mother, my father—even my perpetually dazed sister—felt intolerably weighted.

Depression wasn't exactly new for me.

When Marissa died from a drug overdose, I was broken. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think or do anything for myself. My world lost purpose without her. I was just a body floating through space, pushed and pulled by external forces.

Time was inconsequential. My other relationships and responsibilities ceased to matter. Everything was devoid of joy and overall very dull.

Losing a brother, however, was considerably different from losing a lover and partner.

Despite our differences, Jarrod always stood by me and protected me. I had always done the same for him. No one in the world understood us the way we understood each other.

Perhaps a lot of that came from a demanding childhood in which we rarely interacted with our parents and yet were raised knowing we had to become greatness. If we failed to find success, we would be written out of the family and the will. Failure was not forgiven.

What an unbearable pressure to put on children.

We wanted to play but we were forced to study, to join our father at business meetings, to behave as adults when we were just gangly boys longing for fun and mischief.

There was no point lamenting about our childhood now, though. Jarrod was an adult when he made his fatal decisions.

His unexpected and jarring death sent our entire family careening into a deep, dark pit. We never had time to grieve his death. Not between the flurry of stalking reporters and pleading our case for police brutality.

Although we ultimately did win the case, the acknowledgment of the wrong done against my brother brought no reprieve for this misery. The man who killed my brother would be in jail for a long time. Still, I felt a reckless anger that remained unsated with this end.

I realized too late that nothing would ever bring my brother back. Just because we got justice did not mean we got peace.

Only now, twelve months later, did we permit ourselves to truly grieve. The effects were crippling. It showed on every single one of us, in the new lines in our faces and hunch in our postures.

I was exhausted from a year of settling the case, managing my career as a court informant, figuring out where I wanted to live, and trying to process the reality of the ashes sitting in an elegant Venetian vase on a fireplace mantle.

A few pounds of gray, powdery sediment were the only remnants of my brother left on this earth.

Passing time meant nothing to my grief. My wounds hadn't healed. They hadn't even scabbed over. If anything, they had festered.

I was angrier than ever.

A knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. I looked over myself in the mirror and ran my hands down the solid black suit. The dark color contrasted my ghostly complexion and I flinched when my eyes met those in my reflection.

"Honey? Are you ready?" called my mother from outside the door.

I'd forgotten already that she had knocked.