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Mrs. Emmett’s cries are an echo, a faraway sound. I’m being pulled back by nurses forcing me to let go of Jackson’s now cooling hand. I don’t want to let go, I can’t let go.
“Let go, son.” My dad gently tells me, pulling my hand away. Finally letting go, I turn for the door, I can’t look back. I can’t handle this.
My mom grabs for me, but I yank away, I need a drink. I need the whole bottle. I need to drown out the pain.
I need out.
Seven days later, I didn’t go to the funeral. I couldn’t get out of bed, let alone even know my name, I made sure I couldn’t. The alcohol made me forget, the weed kept me in a haze. I was lost, and I didn’t want to be found.
I lost my best friend. My brother. My teammate.
I lost myself.
