Lie

On a Friday, a long time ago, my brother died. I know this sounds bad, and I’m going to hell, but I don’t remember why. I had been home for six months, and when I learned the news, I sighed. They said it would all be worth it. They lied. I went home that evening, sat down, and couldn’t make myself cry. On the contrary, actually, I was seething with fury. It wasn’t our business to pry, and now I finally understood the consequences, as if I hadn’t already. One more every day, gone and died. They said it’d be okay. They lied. As the night wore on, I grew melancholy. I was indifferent, and I felt dry. No one could convince me they didn’t die in vain, even if I was lucky. They wanted to tell me. It’s funny; they tried. I didn’t listen because it did not matter what they had to say. They said we were dutiful. They lied. The night was black, and I retired. I got the nerve to cry. I thought I’d never see the day; I thought I was stronger than this. But I let myself untie. Nothing was safe anymore, and no one could be trusted. That night, I slept with one open eye. They said we would live. They lied.