Page 27 of Last Boy

“I’m so sorry to tell you this, Poppy. But it’s about Van, your brother.” He sighs. “Sadly, we believe he…well, he overdosed. And now, he’s dead.”

Every bit of air leaves my lungs, and I collapse into a chair. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”

I must have heard him wrong. He couldn’t have just told me that Van was dead. Gone. Forever.

“We got an anonymous tip that someone at your brother’s address needed assistance. When we got there…he had passed away. We tried to use Narcan, but unfortunately, it was too late.” He exhales into the phone. “I am so sorry, Poppy. But we need you to come down to the station.”

“What for?” I blurt out, not even knowing what I’m saying. Or how I’m even forming words.

“Though we know it’s Van, because of protocol, we need someone to identify him.” There’s a short pause. “I know it’s an incredibly hard thing to ask you to do. And for that, I apologize.”

“You want me…to come look at my brother.” I stop, feeling like I might throw up. “My dead brother. At the police station. Right now.”

“If you can, we really would appreciate it.” I can hear how awful he feels in his voice, but that doesn’t make it better. “Some people need to see it before they can believe it. Before…their brains will allow them to understand it.”

I should cry, but I don’t. It hurts, but also feels a lot like nothing. My head just feels dizzy. And I can’t organize my thoughts for the life of me.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I mutter. “I need to catch the bus there first.”

I end the call, hoping that Jasmin didn’t hear any of it. And when I see she’s taking someone’s order, I pull my apron off.

“I have a family emergency,” I mutter. “Can you close tonight?”

Nodding, she gives me a concerned look. “Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” I utter and turn away from her.

Maybe it’s not him. Maybe…they’re mistaken.

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride somewhere?” the officer says.

Shaking my head, I cross my arms over my chest, almost hugging myself. “No. Thanks.”

I came here tonight, hoping that it was someone else. Knowing that would mean another sister, mother, or friend had lost a loved one. Selfishly, I just didn’t want it to be my brother.

But it was. It was Van. The same person who had come into the world at the same time I did. The one who usually knew what I was thinking before even I did. My twin.

When I walked in there to identify his body, I looked at his face. And the craziest part about it was that for the first time in years…

He looked peaceful.

And for a split second, I was happy that he had found that feeling. A feeling of harmony that he and I had never really had the chance to find. And I told myself that maybe, just maybe…he was in a better place. A place that wasn’t so hard. And so sad and heartbreaking.

But then I’m hit with the cold, harsh reality that my brother is dead. And I can’t help but think of how it all seems like such a waste, that he threw it all away.

Because now, my brother will never get better. He’ll never go to college. He’ll never get married or have kids. I’ll never get to be an aunt to his children and get the chance to spoil them rotten. And if I have kids, they’ll only hear stories about their uncle Van. But they’ll never know that before he went down the road of darkness, he was a boy who loved to cook. Who loved to make people smile. Someone who was a good friend and an even better brother.

It’s such a waste of life. And so sad and vain.

Yet, somehow, when I let the dark parts of my brain take over…I envy him the slightest bit.

He doesn’t have to feel this pain that’s been coursing through my veins since I was born. The kind of pain that makes it exhausting to just get through the day. He doesn’t have to ignore the voice inside my head, constantly telling me I’m not worthy of love and affection, which is why I’ve never been given it.

He’s free of this stabbing sensation in my heart that I’ve carried for so long, always trying to just…block it out. To dance harder. To be tougher. To not let anything or anyone get under my skin. Never show my weakness. To hurt before I can be hurt. To not give a shit that my mother didn’t want me. Or that my father doesn’t love me. And that, aside from Jake, I’ve lost everyone I have ever cared about.

I will never hug Van again. I’ll never get to pray that he gets better. Nothing.

And while he’s resting peacefully, no longer in pain, I’m here.

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