I, however, have had the same consistent nightmare for the past five years.
No matter how it starts, it always ends the same way—me opening Patrick’s bedroom door and finding him hung by a rope slung around the ceiling fan. Every time the nightmare comes, so do the cold sweats it provokes and the rancid taste of bile clawing at my throat.
I run to the bathroom and throw up all my stomach’s contents, heaving so loudly it is sure to wake up the dead. Once there is nothing left to purge, I get up off my knees, brush my teeth, and jump in the shower just so I can feel human again.
The memory of my brother giving in to his suffering never gets any easier with time.
People are fond of saying that time heals all wounds.
That’s a lie.
Some wounds just fester until they rot your soul and blacken your heart.
After Patrick died, this family has never been the same.
I haven’t been the same.
I was his older brother, the one he came to when he had nightmares of his own and needed a protector to cast them away. But somewhere between childhood and adolescence, he no longer turned to me for help. Instead, he shrunk into his melancholic cocoon until all that was left of him was a shell of the sweet, sensitive brother I used to hold in my arms to help him sleep.
Of course, I had to find someone to blame for his death.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of blaming him for being so weak.
For being so cruel to leave us like that.
No.
There was another party that deserved my wrath, and their name was Hernandez.
If it wasn’t for their drugs, Patrick would have never summoned the courage to kill himself. I can still see the needle and smack on top of his dresser. He knew that his suicide would cause the ultimate suffering to his family. And because he couldn’t handle that, he needed to get high to be able to take the easy way out.
But life for Patrick was never easy.
He never understood the life of made men.
Never agreed with our actions nor how we earned our living.
He attended too many of his friends’ and kins’ funerals, sang too many Danny Boys, for it not to have made a deep impact on his soul. He was too good. Too kind. Too damn empathetic to the world’s pain, and he suffered even more for the part our family had in such destruction. And so, he did the only thing he could do to stop his misery. He killed himself just so he could finally find the peace that had eluded him all his life.
My brother was the least selfish person I have ever met.
And yet, it was his last and only selfish act that permanently scarred me.
“I miss you, brother. But I still can’t forgive you,” I whisper, letting the water fall down my face, pretending my tears aren’t mixed in with it.
After there are no more tears to be shed, I get out of the shower and walk into my bedroom to put on some sweatpants. A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s not yet four in the morning. Too early to start the day and too late to go back to sleep. I decide to answer some emails from my office, but when I pass Rosa’s room and hear her small cries coming from inside, panic sets in. I stand by the door, hearing her weep, knowing I’m the cause of such anguish. The way I treated her last night and again today still shames me. I couldn’t even handle the damage I had done to her sober, needing to drink myself into a stupor just to gain my nerve to do what had to be done.
I shouldn’t be surprised that lately my nights are filled with nightmares of Patrick.
My guilty conscience has always had a way of manifesting at the most inopportune times.
And after all I’ve done to my wife, the devil himself should come to me in my sleep and have his way with me.
I know I should leave Rosa to her grief, but as each of her pained wails get louder, so does my resolve to stay away from her evaporate. I creak the door open and see her twist and turn in the bed, tears similar to the ones I just shed streaming down her face.
The devil is even crueler than I gave him credit for.
Instead of continuously tormenting me in my sleep, he decided my wife was fair game.
I quickly run inside, slide in next to her on the bed, and wrap my arms around her.
“Shh, acushla. It’s only a bad dream,” I coo softly in her ear.
She nestles into me, hiding her face in the crook of my neck, her tears scorching my skin.
“Shh, love. You’re safe. Shh. All is well. Shh,” I try to comfort her, rubbing her back so her tears can subside. But each one that falls is another cut to my already slashed-up heart.
“Tiernan,” she croaks, her voice still sounding half asleep and in pain.
“I’m here, acushla. I’m here. You’re safe, love. You’re safe,” I repeat on a loop, hoping my voice will coax her fully awake and away from the demons that plague her.