The day I found about Peter's untimely demise, I turned my phone off, locked the door to my bedroom, and took something to fall asleep. It was one in the afternoon and the chances of me naturally chasing slumber were scarce.
Thus, I took something. Everything I take knocks me on my ass, and not just for a couple of hours, but several.
I made it apparent that I wanted to be left alone, and my suppressed demeanor drew others away. I've never liked to talk about my issues, I told Momma and Dad several times when they suggested a psychologist, and it wouldn't solve the problem either.
It is like the time Peter's first goldfish died. I am not comparing my brother to a dead fish in any way. He wept over the toilet for well over an hour hoping the fellow would swim back up the system. He looked ridiculous in his fit. Eventually, he gave up and passed out on the bathroom floor, drunk with grief.
It was two weeks before I returned to school and I refused any help or comfort offered. I suppose most people never thought death of my brother would morph me into a grade- A bitch, even if it was unintentional of me.
If anyone needed pity, it was Peter.
The eight hours I was out that day I dreamt that the doctors made a mistake and Peter was in a coma, rather than dead. The dream continued the entire time I slept, and in the sequence, with every blink of my eyes time would lapse by in days, weeks, and months at a time.
The end of the dream Peter awoke. The bandages were bloodied and blistered as the clenched his head, eyes swollen with sleep.
Our parents were nowhere to be seen and their absence echoed in his waking presence. The heart monitor pace evened out as he sat up and casually looked at me.
I blinked to make sure it was true. My arms were pale from the lack of sun they had seen since Peter had been in the hospital, and I at his side. They reached forward to encircle him in a hug, and I inhaled the sterile hospital scent that soaked his gown.
I was hastily awoken.
If you asked Sigmund Freud 'why do we dream', he would suggest that dreams are an outlet for our repressed desires.
And if you ask me, I think they are a sick joke.