Seeing as you’re my diary, and no-one else will read you, I want to tell you a secret.
I actually do remember quite a bit from my outside life. People’s faces are blurry to me, but I remember events.
I remember certain events about my brother. Those events were what They blamed me having to come to the curing jars on.
They found his diary under his bed. They said that it was filled with horrible, dark and depressing comments that I shouldn’t have to read. They took it away with them with his body. They said that maybe by examining it that They could figure out why he’d done it. They had refused to let me look at it.
Little did They know that I had copies of every entry hidden around my room. Little did They know that I knew that he was going to commit suicide how and when he did. Little did They know that I’d helped plan it.
He’d been my older brother by 3 years. He was a caring, lovable, loyal and passionate brother who tried his best to make sure I was always happy. My parents saw him differently. To them, he was a trouble-maker, a freak, a depressed teenage boy who didn’t care about anything or anyone. Just because he stood up for what he believed in.
My parents almost called for Them to come and take him away.
At school, he was pushed around a lot. In grade 10 he’d decided to announce that he was gay, but everyone just turned and abandoned him. They pretended that they didn’t see the amounts of vicious bullying he received for being different. His school peers and our parents pretended not to notice his pain.
I was the only one who listened.
Even though I was younger, he spoke to me as if we were equal. I listened intently to the suffering he kept bottled up until we could talk. He’d tell me about all his thoughts, he didn’t hide anything from me. I listened and comforted him. One day, after a particularly hard day at school, I suggested that he started a diary to voice his thoughts in. Then, when we had our heart-to-hearts, he could tell me everything and not forget any details.
He agreed and promised that for every entry he wrote, he’d write a copy for me. It hadn’t been what I suggested, but agreed to it all the same. Anything to make him happy. His entries started getting darker and darker. I noticed a complete change in his mood. He eventually told me that he thought he might have been depressed.
The diary entries had gotten worse and worse until most of them were about how much he wanted to die and leave this world. He came into my room one night, knocking on the door and waking me from my sleep. I’d looked at him groggily and asked what was wrong. He’d started crying and said that he just wanted to die.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. It’s too hard. I’m hated by everyone but you. My life isn’t worth living anymore. I just want it all to end.”
I’d looked at him and then comforted him as he started crying harder. He looked at me.
“Am I a terrible brother for wanting to leave you?”
I’d shaken my head.
“If that’s what you want, it’s okay. You’ve supported me so many times, I’m not going to weigh you down now.”
He’d somehow mustered a smile and hugged me.
We’d been quiet for a while until I’d spoken again.
“Do you honestly want to die.”
I’d turned to him and started helping him with what to do.
I had helped my brother plan his own suicide.