The other line was silent as he chocked over the words he was about to say. Ultimately, dull whimpers came out, and then "Nothing." He wanted to say more, but emotion cluttered the thoughts that rushed through his head and he wasn't able to grasp a coherent idea, thus the nonsensical mumbling.
“I’m,” he chocked out. “I’m very happy to hear your voice.” That was stupid, he thought to himself. Perhaps that was the only coherent thought that was flashing in his head at that moment, and it was flashing in big bold letters.
She laughed over the other line anyway. "Me, too!" was her reply and she said so in earnest regard. "I was worried, so I just wanted to call on you to see if you're doing alright."
She always worried about him, he thought. Ever since they were little she was concerned about something, and this always bugged him because he never fully understood how considerate she can be. She was the constant presence that loomed over his shoulder, loomed over his faults; the strings that pulled him up from his abysmal failures (or sunk him further down, albeit unintentionally). She was always present; she was always persistent, even as they grew up.
"What are you doing now, anyway?" her question attempted to pry him open.
He could never stay shut for too long: "Nothing." his voice was a little somber, a little sober. It cracked and it was hoarse. "I--I lost my job."
"Since when?"
"A week ago." a pause. "Just about..." he added.
She always looked up to him. She believed that there was something more in him. He never liked that. He was a delinquent, anyway, and he never fully understood why she could look up to a delinquent. Mother and Father scholded him through his childhood, through his teenage years, through his early adulthood: "Get a job, make yourself useful for this family!" and she would peer in, always present, always looming over his resentment towards his parents. She should be ashamed of him.
"I see...." she replied after a half minute of silence. "If there's something--"
"No, you don't need to." he interrupted her because he knew what she was thinking. "I just need time to find a new job."
He never understood why she kept doing this, that is, she always tried to help him whenever he gets in trouble. He never understood why she always stuck up to him, no matter what. He remembered at his parents' funeral and everyone whispered terrible things about him, "Not a single emotion, what an evil son." but he ignored them. "Such a tragedy for them to die in an accident and to leave their wretched son in this world." he ignored those, too. He pushed through the whispers and the murmurs and the rumors and the words that pierced through his ears and he sat next to her. She was crying, her face covered with her hands.
"Please let me help you," she persisted from the other line. "It's really hard, I know, but I know you can make it."
Those words sounded so familiar. They were said in a whisper once, and those same words passed through his lips on that day he sat next to her. On the day of the funeral.
"You're the only family I have in this world and I don't want to lose you."
Those words, too. She repeated his words, verbatim. He was silent for the longest time and she called his name. Concern was evident in her voice.
"Ever since Mommy and Daddy died, you've taken care of me. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here right now." That "here" being college. "Please, let me help you." She repeated.
He remembered her wiping her tears with her handkerchief, still sobbing. And then she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her weight bore upon him and he leaned on her shoulder, but he was hesitant to embrace her back. He saw it awkward, out of character, embarassing. Perhaps what the relatives were saying was true after all. She sobbed softly, and he could feel her sobs reverberating through his body, and he could feel her sadness weigh him, but he never found the tears to shed. He thought that he was the weight in her world, the load that she had to carry, her older brother that never showed emotion, shunned by relatives, disregarded by society, a wreck and a failure, but she was always there, always over his shoulders.
"Hey," he said to the receiver. "Stop crying."
She paused, but it was hard to hide her sobs. He heard them from the other line and his hands trembled. His lips twitched and his eyes started burning. He felt the familiar warmth, the familiar weight, the familiar embrace through those sobs, and somehow, he felt her close.
"Just... just talk to me once in a while, okay?" he pleaded over her sobs. "Just call me over the weekends or something. Tell me what's happening over there. That's all I need."
He remembered parting with her. She was off to college somewhere far away to become someone successful, and he's left alone in this town, trying to pay rent and living from paycheck to paycheck. He was miserable but she still looked up to him. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he was there to help her get over her burden. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he represented something more in her life, like she said, the only family she has. Maybe. He began to realize this as he remembered her waving goodbye, possibly the last time he saw her face. He tried to remember her expression, but it was so vague.
"Just be here with me. This is fine right now and I don't mind it. You're all I have."
The call ended a few minutes later with promises of keeping in touch for the coming months, and possibly longer than that. The idea made him feel lighter, as if he felt a release from her embrace, although he was still emotionally exhausted. He made his way to the bathroom and washed his face. He eyed through the dirty-tiled bathroom until his eyes caught the attention of the sleeping pills that he recently bought. He remembered the subtle reactions of the pharmacist when he bought them. He looked right at him with a concerned face, especially at his haggard state. But he simply stared back at them with a stare that would rival a certain Emily Greirson. He fumbled through the pills and opened the cap, bloodshot eyes staring down the tube. He raised it, turned it, and let every single pill drop, unceremoniously, down the toilet.
2/24/2009
