Final Family Matters

Trigger warning of all of the below

-Sexual violence

-Mental health

-Substance abuse

-Physical violence, gore, or abuse

-Suicide or self harm

I rush down the long, white, brightly lit corridor of the hospital, my footsteps echoing in the silence. My brother, who has been battling a severe illness for months, had a catastrophic episode just an hour ago and was now laying in a sterile room. The air feels thick with worry, and my heart races in my chest as I push open the door. Inside, two doctors stand over him, clipboards in hand, observing his vitals.

One of them notices me and pulls me aside. His expression is grave, and I feel the weight of his words settle over me. He explains that my brother has been drifting in and out of consciousness, and if he slips back into it, there’s no telling how long he might stay there—or if he will ever wake up again. The doctor prepares me for the harshest reality: as his closest living relative, I will have to decide whether to pull the plug if the time comes. I nod, understanding the gravity of the situation, though my mind feels numb.

I return to my brother’s room. He’s lying weakly on the bed, the familiar hum of medical equipment surrounding him. Oxygen tubes run into his nose, a sensor beeps steadily on his finger, and an IV is hooked up to his arm. The machines are a constant reminder of his fragility. As soon as he notices me, a weak smile tugs at his lips.

“Good to see you, brother,” he says with a dopey grin, clearly drugged up. “They’ve got me on a lot of stuff here.”

“I can tell,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light despite the overwhelming weight of the moment. “How are you holding up?”

“Been better,” he responds with a series of weak coughs. After a pause, he adds, “I need to tell you something.”

I sit down beside him, feeling a lump form in my throat. “Of course,” I say. “Anything, man. What’s going on?”

His voice becomes softer as he begins to speak, as if the words are too heavy to bear. “Life wasn’t easy for us growing up, was it? Mom died when we were so young, and you—being the oldest of three—had to take on more than you ever should’ve. I remember that time our little sister was getting picked on by that older boy, Zeke. You stepped in and took the beating for her.” He chuckles weakly at the memory.

“Yeah, I remember that. Zeke and his friends beat me up over her coloring book,” I say, a small smile tugging at my lips. It’s a bittersweet memory, one that reminds me of the kind of older brother I always tried to be.

“And then she…” His voice falters for a moment. “She killed herself, too. At such a young age.” He pauses, eyes distant, as if he’s seeing it all again in his mind. “Just a few weeks before Dad died. You had already left for college, and I was stuck there, finishing my last year of high school.”

I feel a sharp pang in my chest as his words cut through me. I’d always known about their deaths, but hearing it all laid bare—especially the truth behind it—was another thing entirely.

“Why are you bringing all this up now?” I ask, my voice shaky. “I don’t want you to be—”

“To be what? Thinking about it as I’m about to roll over and die?” he snapped, cutting me off. He sighed and softened his tone. “Like I said, after you left, things changed. It was just Dad, our little sister, and me. One day, she came into my room, crying her eyes out. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me. She was never one to cry. Not in front of anyone, anyway. But she did it again, a few weeks later. I started hearing her whimpering in the hallway, late at night. She’d try to hide it from me, but I could still hear it.”

He broke into another coughing fit, this time coughing up blood. He wiped his palm on the blanket, brushing off my concern with a weak laugh. “Not much longer now,”

he says, though I’m unsure if he means his life or his story. In that moment, I fear it could be both.

“As I was saying,” he continues, his voice growing fainter. “One day, I figured it out. I saw bruises on her arms, and I knew. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but I couldn’t ignore it. Someone was hurting her.” His eyes darken. “So, I followed her. Watched her on her way to school, sat through her sports practice, followed her back home. That day, I saw her walk down the hall, holding her eyes in tears again. She closed the door softly behind her, trying to hide her pain. This time, I couldn’t just let it go. I left my room, walked down the hallway, and knocked on her door. No reply. I knocked again. No reply. But then I felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder. His voice, low and menacing: ‘How about you quit bothering your sister, son?’”

Another fit of coughing racks his body. I want to offer him water, but he refuses. Instead, he wipes the blood on his hospital blanket.

“Your story… this was all over ten years ago. Why are you telling me now?” I ask, feeling a deep sense of unease settling over me. My brother looks down, regret flashing across his face.

“Because of what happens next.” His eyes glisten with pain. “The next day, I followed her again. I didn’t go back to my room. I kept a close eye on her. At one point, I saw Dad lead her into his room. I didn’t know what to think, at first. But then I went outside, climbed up on the roof, and looked through the window.” He stops for a moment, his voice trembling. “It was him. Dad. He was taking advantage of her against her will. I saw it, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I ran inside, grabbed one of Dad’s guns, and stormed toward his room. I heard her scream. She was in pain. I burst through the door, and the looks on their faces were pure shock. She covered her face, and I—I pulled out the gun. Dad stepped forward, and I shot him. In the head.”

My stomach turns. I am speechless, frozen by disbelief. How could I have been so far away, so blind to what was happening in my own family? “But… Dad went missing on that camping trip.”

“That’s the story we told you,” he says softly. “Our sister and I came up with it to protect me. I swear, that’s when this illness started. It’s been with me ever since.” He looks down, his face twisted in guilt. “Our sister, she—she couldn’t handle it. She killed herself shortly after. And me? I spent every penny Dad left on hospital bills, trying to stay alive. But none of it matters. I don’t need your sympathy. I just needed you to know what really happened.”

I sit in stunned silence, my mind spinning. I knew about their deaths, but I never knew the truth. Not until now. The weight of my brother’s words crushes me, leaving me breathless.

“Can you hand me those pills?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence. I don’t hesitate. He takes the pills from my hand, his eyes meeting mine one last time.

“I know the doctors gave you the option to pull my plug if I go under again,” he says, his voice filled with a strange calm. “I love you,” he said, swallowing the pills all at once. “And I don’t want you to have to live with killing a family member, like I did.”

He swallows all the pills in one go. I leap forward, trying to stop him, but he pushes me away with surprising strength. “No!” I shout, my heart hammering in my chest. “What have you done?”

I scream for the doctors, and a nurse rushes in. I explain what happened in a frantic blur. Before anyone can react, I hear it—the unmistakable, chilling sound of a flatline. The loud, mournful beep fills the room, the sound of death.

Doctors rush in, but it’s too late. After all their efforts, they couldn’t bring him back. I’m escorted out of the room, helpless. The last breath of my brother is gone, and with it, the final truth of our shattered family.

And I never spoke of this again.