Ugly

Dead Christmas.

"Bubby! Bubby wake up! Its Christmas Bubby, wake up Santa came," the little boy jumped on his brother, a smile as wide as the Mississippi river in tow.

"Bunny, wake up! Come on Bubby, we have to open our presents." The toddler was too young to understand that his brother was depressed. Too young to know that the scars weren't from the playground, or that the yellow pills he takes weren't for a tummy ache. He didn't understand that his brothers lips were blue from not breathing, of his skin so pale from the lack of a heart beat.

He didn't know his brother swallowed a bottle of pills earlier that day. He didn't understand that the smell in the room wasn't from dirty laundry, but from his brothers decaying body.

"Bubby? Why won't you wake up Bubby? Bubby?!" The boy began crying out in confusion as to why his brother wasn't waking, causing his mother to rush to the room.

"What's wrong baby?" She too didn't think of the smell, or look close enough to notice the dead body of her other son who simply looked asleep.

"Mummy," the toddler said, "Bubby won't wake up! He needs to open his presents." The mother froze, coming to a realization.

She understood the pale skin, ice cold hands, and the rotting smell. She dropped to the ground with the sob, knowing the depression had gotten to her oldest son, and cried out for her husband to call the police.

It was too late, the little boy had found his brother 3 hours and 13 minutes after the death of his big brother.

Over the span of three years, every day the little boy would ask where his brother was. Everyday the mother would say, "Sometimes the monsters in your closet get you, and you can't do anything to stop it. They got Bubby and took him to a happier place, to heal his scars. You'll see him one day baby."