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You were less than a week old when your parents first brought you home. They cradled you tenderly and showered you with words of love and promises of a bright future.
You were one when you stood up on your own for the first time and slowly but surely waddled over to your parents, sitting on the floor with obnoxiously bright smiles and opened arms.
You were two and hadn’t said your first word yet. Your parents were concerned for a bit but brushed it off as you being a late bloomer.
You were three when your brother first came home, swaddled in a soft blue blanket. He was tiny and quiet, you almost mistook him for one of the dolls your parents bought you.
Then he blinked at you for the first time. He looked at you and giggled. You opened your mouth and–
Your parents cheered and your mother spun you around in her arms. You had finally said your first word.
You were four when you grabbed your brother's face for the first time and squashed it between your tiny, chubby palms. He stared at you with wide eyes and you giggled, kissing the tip of his nose as you had seen your parents do many times before.
You were five when you put on your small rainboots and led your brother by the hand to meet your friend and play in the rain together.
Your friend shyly looked at you and blushed. You thought it was adorable and smiled brightly at him. It didn’t help, in fact he only blushed harder.
You were six when your brother met his first friends. All of them looked so cute as they sat in a circle and whispered half correctly spoken words you couldn’t understand.
You were seven when you first learned to play the piano. It was tall and shiny and loomed over you. You were scared to ruin it as you cautiously pressed a key on it. It made a noise and you jumped, not expecting it to be so loud.
You were scared yet intrigued as you pressed another key, and then another. You failed to see your brother peeking around the corner as he watched you listen to the instructions of your tutor.
You were eight when you finally noticed your brother's curiosity as he watched you practice.
It took some convincing but–
You were nine when your brother was handed a violin and a bow. His little hands tried to keep up but couldn’t. It was so cute when he would pout in frustration. You patted his head and he pretended not to like it as he leaned into your hand.
You were ten when you held hands with your friend and felt something different bloom in your chest. Your breathing felt tight and you couldn’t look him in the face. That was why you didn’t see him staring at you with awe in his eyes and a pink tint spread across his face.
You were eleven when you realized you had a crush on him.
You were twelve when he met you at your favorite secret hiding spot in the park and covered his red face as he shouted out his love for you. You took a step back and almost fainted with giddiness.
You were thirteen when he tried to kiss you for the first time before you shoved a freshly baked cookie in his mouth. You laughed at his bewildered expression and gave him a kiss on the cheek as you walked past.
You were fourteen when you noticed your brother start to lose interest in the violin. For as long as you could remember he loved playing it. That was why–
When you were fifteen you were shocked as he threw his violin violently down the stairs, staring at you with an expression full of anger as his now empty hand dangled over the staircase. Teardrops splashed onto the floor from his face as he looked at you. He searched for any sign of understanding in your eyes.
You didn’t get the hint, though.
You reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. To calm him down or talk to him using words of reassurance.
He shoved you.
You spoke one last word, the deja vu hitting you.
“Brother”
You were fifteen when you hit the bottom of the stairs, cold and unmoving.
You were fifteen when your brother and his friend rushed up to you, desperate to wake you up.
You were fifteen when you were laid on a bed of satin and flowers. The pitiful screams of despair filled the funeral home as your mother wailed. As your friends begged you to wake up. As your boyfriend silently cried for you, wishing he had seen the signs.
You would’ve been sixteen when your brother fell apart, removing himself from reality and refusing to accept it.
You would’ve seen your father leave after the endless arguing between your parents.
They knew the truth.
If you were seventeen you would’ve seen your friends grow distant, unable to handle being with each other anymore.
You would’ve been seventeen when your treehouse hangout became unmaintained and abandoned.
You would've been eighteen and gone to college. Others might’ve guessed for music but what you really wanted to do was be a teacher. You wanted to help those shy kids like your little brother grow and reach their full potential.
You would’ve been nineteen and seen your brother finally open himself up once more, giving others one last chance. For the first time since your passing he had brought you flowers. They were beautiful white egret orchids. He whispered words of love to you and looked up at the sky, hoping they reached you.
You would’ve been nineteen when your brother reconnected with his friends fully and they brought much needed warmth back into his life.
You would’ve seen him and his friend face their fears and end up in the hospital. Laid on white just as you had been, only this time, there could be change.
You would’ve seen him walk up to his newly reacquainted friends. You would’ve seen him gather up his courage and speak. Finally letting the truth of that day come to light.
You would’ve seen the heavy burden lift off of his shoulders. You would’ve seen him smile so purely for the first time since your death.
You would’ve seen him cry, laugh, get angry, and accept what had happened to you.
You would’ve seen him get in the car not long after and stare off as the sun went down. The night time that once tormented him became welcome as he closed his eyes and leaned against the window. He felt your warmth from when you last held him, the bitterness in his chest disappearing finally as the car passed the house. A house that used to be full of love and life, then hatred and death. A house symbolizing a new beginning as he fell asleep in his newfound peace.
You would’ve seen it.
Except,
You were stuck at fifteen.
Never to make it sixteen as your soft raven hair laid on that bed of satin surrounded by flowers.