November 30
*.*.*.*.*.*
It's still early when I get out of bed, pull on my favorite hoodie which had initially belonged to Carter, and make my way out of the room and down the stairs. The house is quiet and I don't have to worry about anyone seeing me leaving. It's not that I have anything to hide.
Nothing stirs and nobody calls after me as I walk out of the house and down the familiar street. I have a twenty-minute walk to take and have already decided not to get on a bus instead. The brisk morning air feels nice after the stuffy environment of the house and the soaring temper of its inhabitants.
I don't like walking too much but Carter died, and since today is for him, I decide to follow his routine. Even the clothes I'm wearing are in his favorite colors, my hair hanging open around my face exactly as he'd always liked. The music booming through my earbuds, too, is Carter's choice -- an Indie playlist by the most underrated artists on the planet. Unlike me, he was always a fan of music that held a message. While I preferred something I could bang my head to, Carter was more into the kind of songs that could take him to another place.
He was always the odd one out, the outcast in every situation, the loner at every party. He was always there, always right beside me or watching the crowd from the background while I stole the spotlight. Even back then, though, I knew he mostly only socialized so I wouldn't complain about his lack of 'life'. I could tell, smiling and talking, Carter was never a part of the masses even when he was there.
He hasn't always been like this. When we got into high school, he'd been active and hopeful. It wasn't until he was treated differently, not only because of his race but also his physique, that he started to backtrack. I didn't mind the racial slurs as much but he took them to heart. For me, they were a joke.
'How do you see through those small eyes?'
'Do you Chinese eat lizards too? I heard you eat snakes.'
'Why are you all so short?'
'You all look so similar. I can't tell Japanese from Chinese or Koreans. All Asians look so alike.'
I shrugged it off, countering a slur with a slur. Whether it was 'I can see what a jerk you are just fine', or 'yeah, I had a crocodile for breakfast. Want me to puke it out and show you?' or even 'I'm short so I can show you size doesn't determine how big I'll be one day'.
For Carter, though, it was different. He would smile and look away, usually avoiding conversation when the taller boys teased him for being too scrawny. He was only a couple of inches taller than me, and though 5'3 is okay for girls, 5'5 somehow automatically made him a target of bullying.
And while I went on with life as I would otherwise, Carter tried way too hard. He went out of his way to help people to be more likable, tried out for sports teams because that somehow made guys cool, and even tried hanging out with me and my friends. He stopped after a while, stopped trying even before he stopped living.
He gave up.
Turning down the last street, I finally spot the gate of the cemetery. I don't usually come to this place, always thrown off by how quiet and eerie it is. This early in the morning, though, the graveyard has a peaceful feel to it. It doesn't seem haunted. More like a dorm for the eternally sleeping.
I look around as I enter, at the trees swaying in the gentle breeze, the gravestones standing in even rows and columns. The overgrown grass tickled the exposed skin of my legs between my leggings and socks, and I take big steps through the stones, making my way over to the only one I'm familiar with. I reach his grave at last, my eyes fixing unblinkingly at the headstone.
CARTER LEE MING
NOVEMBER 2002 - JUNE 2018
BELOVED SON AND BROTHER
Beneath the superficial label are words that I had picked.
'You promised you'd never leave me. I promise I'll never forget you.'
They were far from poetic, causing many faces to frown at me as if mentally questioning why I would write something so inappropriate. They'd wished I'd gotten some Bible verses or some philosophical quote engraved, a reminder for the people to come. But my message was to Carter, not the passersby who won't even know who he was.
I just wanted my brother to know I'd keep my promise even if he couldn't keep his.
"Happy birthday, Cart," I say, not even caring how crazy it will look to someone who sees me talking to a grave.
I squat down, my knees reaching up to my shoulders as I drop down on my butt and stare at Carter's grave as if he was sitting before me instead. I can almost see him, sitting cross-legged on top of the overgrown shrubs sprouting out of the soil beneath which he lies. His sparkling eyes and cheeky grin, still so unlike someone who was so severely depressed, are so familiar I smile without knowing why.
"I got you something," I say, digging into my pockets to pull out a packet of his favorite chocolates. Although he always pretended he got chocolates because I liked them, he ended up eating half of them. He liked them but didn't want to admit it.
I place the chocolate bar on the grass and look at it for a long time.
'You remembered I didn't like flowers on graves,' he seems to tease me.
I chuckle, blinking to stop my eyes from stinging.
"Yeah," I answer softly. "I also remember you didn't want me to cry at your funeral."
'You still cried so damn much,' Carter counters.
"Well, you would have cried too if I'd died," I tell him.
Carter doesn't argue and I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them with my arms as wind plays with my limp hair. The quiet space eases my mind and I find my thoughts wandering to Carter's funeral. I think back to all the relatives who clearly didn't care about his death, all the friends who pretended to like him and know him, all the kids who had bullied him until he didn't even want to live anymore. I remember my mom crying into her handkerchief and my dad greeting all the guests, thanking them for coming. I hadn't spoken to anyone, aware of my friends Marla, Riley, and Racheal at my side as I continued to sob until my head hurt like it would explode. I remember so many people who came to tell me they would miss Carter, the priest who said a few superficial words and the drinks that were shared.
Nobody cared that a teenager was dead.
They cared even less that he had killed himself.
"You know what?" I say, my tone hurt and angry. "I hate you for what you've done. I love you, Carter, I really do. But I hate that you killed yourself. I hate that you gave up. And I hate that I fucking let you. I hate myself for ... for not stopping you."
No tears come this time, my voice a whisper on the wind that continues to whistle around me. The music in my headphones continues to play, the sound muted by the ruckus of my thoughts. Too many emotions flood my being and I don't know how to feel, dropping my head on my knees and sitting there as the wind grows colder and bites against my bare skin. The hair on my arms and legs stand on end and a shiver runs down my spine, the cool soil beneath me sending chills through my body. I sit there, though, for a long time.
It isn't until the sun shines over the graveyard and the sound of distant voices reaches me that I lift my head and sigh. I get to my feet, shaking excess dirt off my leggings and tugging at my hoodie. Carter's ghost seems to have left me alone but the chocolate I had brought for him lies where his body is under six feet of soil.
"I'll be back soon," I say to no one, hoping my dead brother will hear me. "But I know ... you won't."
I turn away at last, wishing he would answer me, tell me I'm wrong. Sometimes I wish I would close my eyes and he would jump me like he used to when I'd sneak into the kitchen for a midnight snack. Other times, I hope --childishly -- that scientists will hurry up and invent a time machine which I can then use to travel back in the past and save my brother. I pray and hope, knowing at the same time that Carter isn't coming back.
He isn't coming back and I have to learn to live without him.
Keeping my gaze on my path, I'm halfway through the cemetery when I look up and stagger. In the gateway stands a man I don't recognize, a bouquet of white roses hanging limply at his side.
Dad's eyes meet mine and I blink, refusing to show him how his presence has surprised me. I keep walking, waiting for dad to turn around and walk away so he won't have to admit being caught.
I stop right in front of Dad, two feet between us.
"Carter's waiting," I tell him.
My father's face crumples and he sniffles, lowering his gaze as a pained grimace comes to shadow his features. I don't know why, though, but I can't bring myself to comfort him. I should. I should reach out and tell him I know it hurts. I should tell him it's okay, and that it gets better with time. I should tell him I know he's hurting because I'm hurting too.
I can't do it, though. I can't lie to him.
Because it isn't okay and it doesn't get better with time. The pain doesn't go away as years pass. It only becomes more bearable because you learn to live with it.
Without saying a word to the man I have wish would have said something to me so long ago, I pass him by and exit into open street.
This is something Dad needs to do alone. He needs to face Carter before letting him go. He needs to learn how to forgive himself.
Something I still haven't done.
*.*.*.*.*.*
A/N: Sorry for the sad chapters, guys. But it always gets worse before it gets better. Honestly, though, do you think Taylor should move on? Would you? If I had to answer, I'd say she shouldn't have to do anything. It takes time to heal and move on. We should give ourselves the time. We deserve it <3