Martin

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Half based on real-life, half fiction. Thanks for reading.

Submitted: October 25, 2016

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Submitted: October 25, 2016

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I was supposed to have a brother.

He should be a scrappy twenty-year-old here sitting next to me but instead he’s just a memory. He’s a tiny piece of tissue and bones that never got to take its first breath and become a person. Our mom had just chosen his name when she lost him in a pile of blood. Our father rushed them to the hospital, but it was too late.

Three years later, I came along. They fussed over my mom, terrified she’d lose another kid, but I made it. I'm the one who made it. Why did I make it and my brother didn't? I've been asking myself that a lot lately. 

When I was a kid, all I wanted was a sibling. It got so bad that I made up an imaginary one. I pretended that the empty bedroom in the house wasn’t empty, but was his. I told everybody the invisible kid I was talking to was just an imaginary friend. They laughed it off. I didn’t tell them I had created a sibling in my mind.

Then, one day, we cleaned out the garage and I found the book, gathering dust in a box. Coping with Miscarriage. I asked my mother what it was doing in our garage and she told me about the brother I should have had. I thought back to the empty room that always felt as if someone should be living in it. I thought back on a lonely childhood, on all the time spent playing on my own, going through my parent’s divorce on my own, going through every up and down on my own and always feeling as if somebody was missing. It was very hard not to believe in ghosts right then.

She told me she was going to name him Martin. I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. Would we have been close? All those times I felt like the loneliness was going to kill me, would he have been there? Would the broken parts of me be fixed if I wasn’t an only child? Would I have ended up like this anyway? 

The world will never know what my brother had to offer because he didn’t make it. He should be a scrappy twenty-year-old, sitting here by my side but instead he’s just a tiny piece of tissue and bones somewhere. Now he’s just a memory. 


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