I sank to my knees, my head in my hands. The wind brought a gentle breeze, ruffling my hair and making the trees in the distance sway sullenly. A single tear squeezed its way out of the corner of my eye as my mind traveled back to that day. I looked up at the headstone in front of me, my vision blurred. There it sat, more smooth and polished than the others in its row, with the carcasses of flowers at its feet. I let out a strangled-sounding noise as the memories washed over me, reopening my wounds. My heart sank and guilt rushed through my veins as I reached out and touched the headstone. It had only been a month since my brother died.

And it was all my fault.

Once the memories start coming, I can’t stop them. I can’t block them anymore, not like I have for these past few weeks. For the first time since the incident, I look back on what happened that day. I remember the cool water, the hot sand, the searing sun. I remember the monstrous waves and the foreboding red flag. I remember the playful expression on my little brother’s face as he took my hand and pulled me into the water anyway. I remember my mother’s face, creased by worry as she saw us wading out to sea. I remember splashing him and him splashing me back, both of our smiles wider than the horizon. I remember pushing him over in the water, and I remember the growing feeling of unease as I was waiting too long for him to come back up to the surface. I remember that unease turning into searing panic when he didn’t resurface. I remember thrashing in the water, trying desperately to find him, my heart sinking and eyes brimming with salty tears. I remember my mother’s scream as she ran to the water, staring at my brother’s body as he floated, face down, to shore.
By that time it was too late to save him.
I collapsed on the headstone now, each memory surging through my body and shaking tears from my eyes. I hugged the smooth stone for comfort, blubbering my too-late apologies. My tears dripped from my cheeks, turning the stone dark gray where they fell. I would give anything, including my life, in this moment if it would bring my brother back. He didn’t deserve to die. I cried out all of my misery and desperation there for an eternity, letting it all flow out of me until my face was swollen and my eyes were numb. He didn’t deserve to die. With a face of cold stone, I slowly got to my feet.
“No more,” I whispered sternly to myself, “It’s time to go home.”

I turned away from the grave in one fluid movement, my eyes hard as I walked to my car. I stumbled across the parking lot numbly, and reached down for the door handle. My eyes glanced at the car window, and I was taken aback as I saw the frozen eyes and the set jaw, the furrowed eyebrows and the tense fists. I stepped back in shock at the sight of my reflection, trying to loosen my hands and relax my shoulders, but the attempt was futile. My expression softened as I saw myself, my tortured face and the pain behind my cold eyes.
I remembered the reason behind my sadness and looked away, my jaw and fists clenching again. Why did this have to happen? I just want my brother back. But he’s gone, and I’m not far behind. I collapsed to the ground next to my car again, the pavement leaving harsh scrapes on my knees. I didn’t care. I gripped the sides of my head with my hands, the grief swelling inside me again, threatening to bring tears to my eyes. But there’s none left.

He didn’t deserve to die. It’s all my fault, I think. It’s all my fault. He didn’t deserve to die. The words echoed inside me, jabbing me and tearing into my heart over and over. He didn’t deserve to die. He didn’t deserve to die. He didn’t deserve to die. It’s all my fault.

I felt a warm trickling down the side of my face that shook me back to reality. For the first time, I noticed the sharp pain on my palm, and I slowly pulled my hands away from my face. My fist was clenched around my keys, the metal digging into the soft flesh and drawing blood. I pried the keys from my grip and stood up to unlock the car, too numb to be fazed by the sight of my own blood. Everything was a blur as I drove home, my mind swimming with memories of the good times I had with my brother. The tears returned, streaming silently down my face, blurring my vision. I didn’t care. I roughly wipe my face against the back of my bloody hand as I pull into the driveway, plastering on a forced smile.