I haven't titled this yet.

Why is it so hard for me to title my short stories? My book that is soon to be published is titled "Just Maybe" and my second book, which I think I finished yesterday, is titled "Just Something". It's so easy for me to title my novels, but my short stories or even those little, tiny excerpts that I upload...those are so hard for me to title. I don't know why, maybe because they are only around 1,000 words and compared to my 50,000+ word novels, that's kind of short and hard to pick any strong word/phrases. I titled my book "Just Maybe" because it is a huge part in the novel, and same with "Just Something".  It's amazing how I thought 1,000 words was a lot and now I'm writing over 50,000 words for my novels! 

**This is kind of a spoiler. Don't read if you want to be truly surprised by this story!** This is something I wrote for school, this week. Like, I said. I don't have a title yet, but enjoy! It's a little darker than I expected, but I like how it ended so I'm keeping like that. Joe and I were talking today about how my last two novels have really happy things that happen, and I guess the writing part of my brain wanted to prove that not all stories are happy. See, Joe! I can write unhappy things too ;). 

Enjoy, everyone!

Copyright © by S.J. Sylvis

When I opened the door to my brother’s dorm room, I almost fell over. The smell of old food and dirty laundry made my nose protest and my hand immediately covered my face. “Disgusting”, I mumbled, although no one heard me; he isn’t here.

            One side of the dorm room is perfectly, tidy. A made bed, and books neatly stacked along a desk. It was clean. If I was brave enough to pull my hand off my face, I’m sure that side of the room would smell vastly better than my brother’s. His side was unruly, messy, and just plain gross. There was a pizza box on his desk, with molding pizza inside. There were several crunched up aluminum cans, sprawled out on the top shelf and his old laptop was making some sort of a buzzing sound. I laid my other hand on it and it was as hot as a frying pan. I quickly shut it down and kicked a few articles of clothing out of the way and my made it over to his bed. The covers were splayed out all over the place and half of the navy-blue comforter was on the ground.

            I knew he wouldn’t be there. Humans are so predictable. Especially Sam. I knew it would be a bad thing for him to come to college, on his own. He can’t take care of himself, he’s never been able to take care of himself. I think his police record would back me up on that; drug charges, breaking and entering, underage drinking…which reminds me, I better look in his closet, I’m almost positive I’ll find some form of alcohol.

            When I open the closet door, it matches his room to a T—completely disordered. Some shirts were on metal hangers, others were only hanging by a sleeve, and half of them on the floor. I bend down and lift a couple of the hoodies, and sure enough…three bottles of Captain Morgan lay on the floor, empty. My stomach folds into itself and I suddenly feel the urge to puke. I know Sam’s predictable and my suspicions of him being off the bender again are coming true, but, that doesn’t mean I want to be proven right. Why can he, just this once, be unpredictable?

            When I turn to leave the room, to go to the last place I wish for him to be, I glance over at the picture taped to his bulletin board. I wish, so badly, that there were deadlines for papers on his bulletin board, maybe some pictures of his friends, and maybe even some graded papers, but the only thing hung on that cork bulletin board is a tiny picture of him and I, from years ago. Honestly, I think it’s the last picture we took together and that’s sad because we were only ten and eleven.

            Sam and I used to be best friends. We’re only fifteen months apart, so we shared most of the same friends. We got invited to the same birthday parties, played with the same neighborhood kids, everything. We did everything together. Half the time, people thought were twins. We look so much alike so I understand the accusation; dark brown, wavy hair. Same olive skin color, hunter green eyes that were too big for our faces, we looked like twins and acted like twins. We covered for each other, we played with each other, we spoke in the same wave lengths, I even went to summer school with him one year (although I didn’t have to) because I couldn’t stand the thought of him being that far away from me during the summer. Then things changed.

            Sam went to high school, and I stayed in middle school since I was a year behind. He made the wrong friends, got into the wrong crowd, and he started to shut me out. Instead of being my friend, and older brother, he just became a stranger. He was distant, never making curfew, never even acknowledging me in the house; nothing. It was like he was a ghost.

            In the picture on his bulletin board, I’m looking up at him and smiling while he has his arm around my shoulders. I remember the day perfectly. We were in the backyard, and all the neighborhood kids were there. We made up this game that was like a cross between soccer and baseball, the only stipulation of the game was that you couldn’t let the ball hit the ground, if you did, you lost. Sam and I were on a team together; of course, because everything we did, we did together, as a team. “Okay Lizzy, you take down Jacob and I’ll throw the ball up in the air and it’ll come down right over there.”, He briefly pointed to the area beside our giant oak tree and I shook my head vigorously. “You can do this, Lizzy. I know it.” I smiled brightly as I wiped sweat from my brow. It was a hot day, I remember because my grape ice-cream filed popsicle melted before I could even eat it.

            Once I took down Jacob, which was a hard task because he was much bigger than me, I leaped over his chubby body and caught the ball, winning the game. We were so excited that we begged my mom she take our picture, because we were going to plaster it to an old trophy of Sam’s and put it in the kitchen, to stare at every day. We never got around to making the trophy and I’m surprised the picture even got printed, but here it was. Staring at me, as I make my way out of my brother’s empty dorm room. It’s taunting me, reminding me of how things used to be.

            When I get in my car and head down eight street, my stomach flutters with a nervous energy. I pass by the streets as they lower in numbers, heading to the ‘bottoms’. The houses get crappier and the roads become emptier. I look to my right and the old, decaying buildings look as if there was an apocalypse. There isn’t one with a light on and most have their windows boarded up. The sun isn’t shining, it’s gloomy and it puts an even murkier feeling on the day. It’s so melancholy-like that I half expect a tumble weed to blow across the road as I slow to my destination.

            Before I get out of the car, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I haven’t prayed in a long, long time but I do it anyway, I do it because I’m desperate. I’m desperate in this very moment, hoping my brother isn’t inside.

            “God, it’s me…Lizzy. I feel really crappy that I only pray to you when I need something, but I really need something, right now. Please, please, don’t let Sam be in here. Please let him be somewhere safe, and not resulting to his old ways. I know I said I’d stopped praying that he’d get better, but I need him to go back to his old self. Please, God. Just, fix him.”

            I wait a few more seconds, before I gather my bearings and get out of the car. I zip my grey jacket, all the way to my chin because I shiver. I want to blame it on the breeze of the November air but I really think it’s because I’m so afraid of what I’m about to find. This is where he comes to get drugs. This is where I found him two years ago, buying cocaine from some cracked-out thug. This is where I thought I saved him from himself, but I always knew he’d come back. I knew it in my heart that he’d result to his old ways, again. He just needed a trigger, and being on his own in his gigantic world, yeah…that was a trigger.

            When I swing open the door, glass shatters beneath my feet. The last window on the wooden, decaying door has now broken and I jump at the sound. The glass crunches under my footsteps and I glance around the room, only finding worn blankets, empty cans, and sadly, a few dirty syringes. I hear nothing but my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears. My hands are trembling, and my feet feel heavy with each step I take towards the back corner.

            When I see brown, curly hair peeking out from a pile of blankets, my heart stops. I rush over, tripping over blankets and pieces of decaying wood, I grab the lifeless body and turn their face towards mine. All I hear is a strangled, scream. I look around and realize that no one else is here. The screams are from my own mouth, my own soul. The screams are coming from me at the sight of my dead, pale-faced, brother.