A/N: flash-fiction for Creative Writing. Posted on a whim. Prompt was "Loss of a loved one" and honestly, I couldn't think of anything.


-was the worst day to die on. No matter how uneventful your life may be, no matter who you leave behind you. Monday was the worst day to die on.

Our unfailing ability to reject death as a constant in our lives is something we work our whole lives at. The whole of human history still has trouble dealing with it. People still can't get over Abraham Lincoln getting shot in the head. So what chance do we have, really?

El zilcho. Maybe that's why I didn't feel right anymore.

Seth was gone, and there wasn't much to say. No afterword or epilogue to this story. One less person versus the billions left and it's strange but I wish they could all just go instead. I'm mad at them all. One less loved one versus all of the others I recently discovered I cared nothing for. Seth was dead. My brother was . . . dead. And we hadn't even gone camping yet . . .

I couldn't cry. The car screamed and wailed as trees, old, ancient trees angrily ground their modern offender into bite-sized bits for the earth to eat. I couldn't cry but I was screaming my head off. The world shut off, and when it turned back on it was blurry and red and white. And sickly green, the color they think calms you down at the hospital but it only made me madder than I was before. I hated that color. Ugliest color of all, besides baby-crap green . . . and I couldn't feel my face anymore, and my hands wouldn't quite clench. That maybe was because of all the tubes and disgusting cords plugged into my arms. The part of my brain that was disgusted seemed to die shortly thereafter.

After awhile, they told me happened. I told them they were all confused.

He wasn't dead because I wasn't crying yet. I wasn't crying yet.

Mother was crying so, so hard . . . she was wailing like a damned banshee on strike. And I'd never look at Dad the same way again. I could say now that I'd seen a grown man cry, and it seemed so un-profound in the face of the hospital walls and the tubes and screens. I wanted to tell him Seth wasn't dead and he could wipe the tears away from his eyes, but I don't think he could hear me from the bottom of his and mom's self-made pit of misery.

I wasn't crying, and I didn't want to. I couldn't. Something was so wrong. But see . . . that one light that had been snuffed out and it left me cold and dark. And numb, so very, very numb.

Seth's favorite day was always Monday. I never knew why, Mondays sucked, be he liked fresh starts. He always hated endings, particularly unhappy ones. I never knew why, but maybe he figured it was to make this easier. So I wouldn't have to cry.

And then they shifted the curtain to the bed on the other side and I started crying.