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I turned toward my writing to deal with how I felt. I would watch Timothy and write about how I felt he was dealing with things. It was a surprise when one night while writing he stood in my doorway begging me to tell him everything. He knew what he had done, but not the effects it had on everyone. All he wanted was the truth, unfiltered with no coating. A part of me wanted to tell him, not just to alleviate his pain, but to have him understand the pain we all felt. There was also part of me that wanted to keep it from him, not to protect him, but to keep him wondering. Either choice was for the wrong reason, in the end I decided to tell him everything.

He wanted every detail, every feeling, it was so unlike him. I told him everything I could remember in the best detail I could and he sat there and absorbed everything. As we got to the funeral and I mentioned the actions of the family he stopped me. He told me the story of our brother Anthony. He was surprised to know that mom had told me about him, but it was not the story he told. He said that Anthony would follow him everywhere he went and would do anything he asked and even at age five Timothy liked having that power over him. The day of the accident they were playing in the front yard. My mother turned and went inside for just a moment, but that was all it took. Anthony ran out onto the road and was hit by a car. Timothy blamed himself for just standing there, not trying to stop him. I told him it wasn’t his fault. I don’t think he believed me.

I did not know my family held my mom responsible for Anthony’s death, but I could now understand why my mother fought so hard to protect Timothy. We continued talking throughout the night. I truly came to understand Timothy and by the time I went to bed I loved him again. Honestly, I always had. I went to bed feeling a peace I had not felt in a long time, but I was quickly awakened from it. It was from the bathroom, my mother screaming. I ran to the door to see my mother kneeling on the ground holding Timothy in her arms. She was crying uncontrollably. There was something she was whispering; she kept saying it over and over. “I knew this would happen.” I didn’t understand what it meant.

Even after everything I told her, making Ashley relive those events she did not hate me. I wanted to know everything because I wanted to understand why I hated myself so much. I wanted everyone to hate me, but they wouldn’t. My family loved me even after everything I had done and was willing to help me even though it brought them pain. It was not obligation, it was love.

Timothy was rushed to the hospital and within hours was transferred to Lake View. My mother would not even allow me to come with her and kept me from Timothy for several days only telling me that he would be fine. I never got a real answer from the doctors about what happened to Timothy, only that he suffered a traumatic event. If Timothy’s mind was damaged after the accident then this event broke him. When finally allowed to visit him my mother told me that Timothy had lost his memory.

Whatever happened to him blocked out the accident and his involvement. When I began talking to him I quickly discovered that he had been told a different version of dad’s accident. My mother pulled me from the room and told me that she had spoken with him and told him the alternate story.

She made me promise not to tell him the truth, that it could harm his recovery. She told me that she would tell him the truth once he was better and released. He was transferred back to a normal hospital two weeks later and a few days after that he was released. It was as if someone had replaced Timothy with someone new. He did not even remember why he was in the hospital; he did not know he had even been in Lake View just a few weeks earlier. My mother also began acting stranger. She did not tell Timothy the truth and began talking to his friends and even Christine. She was distancing him from anyone who could unravel what she had done. When I found that she had pieces of Christine’s diary I had to do something.

I confronted her in her room. I told her what she was doing to Timothy was wrong, that it would be impossible to keep up this charade, but it was more than that. Regardless of what she tried to do on the outside I still did not understand what happened to Timothy on the inside. I demanded that she tell me exactly what happened to him. I had to know how it was possible for him to experience amnesia like that to where he could forget his time in the mental hospital. My mother’s face took on a look that I remembered from the day in the ICU. She said she would tell me why only if I never told Timothy.

She told me that not long after the Anthony’s death Timothy began having terrible nightmares. They took him too many different doctors but none was able to help him. It was destroying him, Timothy could not function. He was unable to continue school or even interact with anyone outside the immediate family. With the family turning their backs on them they were out of options until they spoke with Aunt Jackie. My mother remembered the night terrors Jackie use to experience as a child. It was believed that Jackie had found her own way to deal with those nightmares but that was not quite true.

There was a point Jackie turned to what they referred to as unconventional help. This unnamed person was able to take traumatic experiences and erase them from a person’s mind. My mother thought it was crazy and refused to even consider it that was until one night when Timothy entered my parent’s bedroom and told them that he had thrown the ball into the road and told Anthony to retrieve it. He admitted that he knew Anthony could get hurt and that was why he did it. It was then that my mother called Jackie and accepted her help.

There were rules to the treatment. One rule was that they were not allowed to see the process and had to sign a series of wavers and other documents. Jackie took care of everything and within a few weeks Timothy had his first session. Six months later Timothy had not only forgotten his role in Anthony’s death, but Anthony as well. She told me while it was painful to do it was the only way to save one son was to forget the other. This was reinforced by a warning. They told her there was a possibility that there could be some side-effects of the treatment. They suggested that they remove anything from Timothy’s life that could remind him of Anthony. There was one more thing; if Timothy experienced another traumatic event it could do one of two things. He could block it out as well or remember everything.

So they moved to Chicago and left Anthony behind. I remembered asking my mother why Anthony was not buried in Chicago and why we never visited him. They left their home to start over and did everything to protect the lives of their remaining children. There was so much pain which I did not even know was just beneath the surface. While both my parents were born into a religious family it was when they came to Chicago that they returned to church. I could see that my mother hated her decision and would do anything she could to protect her family. I still believed it was wrong but I agreed to go along with everything. Eventually Timothy would find out the truth and all I could do was stand by and wait.

I closed the diary and turned off the flashlight. I had my answer and I understood this world I was in. It was my own private hell, created by me because I deserved it. I had killed my brother and my mother took drastic measures to remove the pain from within me and what it did was create a hole where I was able to take the feelings that make us human and toss them into it when I did not want to deal with it. I was not adapting I was avoiding.

It explained everything. What I did to Anthony was thrown into that hole, but it was still part of me and manifested itself in my dreams. In-between that time and before my father’s death I would toss any feelings that brought me discomfort into that hole. I would be happy one moment and angry the next, it was because of that hole and when Ashley told me the truth about that night and what I had done to the family my consciousness itself fell into that hole and that is where I was trapped, within my own mind. There was no other explanation.

That was not the end. If I had the answer, if I was able to accurately diagnose my condition then I should be able to free myself from it. Could a mind that realizes it is insane truly be insane? If I was to suffer for my crimes then I could accept that fate, but not until I had acknowledged what I had done, restitution had to be paid and in this world there would only be one way to do it. When I stood in the hallway of the hospital looking at the sign, one pointed to the ICU, the other to the morgue, I had a thought. Would the dead be gone from this world or just the living? At that time I did not want to find out, but it was time now. If there were a way to escape this world then it would be to apologize and accept responsibility. There was only one person I could talk to and that was my father.

Talking to the wind

Some believe that a reoccurring dream is like a mystery waiting to be solved. Sometimes that dream can last for years because the waking mind is not mature enough to interpret the dream and decipher the answer. Often the clues are right there, staring you in the face over and over, but you do not see it. There could be many reasons for this but mainly it is because you do not want to see it. If part of your brain creates the dream and another part tries to unravel it, what is the part that tries desperately to ignore it? What happens when that part of the brain takes over? Do dreams and reality blend together with everything you tried so desperately not to accept. If so, what does that world look like?

I did not sleep; as soon as the sun began to rise, I gathered my belongings and left the apartment. I stood in the doorway and said my final goodbye to the last home I knew. It was not that I believed I would be free, but I no longer deserved to live in that home. From the lobby I exited the front doors to an unexpected sight. It was snowing; the city was blanketed in white. As I climbed into the truck I felt the snowfall was a sign, I would never return there.

When Aunt Jackie wrote the family wills plots were purchased for the family in Calvary Cemetery. It was on the border of Chicago and Evanston. It sat across the road from Lake Michigan and with the newly fallen snow made it look as if the cemetery stretched out for miles. Even though I did not remember visiting my father’s grave somehow I knew where it was. The gate was open as if waiting for me to arrive. It was as if I was following his spirit, it was leading me to him.

What I was about to do was not sane in any sense of the word. I had stopped at a hardware store on the way to the cemetery; the truck bed had everything I would need. As I came to a stop, I knew I was close. With a deep breath I exited the truck and reached in the back grabbing a pitchfork and shovel. It would not be enough to just stand over his grave. I never believed in going to gravesites and pouring out your feelings to the dirt. Talking to the wind was what I called it. If there is a soul then it is in heaven or faded away to inexistence. Either way, your words would go nowhere.

Perhaps since I believed this world was created by my mind then what I was about to do would be helpful. In essence I would be talking to myself, but if that could lead me to an exit where I could apologize to my living family then I felt it was worth the risk.

My father’s headstone was modest. I cleared away the snow. Seeing his name written there chilled me more than the Chicago winds. I considered that if there was some other explanation for this world then I would be part of another disgrace by desecrating my father’s grave, but I had to know if he was there.

The ground was hard; it took more than an hour to dig down to the coffin. Once I reached it I cleared the remaining dirt and closed my eyes whispering an apology for what I was about to do. I pulled on the coffin my eyes remaining closed. With a deep breath it was opened. I slowly opened my eyes and a sinking feeling came over me. Though I was looking at the decaying body of my father, the man I killed, I was relieved that he was there. There was no fear, I had to say my peace and it could have only been done face-to-face.

“
Dad, it should have been me who died on that road not Anthony. You would be alive with mom and Ashley would have a brother she could love and be proud of. I destroyed the happiness you tried to create with mom and caused you to make choices that a parent should never have to make. It was my own weakness that caused me to be the way I was. It wasn’t a hatred of emotions that I had, but a jealousy of the love I knew I did not deserve…. yet you, mom, Ashley and Christine still gave it to me.

So many sacrifices for someone who deserved none, it should only be me that feels pain and yet I had hurt so many people. I looked down on what you did for me with your career, I felt that what you did was out of obligation, but truly I knew it was out of love and since I didn’t deserve it I resented it. You introduced me to Jonathan to give me a companion and I betrayed him and Christine. Just as I took away Anthony’s life I was taking away Ashley’s best years. Because of me she will never be the same. I took you away from mom and destroyed her and even after all of that my only punishment was exile.

There is no apology that could even begin to repair what I have done. I only wish to be able to say this to mom, Ashley and Christine. I shouldn’t be spared from their anger because my mind was too frail to accept my fate. I would rather die than consider that they are standing over me in some hospital worrying about my wellbeing, wishing me back to them. I don’t deserve it; it should be them who erase’s me from their lives. I don’t know what to do next. Should I take my life, is it even possible. Please, even if this is all in my mind give me something.”