Post by paintedmusic on Jan 18, 2008 1:15:28 GMT -5
Uh... am I supposed to write a warning or something? It's... sad? Is that a warning? Um, it's about war, but apparently there's no section in short-stories for war; so I just put it into general. *shrug* Anyway, please let me know what you think.
I am writing this
letter to you on:
January 13, 2008
Please get it soon
Dear Brian,
In the mail we got a letter with Mom’s name on it and, leaving all the other envelopes behind, she took it to her room to read it alone. By the time six o' clock came and went, she still hadn’t come out; and I wondered why she needed so much privacy for one little piece of paper.
Before you left, I remember you told me not to give Mom too much grief (whatever that means) and not to worry: you’d be back soon. Even though it always drove me berserk when you did it, you ruffled my hair and told me to “hold down the fort” while you were gone. Well, Mom let me build a fort that night and even let me sleep in it; but she told me to take it down the next morning. She explained that that’s not what you meant by “holding down the fort.” If she was wrong, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it built ‘till you got back.
Well, I’m doing pretty well in school just like you always wanted. In a million years I’d never forget what you told me: getting good grades will give me bigger opportunities, and opportunities are real helpful in life. They help you get a good job, which’ll get you money, which’ll mean you don’t hafta live in a crummy, rundown building like where we do now. (Don’t worry, I did as you asked and never told Mom what I really though of this junky, old place.)
To me math was always the worst subject, something even worse than getting yelled at by Miss Callistow. Remember how you told me to just nod and smile to make her stop her scream-‘till-I’m-purple-face ranting? And that eventually she’d give up on screaming at me and not do it again? Well, guess what… it worked! The day after you left, Mom called the school to tell the principal. I couldn’t figure out why because it’s not like you still attended school by that time, so why would they want to know? But I definitely couldn’t complain because ever since then the teachers started to be super nice to me. Even adults I’d never met before smiled at me as they passed in the halls and sometimes offered a kind, “Hello,” to accompany the smile.
You always used to try to get me into liking math since it was your favorite subject (I still can’t understand why). When you left, I promised myself to do real well in math; and you want to know what? On the last test we got back, I got a ninety-five and a sticker on top that said, “WELL DONE!”
Since you’ve been gone, I haven’t failed a single test. Even Mom’s impressed that my grades shot up so quickly, and Simon joked that maybe you should stay away for longer if this was what happened when you weren’t here. (Don’t worry: even when you come back, I promise to do well in school.) Mom’s face looked almost like a bruise when he said that. First her cheeks turned white, then red, then almost purple; and she yelled at him to “go to his room and never, ever come out!” She didn’t mean to be that harsh, I think; she was just really upset. I think she missed you more than Simon or I ever thought. After he left, muttering something under his breath, hands shoved into his pockets, Mom started to cry.
The only other time I saw Mom cry was when Dad left, and I hardly remembered that anyway. So obviously I got kind of nervous. But the person who usually comforted me when I was scared wasn’t there anymore; you were already long gone, hitching a plane ride to some place real far away that had the strangest way of spelling its name. A Q without a U to come after it. Miss Callistow always said the letter Q had to have a U after it, but I-R-A-Q ends just like that, no U anywhere in the word at all.
A couple months after you left, we learned about some war in school; I can’t remember what it was called. All I remember is the numbers. There were so many of them that I started to wonder why this was counted as social studies and not math. So many numbers were reeled off: number of homes ruined, number of battles fought, number of people killed. Miss Callistow called them “casualties,” but I don’t see anything casual about people dying. At first I assumed I’d understand when I got older, just like everyone always used to say to me when I asked why Dad left us; but then I got home and asked Mom why they called it “casual.”
She sat down hard on the couch, head buried in her hands (I think to hide more tears, which seemed to come so much easier with you gone), and whispered – so quietly I could barely hear her, “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”
I tiptoed out of the room real quietly after that; and a few minutes later, when I pressed my ear against her bedroom door, I could hear her muffled sobs echo past the closed door.
After that I became pretty careful not to say things to Mom to make her cry, but sometimes she’d get all teary-eyed for absolutely no reason! What was I supposed to say to make her stop crying? I tried all the things she used to use on me whenever I was sad. I told her, “Don’t worry, Mom; it’ll all be okay.” I even hugged her, and she always used to smile when we gave her hugs. Remember? Well, that doesn’t work at all anymore; in fact, it just seems to make her sob harder and louder each and every time.
Eventually, after a few months passed, I gave up trying to console her and just made sure to steer clear of her bedroom whenever I heard her crying. Slowly, she stopped crying all the time; but she also didn’t smile much anymore either. It was like she was always sad, always missing you. Don’t get me wrong; I miss you like crazy, too; but even though you were practically my best friend, even I don’t think about you every second of every day.
Simon came home less and less, and I started to feel more and more alone as Mom began to spend more time in her room. It used to be the five of us: me, you, Simon, Mom, and Dad. Then, Dad ditched us (and I still don’t understand why because he always promised he loved us). Then, of course, you had to get up and leave. You said it was because it was your job to serve our country, but wasn’t serving your family more important?
Then Mom started to pull away from us, so it’s like she left, too. It dropped from five to two in just a few years, and I hoped at least Simon would stay with me because he was the only one left. But he turned fifteen a little under half a year after you left us, and I guess he started to count himself as one of the big kids – the popular crowd.
Before he stopped coming home at night, I’d hear the door creak open real late. Mom always thought I was asleep by the time he came home, but I could never sleep in a room with three beds if I was all alone. And since your bed would be empty for a while, I was left to stay awake until Simon crept into bed.
I’d hear them yelling down the hall, and then Mom would always hiss at Simon to “stop talking so loud or he’d wake me.” I never told Mom that I heard every single word anyway, and – though Simon knew that I couldn’t sleep without him there – he never let my secret slip either.
He started to smell like smoke a lot, just like Dad used to before he left. I barely remember Dad and can’t remember his smile or his voice at all, but I wouldn’t forget the smell of him in a million years. It stunk up the whole house like there was a fire or something.
Mom yelled at him even more when he came home like that, saying he’d end up just like his good-for-nothing dad. She’s right, though; Dad was good for nothing, not even good for tucking us in at night. That was always Mom’s job… though she stopped tucking me when she began to hide in her room all day and all night.
I counted down the months ‘till you could come back. You told me twelve months; that’s what you said, and I planned to hold you to it. I had it all marked down on my calendar. (Today was the three-months-left date.) Sometimes, when I had nothing to do, I would sit on my bed and wonder: did you change at all? I know I did; everyone says so. The doctor said I grew lots of inches and that you’d probably barely even recognize me the next time you saw me.
I hope he was wrong; I wouldn’t want you not to know who I am when you come home.
When he said that, I started to cry, just a little bit; but I wiped away my tears before he saw them. I didn’t want him to think I was a baby or anything. I just missed you; that’s all. I only cried for you once after that, even though I really missed you lots of the time, especially when I’d go over to Nicholas’s house and see his big brother. He was the same age you were, so how come he didn’t also have to go serve his country like you did?
I asked you that before you left, remember? You said it was your choice and not obligation, but then I got real mad at you and screamed a lot and slammed the door in your face. I still get mad when I think that you chose to leave your family when you promised you’d never be like Dad and leave us behind, but I’m sorry for screaming. I didn’t really mean to say, “I hate you.” I don’t, not really. I love you; I was just angry at the time.
I know you probably already forgave me then, but I still feel guilty about it sometimes. It was the last thing I said to you before you left, so when you get home I promise the first words out of my mouth will be, “I love you, Brian.”
I’ll hug you so hard that your head’ll pop off, and we’ll have to screw it back on again. And then I’ll drag you into the apartment and show you our room… I’ll show you how it’s exactly the same as when you left, except that it’s a little cleaner since you wanted me to keep it neat for Mom. I left your bed just the way it was so that you would remember it when you got back home.
Remember that envelope I told you about at the beginning of this letter? Well, after Mom was in her room for at least two and a half hours with it, she finally came out. Her cheeks were red and splotchy as if she’d just rubbed them real hard with a towel; and her eyes were wet. At first I thought she’d taken a shower; but her hair was still pulled into that messy bun she was wearing before, and it was completely dry. She looked right past me and collapsed onto the couch, squeezing her eyes shut and moving her lips silently.
It took me a while to realize she was actually whispering something, your name: Brian, Brian, Brian – over and over. Brian, Brian, Brian. BrianBrianBrianBrian…
I guess she really misses you loads and loads. I miss you, too, Brian, so much.
Later that day Mom said that I wouldn’t get another chance to speak to you for a long time, so I’d better write down whatever I planned on saying to you right here. That’s why I’m writing this letter. She said that you won’t be coming home when you promised you would but that it’s not your fault. I guess if it’s not your fault, then I can’t be mad at you, can I? Besides, I won’t make the same mistake twice: I’m not going to say something I’ll regret when I don’t know when I’ll see you again.
That was the second time I cried for you, Brian. I cried so hard that I think I finally ran out of tears in the end. And when Simon came home the next day, Mom didn’t even yell at him like she usually did. She just took him into her bedroom, locked the door, and spoke so quietly that I couldn’t hear what she said even when I pressed my ear up against the door.
What I did hear was Simon suddenly crying out in surprise. I only just managed to jump away from the door before he threw it open and burst out of her room, crying even more than I had when I’d heard the news. At least, I assume she told him what she told me. What else was there to say when they hardly ever talked to each other anymore? When I went back to our room, I found him lying on your bed, his face buried into your pillow. I wanted to tell him to get off your bed or else he would ruin it, but I heard him crying. I knew what it was like to miss you, so instead I hopped up beside him and placed my hand on his arm.
He looked up at me, eyes rimmed with red just like Mom’s had been.
I smile gently and promised, “He’ll come back eventually. Promise.”
He shook his head, voice caught in his throat, and buried his face in your pillow again. I have a secret to tell you: When nobody was watching, I used to climb up onto your bed and do what Simon did just then. I would close my eyes and cover my face with your pillow and breathe in real deep. And you wanna know something? Even after all those months, it still smelled like you.
So that’s why I’m writing this letter, telling you everything that you’ve missed while you were away. (Well, not everything – just the important stuff.) Mom said she’d send it as soon as I finished writing and that she’d make sure you got it right away. I know you don’t know when you’ll be back, but can you try to come soon as possible?
Well, Mom told me that whatever I planned to tell you when you got home, I should write here instead since you might be a while. So remember how I told you what I planned to tell you when you got home? Well, I love you so, so much, Brian.
I told Mom I didn’t know your address out in Iraq, but she hugged me tightly and said that was okay. You don’t live in Iraq anymore anyway, and she said I didn’t need to write your address in Heaven for it to get to the right person. I guess Heaven is special like that. I hope you like the clouds, but please don’t stay there too long. I miss you enough already.
I am writing this
letter to you on:
January 13, 2008
Please get it soon
Dear Brian,
In the mail we got a letter with Mom’s name on it and, leaving all the other envelopes behind, she took it to her room to read it alone. By the time six o' clock came and went, she still hadn’t come out; and I wondered why she needed so much privacy for one little piece of paper.
Before you left, I remember you told me not to give Mom too much grief (whatever that means) and not to worry: you’d be back soon. Even though it always drove me berserk when you did it, you ruffled my hair and told me to “hold down the fort” while you were gone. Well, Mom let me build a fort that night and even let me sleep in it; but she told me to take it down the next morning. She explained that that’s not what you meant by “holding down the fort.” If she was wrong, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it built ‘till you got back.
Well, I’m doing pretty well in school just like you always wanted. In a million years I’d never forget what you told me: getting good grades will give me bigger opportunities, and opportunities are real helpful in life. They help you get a good job, which’ll get you money, which’ll mean you don’t hafta live in a crummy, rundown building like where we do now. (Don’t worry, I did as you asked and never told Mom what I really though of this junky, old place.)
To me math was always the worst subject, something even worse than getting yelled at by Miss Callistow. Remember how you told me to just nod and smile to make her stop her scream-‘till-I’m-purple-face ranting? And that eventually she’d give up on screaming at me and not do it again? Well, guess what… it worked! The day after you left, Mom called the school to tell the principal. I couldn’t figure out why because it’s not like you still attended school by that time, so why would they want to know? But I definitely couldn’t complain because ever since then the teachers started to be super nice to me. Even adults I’d never met before smiled at me as they passed in the halls and sometimes offered a kind, “Hello,” to accompany the smile.
You always used to try to get me into liking math since it was your favorite subject (I still can’t understand why). When you left, I promised myself to do real well in math; and you want to know what? On the last test we got back, I got a ninety-five and a sticker on top that said, “WELL DONE!”
Since you’ve been gone, I haven’t failed a single test. Even Mom’s impressed that my grades shot up so quickly, and Simon joked that maybe you should stay away for longer if this was what happened when you weren’t here. (Don’t worry: even when you come back, I promise to do well in school.) Mom’s face looked almost like a bruise when he said that. First her cheeks turned white, then red, then almost purple; and she yelled at him to “go to his room and never, ever come out!” She didn’t mean to be that harsh, I think; she was just really upset. I think she missed you more than Simon or I ever thought. After he left, muttering something under his breath, hands shoved into his pockets, Mom started to cry.
The only other time I saw Mom cry was when Dad left, and I hardly remembered that anyway. So obviously I got kind of nervous. But the person who usually comforted me when I was scared wasn’t there anymore; you were already long gone, hitching a plane ride to some place real far away that had the strangest way of spelling its name. A Q without a U to come after it. Miss Callistow always said the letter Q had to have a U after it, but I-R-A-Q ends just like that, no U anywhere in the word at all.
A couple months after you left, we learned about some war in school; I can’t remember what it was called. All I remember is the numbers. There were so many of them that I started to wonder why this was counted as social studies and not math. So many numbers were reeled off: number of homes ruined, number of battles fought, number of people killed. Miss Callistow called them “casualties,” but I don’t see anything casual about people dying. At first I assumed I’d understand when I got older, just like everyone always used to say to me when I asked why Dad left us; but then I got home and asked Mom why they called it “casual.”
She sat down hard on the couch, head buried in her hands (I think to hide more tears, which seemed to come so much easier with you gone), and whispered – so quietly I could barely hear her, “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”
I tiptoed out of the room real quietly after that; and a few minutes later, when I pressed my ear against her bedroom door, I could hear her muffled sobs echo past the closed door.
After that I became pretty careful not to say things to Mom to make her cry, but sometimes she’d get all teary-eyed for absolutely no reason! What was I supposed to say to make her stop crying? I tried all the things she used to use on me whenever I was sad. I told her, “Don’t worry, Mom; it’ll all be okay.” I even hugged her, and she always used to smile when we gave her hugs. Remember? Well, that doesn’t work at all anymore; in fact, it just seems to make her sob harder and louder each and every time.
Eventually, after a few months passed, I gave up trying to console her and just made sure to steer clear of her bedroom whenever I heard her crying. Slowly, she stopped crying all the time; but she also didn’t smile much anymore either. It was like she was always sad, always missing you. Don’t get me wrong; I miss you like crazy, too; but even though you were practically my best friend, even I don’t think about you every second of every day.
Simon came home less and less, and I started to feel more and more alone as Mom began to spend more time in her room. It used to be the five of us: me, you, Simon, Mom, and Dad. Then, Dad ditched us (and I still don’t understand why because he always promised he loved us). Then, of course, you had to get up and leave. You said it was because it was your job to serve our country, but wasn’t serving your family more important?
Then Mom started to pull away from us, so it’s like she left, too. It dropped from five to two in just a few years, and I hoped at least Simon would stay with me because he was the only one left. But he turned fifteen a little under half a year after you left us, and I guess he started to count himself as one of the big kids – the popular crowd.
Before he stopped coming home at night, I’d hear the door creak open real late. Mom always thought I was asleep by the time he came home, but I could never sleep in a room with three beds if I was all alone. And since your bed would be empty for a while, I was left to stay awake until Simon crept into bed.
I’d hear them yelling down the hall, and then Mom would always hiss at Simon to “stop talking so loud or he’d wake me.” I never told Mom that I heard every single word anyway, and – though Simon knew that I couldn’t sleep without him there – he never let my secret slip either.
He started to smell like smoke a lot, just like Dad used to before he left. I barely remember Dad and can’t remember his smile or his voice at all, but I wouldn’t forget the smell of him in a million years. It stunk up the whole house like there was a fire or something.
Mom yelled at him even more when he came home like that, saying he’d end up just like his good-for-nothing dad. She’s right, though; Dad was good for nothing, not even good for tucking us in at night. That was always Mom’s job… though she stopped tucking me when she began to hide in her room all day and all night.
I counted down the months ‘till you could come back. You told me twelve months; that’s what you said, and I planned to hold you to it. I had it all marked down on my calendar. (Today was the three-months-left date.) Sometimes, when I had nothing to do, I would sit on my bed and wonder: did you change at all? I know I did; everyone says so. The doctor said I grew lots of inches and that you’d probably barely even recognize me the next time you saw me.
I hope he was wrong; I wouldn’t want you not to know who I am when you come home.
When he said that, I started to cry, just a little bit; but I wiped away my tears before he saw them. I didn’t want him to think I was a baby or anything. I just missed you; that’s all. I only cried for you once after that, even though I really missed you lots of the time, especially when I’d go over to Nicholas’s house and see his big brother. He was the same age you were, so how come he didn’t also have to go serve his country like you did?
I asked you that before you left, remember? You said it was your choice and not obligation, but then I got real mad at you and screamed a lot and slammed the door in your face. I still get mad when I think that you chose to leave your family when you promised you’d never be like Dad and leave us behind, but I’m sorry for screaming. I didn’t really mean to say, “I hate you.” I don’t, not really. I love you; I was just angry at the time.
I know you probably already forgave me then, but I still feel guilty about it sometimes. It was the last thing I said to you before you left, so when you get home I promise the first words out of my mouth will be, “I love you, Brian.”
I’ll hug you so hard that your head’ll pop off, and we’ll have to screw it back on again. And then I’ll drag you into the apartment and show you our room… I’ll show you how it’s exactly the same as when you left, except that it’s a little cleaner since you wanted me to keep it neat for Mom. I left your bed just the way it was so that you would remember it when you got back home.
Remember that envelope I told you about at the beginning of this letter? Well, after Mom was in her room for at least two and a half hours with it, she finally came out. Her cheeks were red and splotchy as if she’d just rubbed them real hard with a towel; and her eyes were wet. At first I thought she’d taken a shower; but her hair was still pulled into that messy bun she was wearing before, and it was completely dry. She looked right past me and collapsed onto the couch, squeezing her eyes shut and moving her lips silently.
It took me a while to realize she was actually whispering something, your name: Brian, Brian, Brian – over and over. Brian, Brian, Brian. BrianBrianBrianBrian…
I guess she really misses you loads and loads. I miss you, too, Brian, so much.
Later that day Mom said that I wouldn’t get another chance to speak to you for a long time, so I’d better write down whatever I planned on saying to you right here. That’s why I’m writing this letter. She said that you won’t be coming home when you promised you would but that it’s not your fault. I guess if it’s not your fault, then I can’t be mad at you, can I? Besides, I won’t make the same mistake twice: I’m not going to say something I’ll regret when I don’t know when I’ll see you again.
That was the second time I cried for you, Brian. I cried so hard that I think I finally ran out of tears in the end. And when Simon came home the next day, Mom didn’t even yell at him like she usually did. She just took him into her bedroom, locked the door, and spoke so quietly that I couldn’t hear what she said even when I pressed my ear up against the door.
What I did hear was Simon suddenly crying out in surprise. I only just managed to jump away from the door before he threw it open and burst out of her room, crying even more than I had when I’d heard the news. At least, I assume she told him what she told me. What else was there to say when they hardly ever talked to each other anymore? When I went back to our room, I found him lying on your bed, his face buried into your pillow. I wanted to tell him to get off your bed or else he would ruin it, but I heard him crying. I knew what it was like to miss you, so instead I hopped up beside him and placed my hand on his arm.
He looked up at me, eyes rimmed with red just like Mom’s had been.
I smile gently and promised, “He’ll come back eventually. Promise.”
He shook his head, voice caught in his throat, and buried his face in your pillow again. I have a secret to tell you: When nobody was watching, I used to climb up onto your bed and do what Simon did just then. I would close my eyes and cover my face with your pillow and breathe in real deep. And you wanna know something? Even after all those months, it still smelled like you.
So that’s why I’m writing this letter, telling you everything that you’ve missed while you were away. (Well, not everything – just the important stuff.) Mom said she’d send it as soon as I finished writing and that she’d make sure you got it right away. I know you don’t know when you’ll be back, but can you try to come soon as possible?
Well, Mom told me that whatever I planned to tell you when you got home, I should write here instead since you might be a while. So remember how I told you what I planned to tell you when you got home? Well, I love you so, so much, Brian.
I told Mom I didn’t know your address out in Iraq, but she hugged me tightly and said that was okay. You don’t live in Iraq anymore anyway, and she said I didn’t need to write your address in Heaven for it to get to the right person. I guess Heaven is special like that. I hope you like the clouds, but please don’t stay there too long. I miss you enough already.
Love,
Your brother
Ben
Your brother
Ben
