Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Poppy

Four months later

"Not again," I whisper, the words barely escaping my trembling lips. Are those my eyes staring back at me? They are so red and swollen that each new tear I shed feels like a paper cut.

I can't see clearly. I feel like a sailor lost at sea, trapped in a ghostly fog.

That's okay; I don't want clarity. The blurry, hazy vision tells me that this is just a nightmare. Nightmares are never clear.

I'll wake up. I have to.

I gaze at the black dress hanging on my frail form. I feel like a hanger, just an object that this dress has to cling to.

It's not the same dress I wore to my parents' funeral; it's not even mine. Harper's mom bought it for me.

Children and young adults are not supposed to get gifts like this.

I hesitated before putting it on, but eventually, I did, as if pulled by some unseen force. It felt like an act of respect for the dead, adhering to societal norms that dictate mourning in black. But black felt all wrong—perhaps red would better express the seething anger inside me or white to mirror the dense fog in which I find myself lost. White, so stark and void, like the emptiness now consuming my heart and mind.

I wiggle my shoulders. Is this a dress or a cast? The fabric feels stiff and suffocating against my skin.

Somehow, my feet move of their own accord. My room is eerily quiet; the entire house follows suit. The clock on my nightstand reads 9:00 a.m., but I don't recall waking up.

Correction: I didn't wake up. I haven't slept since it happened.

Can humans die if they can't sleep?

It sounds like a semi-painful death, a pursuit into insanity.

Maybe that's how I'll leave this earth—Poppy Moore, cause of death: insomnia driven by guilt.

Don't be stupid, Poppy. You'll sleep again because you deserve to suffer, but I will never dream, never hope. Only fear.

Nightmares will haunt my sleep because another person was taken from me, but this time, it was my fault.

I killed him.

My phone call killed him.

It was my call that put my brother on the road. My call. Me. I am responsible.

My actions took a life.

In a single night, I went from a victim to a villain in the blink of an eye.

"This can't be happening. Not again," I choke out, my voice trembling with grief. Reaching out with my thumb and forefinger, I pinch my forearm as hard as I can, hoping that I won't be able to feel it.

I do feel it, and when I unclamp my fingers, a red mark is left behind.

This is real.

I look around my empty room, its walls plastered with photographs. Now, the pictures are filled with images of yet another ghost.

I'm haunted.

Just last week, at this very hour, Peter was yelling my name and scolding me for being late for school. It was comical because I wasn't a child anymore. I'm in college, but in his eyes, I was always the baby sister he had to protect. That's why I called him that night. Peter was my savior, whereas my other brother, Henry, was my partner in crime.

Little did I know it would be our last phone call. That's not even what hurts the most. It's what I told Peter during that phone call. The words I spoke were the last things he heard.

That's what eats me alive.

Last week, the comforting aroma of coffee and pancakes filled the house, making it a home once more. Peter had this magical ability to infuse our house with warmth and love after we lost our parents. He became our rock, our protector, the one who held our fractured family together. His presence turned this place from a house filled with grief into a sanctuary of laughter and shared dreams again.

Now, it's just a house again, a mere shell of what it once embodied. Stripped of his infectious laughter and the comforting assurance of his presence, it stands in solitude. Picture a rusty, deteriorating playground where a lone swing sways in the wind, emitting a frightening squeak that echoes through the air, a cautionary signal to any potential riders. No laughter, no children playing, because the rides are broken, just like our house. The love and warmth that once embraced its walls have dissipated, leaving behind a haunting void that permeates every corner.

It will never be a home without my brother, and that absence hangs heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the irreplaceable loss we've suffered.

Again.

Footsteps creak down the hall, and a soft tap on my door tells me it's time. The door opens slowly, and Harper hesitates at the entrance, her tear-filled eyes peeking inside. "It's time, baby," she mutters, her usually upbeat voice laced with pain.

Another tear escapes my eyes, surprising even me. I didn't think I had any tears left to shed. "I just want to wake up," I tell Harper, my bottom lip quivering.

Or maybe I want to fall asleep and never wake up at all.

She pushes her way into my room, her arms enveloping me in a hug, but I can't find comfort in it. I'm not sure I'll ever feel comfort again. "I know. I know. Me too." Harper whispers.

Death shocks you, but sudden death suffocates you. It buries you alive, leaving you clawing at the dirt, trying to find a way out. A way to reach your next inhale. You keep clawing and digging, but more dirt falls onto you with each new swipe. It's sudden and debilitating.

As we make our way down the hallway, my heart stops once more. Again, it's the unbearable truth. Henry, my other brother, stands there like a specter, frozen, lost, and broken, just like me. He can't move on without his other half. He's no longer a twin anymore.

"It's time," Harper's voice breaks the silence. Her hand interlaces with mine as she guides me toward Henry.

Right as Harper's fingers touch Henry, he snaps. Jerking back, his face flushes crimson, tears streaming down the splash of freckles on his cheeks. His still-blinking eyes burn with fury. Eyes that are still alive, unlike our brother's.

"You," he growls, his gaze burning with anger as he points a trembling finger directly at me. It's like a dagger stabbing my heart. Repeatedly. "It's your fault."

"Henry!" Harper shouts, her hand gripping mine tighter.

Henry steps forward, jabbing that finger again—it feels like a physical blow. "You had to call him. You had to put him on the road. You could have come to me. I was at the party, but you had to call him. It's your fault!"

A piercing cry escapes my lips. Henry is right. It is my fault. I deserve his hate. It's my fault his twin is gone. My fault our house will never be a home again.

The sound of a slap echoes through the hallway. "Take it back!" Harper screams, her tears flowing freely now.

There is a visible red handprint on his right cheek now. "Fuck you! Fuck all of you!" Henry shouts. Our small hallway seems to shrink even smaller. "I wish it were you," he seethes, his eyes burning as they lock with mine, fists balled, his skin, which is usually smooth, now red.

Red is better than lifeless. Take his hate, Poppy.

Then he turns his back on us and rushes down the hall. His steps echo, making the hallway feel large again, and this time, I'm the one who feels shrunken. I feel like a child wanting to scream for its mother, wanting to reach out my hand and have Henry grasp it. His grip would quell the trembling fear ricocheting out through the tips of my fingers.

He won't.

I know I just lost him too. I'm an only child…no, an orphan; I forgot my parents were dead too.

I wish it were me, too,Henry.

Harper yells, chasing after Henry.

I want to run after him, but when I take a step, my knees give way, and my heart aches so profoundly that I just want it to stop.

I did call Peter that night. I called him to come save me. If I had run to Henry and told him what happened to me at the party, he would have killed for me, to avenge me, to protect me. I would have lost Henry; he'd be in jail right now if I chose that path to take.

It seems that fate was determined to take one of my brothers from me that night; little did I know that it was I who decided which.

Arms crash into me, pulling my trembling body closer. "Shh, it's going to be alright," Harper whispers in my ear, her embrace offering a feeble attempt at solace. Her arms rub my back gently. Her long blonde hair is all I can see. "He didn't mean it."

But he did.

Every word he spat out was laced with raw, honest hatred, and it cut deeper than any physical blow.

"It's gonna be alright," Harper continues to repeat like a broken record, her voice quivering with the weight of the situation.

No, it's not, Harper. Nothing will be alright again.