Chisom's Story

Chisom Oraedu:

The Unforgiving Brother

I lay in bed, waiting for the pain to ebb away enough for me to gain a couple hours of restless sleep. Adam could see that I was starting to relax, and he couldn’t have that. Immediately he began to chime in my ear, “It’s all your fault. I’m dead because of you. How can you even live with yourself knowing that?” This immediately jolted me from any semblance of sleep I had gained. Don’t let his bitterness make you think that he didn’t love me. He did; and I loved him, too. What I did not love was the fact that he had made it his mission in the afterlife to make me miserable. To him, apparently, suffering is better felt in pairs.

I awoke the next morning drained and weary. During my one measly hour of rest last night, I dreamt the same dream that had haunted me for the past six months: the screech of the tires, the blinding headlights, the crushing force of the impact. I had considered leaving Denver for a while after Adam died. I needed a fresh start, something new to take my mind off the pain. But Adam constantly reminded me of the guilt and despair that I should be feeling. After all, he was dead and I wasn’t. What made me more deserving of life than him? Nothing did in Adam’s mind. Which is why he’d decided from the start to make me just as miserable as I would feel if I were dead; I would rather experience the latter to be honest. At least then I would be free of the guilt that Adam had sentenced me to an eternity of experiencing.

I remember that day with perfect clarity. How couldn’t I when Adam constantly reminded me of every minute detail? It started out just like any other. I rolled out of bed at noon, threw on the first clothes I saw, and headed out the door towards work. I waited impatiently as the seconds of the clock ticked by until, finally, it was seven. I jumped in my car and headed towards Adam’s house. I told him that I’d take him out to celebrate his birthday, but he had no idea where. I’m sure he assumed that it’d just be a late movie or something. Little did he know that I had gotten front-row tickets to his favorite band. When I got to his house and sprung the news on him, he couldn’t believe it. We drove to the venue in a rush, not wanting to miss a thing. As we got closer and closer to the venue, the dial on the speedometer slowly began to creep up. By the time that I realized that it was at ninety, it was too late. The last thing I remembered was the glare of oncoming headlights as we sped through a stop sign.

When I awakened the next day in the hospital, the first thing I saw was Adam. But his visage looked different, changed. It wasn’t the usual warm, congenial face I remembered. It was frozen into a mask of bitter resentment and fury. Before I could ask any questions, he spat at me, “My blood is on your hands. Can you live with that? Because I’ll make sure that you won’t.” Pain sliced through me with the precision of a razor blade. I eventually realized that this apparition was only in my imagination and that my brother was actually gone. But this did not ebb the severity of each vitriolic reminder Adam issued. Everywhere I went, his ghost followed. Never once was I free to be alone. I never actually had the opportunity to grieve for the loss of Adam because it never really seemed like he was gone.

Fatigued from my lack of sleep the night before, I headed out the door towards my car. Adam mirrored my motion perfectly as we slid into the seats. I was used to this routine: endure a long monotonous ride to work with Adam incessantly chiming in my ear how guilty and remorseful I should feel. Didn’t he understand that I felt that way every second of every day? I guess not, because he didn’t stop even as we were nearing the stop sign the stop sign where the crash occurred. I thought he’d realize the solemnity of this spot. As Adam spat his acid, I decided that I couldn’t live like this anymore. I yelled, “You don’t think I feel guilty? You don’t think I replay that one stupid moment over and over in my head every second of every day? Why can’t you just forgive me and move on?” At that point, I accelerated to an immeasurable speed. Adam was shocked into silence by my moment of boldness. For six months, I had tolerated his unwarranted comments and accusations. But not anymore. As I sped through the stop sign, I looked over and said solemnly, “Do you forgive me now?” The deafening screech of the eighteen-wheeler smashing through the car resonated through Adam’s head with earsplitting clarity. He got what he wanted.