Like Water On Stone: Prologue (prose, novel)

By Constance R.

My life ended at age six. I remember it so vividly, that last fleeting moment of tranquility, that last breath where everything tasted crisp and pure like mountain air. That last moment before my world was to come crashing down on top of my head and crushing what little pure and innocent soul I had left inside of me. I remember being alive, sitting up in my room, staring out my window into the dark night.
It had been my birthday that evening; Family had gathered and we had celebrated the usual way with cake and ice cream, presents, games, laughter and joy. And candles. Who could forget those candles? How I did love blowing them out... and especially making a wish. Mine never really came true, and I didn't really expect this one to, either.
My oldest brother Mathew was always teasing me, night and day—not that I really hated it, of course, but it did get on my nerves every so often, and tonight happened to be no exception. I remember being perched in front of my birthday cake like a bird before the plunge, thinking about something to wish for. Mathew happened to reach out and pinch me on the arm and whisper 'fairy-boy' just as I was deciding and my eyes opened. I blew out the candles hard, as if that were to force my wish into the smoke as it drifted up and away to those who might have granted such things.
The party continued like every other; my grandmother and grandfather playing poker with the grandchildren; my parents stealing loving glances at one another as they passed in the kitchen. My brothers resumed wrestling in the living room as my aunts and uncles argued about politics and Nascar—And then there was me, right in the center of everything I observed every gesture, clung to every word. That was one of the many strange hobbies of mine when I was young, memorizing my life much like an actor memorizes a play, perhaps hoping that one day I would get to recite it all. Maybe even please an audience, capture fame, and I guess that's what I'm doing now. Except for the fame part, I've never really wished for that.
The party ended around 9:45 as the last of my relatives filed out the door. The entire event left me feeling warm inside and simply contented with my own existence, as most children are. I went up to my room that I shared with my second oldest brother, Reagan. I didn't usually mind him, though he snored on occasion and sometimes talked in his sleep. Normally I would stay up and look out my window, watching the moon and stars twist about the night sky, and that is exactly what I did. The night crept on, my head full or memorization and deep thinking. I had always liked the night more than the day; it just seemed more peaceful, at ease, unlike its predecessor which was packed full of chaos, schedules, school, family and chores... Nighttime was my freedom. My time to think and do what I wanted, which admittedly wasn't much, except contemplating the infinite ways of the Universe. I loved to think about where my life would be going; what kind of a job I might have, my family, where I'd go in the world, who'd I'd meet and what I'd see. Yet, I never really contemplated the here and now. The little things that I recorded in my mind but never analyzed with care.
As I was coming to that small realization as I sat poised at my window, that sickening explosive din shattered my thoughts and scattered them across my consciousness. Though at the time I was unaware, it was from that immediate second that my very life was to be flipped upside-down and violently shaken until all of it's contents crashed to the floor.
I was out of the room before Reagan could jerk himself out of bed—I was down the hall before my parents left their room—And I was standing in Mathew's bedroom doorway as he slid from his bed onto his floor, a faint red spot on his white T-shirt growing more and more pronounced with the passing seconds. That alone left me enough time to go over and sit down beside him, to place my hand upon that red spot and watch as it extended past my small hand without any hindrance at all. Within 10 seconds my parents were inside the room, my mother howling and covering her face with her hands and my father just standing and staring. Reagan arrived shortly after, but soon ran back to fetch the phone downstairs. But what I remember most is that red spot. How it grew and transformed and soon migrated to the floor, where it crept silently past me, wetting my knees, shins, and feet.
At first I didn't quite grasp what it was, that inevitable crimson that flooded out of my brother's chest, that trickled from his nose and spilled from his lips. I think it only sunk in when I looked into my brother's eyes and saw no flicker of life; only that cold, blank, dead stare—The one you see in animals as they lay crushed on the highway, their bodies mangled and the life pressed out of them. It was only then that the word entered my mind; Dead. I don't ever really recall seeing the gun, though I'm sure I glimpsed it. I don't remember the ambulance, or the police cars, or the black body bag. I only remember those dead eyes and that growing spot of red—and his taunting, mischievous smile. Who could have forgotten that? He wore it like this was all just one big joke. Like the entire ordeal was amusing to him; That the fact that I would never again have him walk me to school—that never again would I be able to run away from him as he doused Reagan and I with the garden hose—That never again would I be able to go to him when I was terrified, when nightmares clawed at my dreams or when my parents screamed to one another at three A.M. That I would never again see him.
For years I couldn't understand why he died. The term suicide made no sense to me—All I understood was that he left us. In his place there was this strange filling up of space that seemed to occur once the funeral was over, after the mourners had gone home and after the tears had dried out. There was that strange feeling that left the entire house with a dense fog. No one really laughed or joked and everyone kept busy—Especially my father; Mathew had been his favorite, everyone had know that. Mathew had always been rather intelligent, did decent in school, participated in sports and was popular. Your average pleasant fifteen year old kid. Yet something had gone wrong—some fuse had gone out in his mind, and he snapper. I never figured out why.
It was only one day when I was sitting up in his room, like I wasn't suppose to, contemplating the ever fragile ways of life, when it can back to me—my wish on my birthday I had made a month or so previous. When I wished he'd leave me alone. But how could I have know that it would be forever? Even to this day, I still feel that that played some part, no matter how small, in the destruction of his life and the ensuing chaos and hell of mine.