He died, and all I felt was a gnawing emptiness. My brother, my flesh and blood, was gone, and all I could think about was how this would effect my grades, my popularity, my life. I wanted only to feel something, anything, but when the pain hit, I longed for the numbness to return. He was so selfish..And yet I understood why he'd done it. I ached to go too, yet it wasn't him I missed, but a piece of my life that had just always been there. I went to the funeral, and I cried…but it was just water on my face. In my heart I yawned, I fidgeted, I screamed at the stupid people around me, crying for a soul they'd never known. I was the only one who really knew him..He was mine…and no one else could know this. He was my lover, my tormentor, my brother. The footsteps on the carpet outside my room that told me it was time, the heavy breathing on my face and the murmured threats in my ears. MY experiences. MY hell. MY brother. They could never feel the pain I felt, or the contradictory emotions that tear my soul apart. But as I sit here silent, in my little room, the walls closing in on me, I have a confession to make. One that sheds my heart and makes me weep for the little girl inside of me. After everything he's put me through, the pain, the hatred and the fear…I love him. And I pray for him every night just before the hospital lights die and my world is once again plunged into darkness. I pray that he's in a better place…I pray that he knows that I love him, despite the things he did. And sometimes, I even pray that I'll hear his footsteps on the carpet outside my room once again…And then I weep until I become hysterical and the needle kisses my arm to take me to the softer place. But most of all I pray for my innocence back. The innocence ripped out of me like a weed, by my lover, my tormentor…my brother.