Here I am, sitting on the edge of my bed. Looking at a picture. Not just any picture, I'm looking at a picture of Harrison. The first thing I notice is his blonde hair, just below his eyebrows. Then I see his sunglasses, I knew they were his because I was wearing mine when the picture was taken. Then I see the background, I can tell through the window that it's night out. This may seem like an odd thing to notice to you, but it was very important to me. It reminds me of the good ole days. Back when we wore our sunglasses at night cuz were thought we looked cool. Back when Harrison was still alive...
I remember it like it was yesterday, I was driving my little brother home after a football game. It was late at night but he still wore his sunglasses, mine were hanging from the rear-view mirror. I wasn't stupid enough to wear them while driving, not that it helped any. We were almost home, just a few more blocks, when we were hit by a drunk drive who didn't see the light turn red. I tried to swerve, to miss the car, to let the car hit my side, but to no avail. The other car hit the passenger side. Why did it have to be the passenger side? Why couldn't it have been me? I have often pondered these thoughts, long and hard, but in the end it was Harrison who paid the price for another driver's mistake. I escaped with only scrapes and bruises, or so the doctor told me. He doesn't know that I have deep scars inside me that feel like they will ever heal, can ever heal. Oh, how they ache even as I am telling you this.
I'd heard that only the good die young, but never really thought that until that fateful night. I held my brother's lifeless body when he died, and looked into his glazed over eyes as he left our world. This just wasn't fair. There was no way that this was right. I couldn't stand looking at his face, yet I couldn't leave him in his last few, fleeting moments.
I thought that that night was hard, but the worst had yet to come.