The floor has been scrubbed of the sea of blood and the bed has been remade as if it’s waiting for him to return anytime now. All of his personal things remain on display, and his clothes still hang in the closet.
Robotically, I inch into the room, an onslaught of raw emotions raining down on me with every painful step. Breathing normal is fucking impossible as the tightness in my chest intensifies, the memories associated with everything I see overwhelming. Irrepressible tears fall freely down my face, and I don’t even bother wiping the wetness away.
Bending down next to his beanbag chair, I pick up the video game controller and trace my fingertips over each of the rubber buttons, sobbing as I think about how many hours Caleb spent with this in his hands. It would’ve been at the top of his list for most prized possessions.
After I return the plastic device to where it was, I stand up and walk over to his dresser, where the black Denver Broncos beanie he bought in the airport when we first landed in Colorado sits. Lifting it to my face, the refreshing scent of the shampoo we’ve always shared inundates my nose, and I remember him telling me the shampoo was a chick magnet.
“No girl can resist the just-walked-through-a-waterfall smell. They all want to touch it and play with it while they rub their boobs against your arm,” he’d claimed with a shit-eating smirk plastered across his face.
I chuckle lightly at the memory. God, that kid was something else. Everyone loved Caleb. His smile and easygoing attitude were infectious, and more than anything, he was genuine.
Setting the hat down, I open the top drawer of the chest and, not surprisingly, I find two perfectly folded stacks of t-shirts, the way Mom always organized our clothes. I pull a few out and images of him wearing each of them appear in my mind, a big, goofy grin spread across his face every time.
When I go to pull the next one out, something shiny in the back of the drawer catches my eye, and I hurriedly move the rest of the shirts out of the way to see what it is. A loud laugh erupts from me when I find a handheld vaporizer, a small sack of weed, and a lighter. My little brother kept a secret stash that all of the cops and detectives who had been here didn’t even find. After they found no sign of forced entry or foul play, and the autopsy didn’t show anything suspicious, the case was officially closed as an accidental death.
Moving from the dresser to his bed, I lean against the mattress as I pick up the framed picture from his nightstand of him, me, and our mom from South Padre Island two summers ago. Three tanned, smiling faces stare up at me, standing in front of our beachfront hotel, and even though we were already dealing with Caleb’s diagnosis, we were blessed to have each other.
Is that what Caleb would want?
I hear the question again in my head, and the answer is now resoundingly clear. Caleb would want us to be happy, like he was every single day of his life, no matter what he had to deal with. He’d want us to not hold back from life, to give it our all. And he’d want us to remain a family and always be there for each other.
No matter what.
Especially now, when we need each other the most.
Holding tight to the photo, I pull my phone out and text my mom, asking her to meet me here when she gets off work. Thankfully, she replies in less than thirty seconds, agreeing to show up after her shift, and I blow out a relieved breath. Glancing at the clock, I realize she won’t be home for several hours, so I pull the beanie on my head, grab the pot, and plop down on his beanbag chair, where I smoke and play video games, feeling closer to Caleb than I have since he died.
I fail the history final. I fail the history class. And after one semester in college, I’m officially on academic probation. Too bad I don’t care.
My organized, well put-together life, where all I needed were my plants, my family, and overindulgent Sunday dinners to be happy, is a thing of the past. None of it seems to matter anymore.
When Caleb and Crew walked into my life, colors changed from light pastels to bright and bold. Now that they’re both gone, I didn’t simply return to where I was before, but I’m even worse off, trapped in the flat world of black, white, and grayscale. It’s almost as if the universe played some cruel, sick joke on me, somehow knowing exactly how attached I’d get to them, only to watch and laugh as they were ripped away.
Fuck the universe.
Fuck stupid history classes that have no relevance in my life.
Fuck that skank Tasha and her stupid fire crotch.
Fuck Beckham and his conniving ass, who knew what he was inviting me over to witness.
Fuck Crew for making me fall for him and then for leaving me a shattered mess.
And if whoever is knocking on my bedroom door doesn’t stop soon, fuck them too.
“Hudson, come on. We’re all waiting on you to open presents,” Brighton calls out from the hallway, jiggling the locked knob. “Denver’s about to lose his mind, and Grams is almost as bad.”
Christmas morning. The best morning of the year, without a doubt. I’m usually the first one awake and waiting in the living room, not even needing any caffeine to be bouncing off the walls with anticipation and excitement.
But not today.
It’s seven-fifteen and I’m still in my bed, under the covers, groaning at the thought of getting up and pretending I’m happy for the holiday. For the last couple years, I’ve been the one in charge of planning the day-long festivities, but with finals and everything that happened with the Elliott brothers this year, I didn’t have it in me.
Fuck the festivities.
The last eight days were spent either stoned and sad or sober and angry. Someone else must be doing my chores, ‘cause I haven’t. Life is moving on around me, but I’m just in the corner, watching it all pass me by, uncaring. My family checks on me, bringing me food and water like I’m a pet who needs taking care of—and maybe right now I do. I’m just numb.
“It’s time to get up, sweet pea. Enough is enough.” My dad raps his knuckle against the door and the unusually stern tone in his voice tells me not to ignore him.
I swing my legs over the side of the mattress and shuffle over to the door, unlocking and opening it to a smile spread across his face that contradicts the impatience I just heard.
“Merry Christmas, Hudson,” he booms, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “We’ll give you a few minutes to wash your face and brush your teeth, but we need to start opening gifts. Mom and Grams need to get over to the lodge to cook breakfast for the guests, and the rest of us all have jobs today. Yours are listed on the board in the kitchen.”
Nodding, I continue on to the bathroom without a word, and as soon as I close the door behind me, I cringe at the sight of my own reflection. Shit, I look rough. My unwashed hair is stringy and tangled, dry skin clings to my high cheek bones, more noticeable now than ever, and the purple-tinted half-moons under each eye make me look like I haven’t slept in a week, only the truth is I haven’t hardly gotten out of bed in that long. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I had the flu. But I’m not sick.
I’m heartbroken.
Somehow, I manage to make it through the morning round of presents from my family and Santa, saying thank you and smiling appreciatively at all the proper times. I don’t even recall what I got. Clothes, maybe? A CD? Nothing of importance. Nothing that can compare to what I’ve lost. Nothing can fill the empty void.