The last time I cried was three days ago, and before that, it was fifteen years ago. This time, the tears came uninvited, rolling down from my eyes to my jawline, falling silently into the grass. They were like any living being—born, traveled a brief journey, and inevitably died. Just like Sudhan did.

It had been so long since I last cried that I had almost forgotten what it felt like to let go, to surrender to the overwhelming tide of emotions that I had spent years bottling up. The rain began to pour, blending with my tears as I stood by his grave, staring at the coffin that held my brother's lifeless body. His wife, standing a few feet away, was visibly pregnant. She clutched her swollen belly as though she could somehow shield her unborn child from the reality of the loss. Sudhan would never see his own child.

As the coffin was lowered into the ground, the heaviness in my chest grew, pressing against my ribs like a vice. I could hear the distant rumble of thunder, a sound that mirrored the storm brewing inside me. No one could have expected a heart attack to be his doom, especially at such a young age. He never smoked, was fit enough to run marathons, and yet, here we were, burying him in the earth.

The last thing I told him was to never knock on my door again. That moment replayed in my mind, over and over, each time more painful than the last. It didn’t matter how I justified it; he was still my brother.

The funeral was full of wealthy business associates and staff members, all wearing gleaming black suits that seemed to repel the rain as though it dared not touch them. I stood out in my regular shirt and pants, feeling like the disappointment he always said I was. It was as if I didn’t belong among them, like an intruder at a gathering of the successful and the powerful.

As the crowd began to thin, the rain slowed to a drizzle. I noticed my mother standing by her car, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She looked so small, so broken, as though the world had finally succeeded in crushing her spirit. I thought about offering her some comfort, something I hadn’t done in years. But as I moved towards her, the air between us thickened with unspoken words and unresolved anger.

When she saw me approaching, her grief twisted into something harsher, more hostile. She hurried to the other side of the car, making it clear she didn’t want to talk.

"Mother, I want to talk to you," I said, my voice drained of all energy, barely audible above the soft patter of the rain.

She turned to face me, her eyes full of anger and pain. The years had not been kind to her; the lines on her face were deeper, her hair thinner, and her once bright eyes now dull with sorrow. "What is there to talk about?" she snapped.

"I’m sorry about Sud—" I began, but she cut me off, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Oh, so you’re sorry now, are you?" she spat, the bitterness in her voice like a knife to my gut. "Where was this affection when I sent him to help you? He told me how you yelled at him, even after he offered to help you make something of your pitiful life."

"I—uh, I’m sorry," I stammered, the weight of my guilt pressing down on me like a heavy stone, making it hard to breathe.

Her eyes glistened with tears, and she shook her head, her hands trembling as she clutched the door handle. "If you’re really sorry, why didn’t you do something to make it right? You could have… I don’t even know anymore. Just leave me alone." She broke down, her sobs mingling with the remnants of the storm. "It should’ve been you, not him."

Her words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, knocking the wind out of me. The rawness of her grief, her anger, and her disappointment was more than I could bear. She pushed me away, and I stumbled back, watching helplessly as she got into the car, still crying. As she drove off, taking all my remaining hope, desires, and memories with her, I was left with nothing but despair. I stood alone in the rain, feeling like the burden she said I was, wondering if I could ever rid myself of the guilt that weighed so heavily on my shoulders.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

One by one, everyone left, each with their own lives to return to, their own lights to guide them forward. I watched them go, wondering where my turn in the cycle of struggle, hard work, and success had gone. When it finally came, I’d refused to struggle, refused to work hard, and still expected to succeed. Life doesn’t work that way. If only I had realized that sooner, maybe I wouldn’t be here, watching others go into the light while I was left in the dark.

I stayed in the graveyard for hours, long after the last person had left. I stared at the freshly covered earth, the large letters on the tombstone spelling out 'Sudhan Chouhan.' It felt surreal, like a dream I couldn’t wake up from. I half expected him to sit up in the coffin, to tell me it was all a joke, that he was still alive. But deep down, I knew better. He was gone, and nothing I did could bring him back.

Eventually, the cemetery’s closing time came, and I was forced to leave. I dragged my feet as I walked out, my head down, the rain now a gentle mist that clung to my skin. The walk home was long, a four-mile journey that could have been shorter if I’d taken the bus with the others. But it didn’t matter now. I needed the time, the distance, to process everything, to let the reality of Sudhan’s death sink in.

When I finally got back to my apartment, I was soaked to the bone, the cold seeping into my very marrow. I couldn’t muster the energy to clean the apartment like I usually did. The clutter, the mess that had become a part of my everyday life, suddenly seemed insignificant. I went straight to bed, skipping dinner. My stomach rumbled in protest, but I ignored it, too exhausted to care. I wondered how much pain a man’s pillow could hold before it overflowed. Mine was a river, the tears soaking through the fabric, staining it with the salt of my grief.

I slept fitfully, my dreams haunted by images of Sudhan, of my mother’s angry words, of the life I could have had if only I had made different choices. I saw myself standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss, the darkness below calling to me. I wondered what it would be like to fall, to let go of everything and just… disappear.

When I woke up the next morning, my eyes were puffy, my head throbbing with the remnants of a sleepless night. The apartment was eerily quiet, the silence pressing in on me from all sides. I forced myself to get up, to move, to do something, anything, to break the monotony. I normally do a fifteen-minute writing session when I wake up, a habit I’d recently adopted in an attempt to bring some structure to my otherwise chaotic life.

But today, my mind was blank. I sat there, staring at the blank page, the cursor blinking at me accusingly. I couldn’t bring myself to write anything, not after everything that had happened.

Then, out of nowhere, an idea struck me. I decided to create a character named Elias, a man who had everything—looks, charm, success—and kill a lot of people in Haven just because I could. I poured all my anger, my frustration, my guilt into that story, making Elias a villain who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

If I go down, we all go down.

As the words flowed from my fingertips, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction, a catharsis of sorts. The story was my way of regaining control, of fighting back against the helplessness that had consumed me. It was dark, twisted, and brutal, but it was mine. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a purpose, even if it was just to create chaos in a fictional world.

When I finally stopped writing, the sun had risen, casting a pale light through the dirty windows of my apartment. The room was still a mess, but I didn’t care. I had something to focus on, something to distract me from the pain that gnawed at my insides like a hungry beast.

I took a deep breath and closed the laptop, feeling a strange sense of relief. The chapter was done, and so was I, at least for now. I didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in days, I felt like I could face it, like I could take whatever came my way and make it through to the other side.

The pain was still there, lurking in the background, but it was no longer all-consuming. I had something to hold on to, something to keep me grounded, even if it was just a story.

As I got up and started to clean the apartment, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I could start to rebuild my life, piece by piece, word by word. And maybe, one day, I would find a way to forgive myself for what I had done, and for what I had failed to do.

But for now, all I could do was take it one step at a time, one word at a time, and hope for the best.

Hope, a strange and new feeling, had at last, entered my miserable life.