I think I used to have a brother, but one day people stopped talking about him and he was gone. I often wonder where he went, but I’ve never spoken to anybody about it. It was and is taboo.
The world carries on without him, and I don’t notice anybody grieving for him, but then everybody is still happy now he’s gone.
Strange I still carry him with me. He’d wake up late at night when he was a child and scream her name. I never knew her name, nor did anybody else.
I’ve seen photos of our family without him, and I can’t say whether he was there or not the day it was taken.
My parents never discuss him. I call them weekly to tell them I haven’t died. More often than not they won’t believe me.
“Stop this!” my mother shouts when I call.
“Mum, it’s me!” I yelled, “Your daughter!”
“My daughter’s dead!” she shouts.
He knew he was going. I can’t recall where or when it was I last saw him, but he’d often tell me time was running short.
“Time is running short,” he’d say, and I’d nod my head as if I understood.