A story I wrote for English.
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“Excuse me, sir?”

I look up from my magazine to meet the eyes of the flight attendant. “Yes?” I can tell from the shock on her pretty face that she recognizes me, and a small smile curves my lips.

“Would you like something to drink? We have wine, red and white, scotch—”

“I’ll just have iced water. Mineral, if you have it.”

She nods, grabbing the top glass off the stack on the tray in front of her and quickly filling it. I notice that her hands are shaking ever so slightly.

“Here you are, sir,” she says, handing the glass to me. She doesn’t look at my face, instead keeping her eyes trained on the floor.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Daniels?” she whispers to me as she wheeled the cart away. “It was an honour to meet you.”

Shortly after that the lights in the plane dim, and I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. The plane won’t be landing in Berlin until four in the morning, and I plan to be awake and lively for my presentation tomorrow. Even a man like me has an image to uphold.

I manage to doze off for several hours, and wake up to the crackle of the loudspeaker. “Preparing for landing. Weather in Berlin is eighteen degrees Celsius. The local time is 4:13 a.m.”

With several bumps and thuds the plane hits the tarmac and coasts to a stop; slowly, the weary passengers shamble their way off board and into the terminal.

I am greeted almost immediately by a woman in a business suit. She offers a hand for me to shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Daniels, I’m Clara Richards. If you’d just follow me, there’s a vehicle waiting to take you to your hotel. Your luggage will be waiting for you there.”

Her demeanour is cool, and she meets my eyes calmly. I suppose she deals with people like me every day. I follow her through a set of doors that lead outside. The sky is clear, the air still retaining some of the night chill. I breathe it in.

The car is black and sleek, and a chauffeur sits in the front seat. The door is opened for me, and I slide inside; the interior is leather, the windows darkly tinted.

“I’ll see you in a week, Mr. Daniels,” Clara says before the door is shut and car rolls forward.

I relax back in my seat as the car drives down the almost-empty roads, relishing the comfort of the leather and the view of the city as it passes by outside my window. The skyline is brightly lit, even in the middle of the night.

“Mr. Daniels? We have arrived.” The door is opened for me and I step out. In front of me is the hotel, lit up like a palace. An extravagant fountain is on the front lawn, lit up from all angles by multicoloured lights. The hotel is five star, of course. I am led through an empty lobby, into an elevator, and down a richly carpeted hallway before stopping outside a room door.

“You’ll find your luggage inside. Please feel free to call if you need anything.” The bellhop, a young man who is perhaps twenty years old, opens my door for me before bowing and leaving me alone.

The room is lavishly furnished in wood and tile. I take a moment to wander around, admiring the granite countertops and big-screen TV. It’s a shame I will be in Berlin for less than a week.

It’s past five in the morning and my conference starts at eleven, but I find I am too jittery to sleep. I have a coffee and smoke a cigar and watch the sun rise over the city. When the clock hits nine I rise, take a shower and make some breakfast, before calling my chauffeur.

The conference is in a building downtown. Members of the media, both American and German, are lined up outside the doors. I push my way through them, a smile plastered on my face, shaking hands and patting backs. The flashes of cameras are bright in my eyes and their voices are loud in my ears.

“Mr. Daniels! How do you like Berlin so far?”

“Is it true that your company recently purchased Microsoft, Mr. Daniels?”

“What’s your next step going to be? Where do you go from here?”

Someone taps me on the back and I turn toward them, a jovial smile still on my face.

“Excuse me, sir?”

…

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Hmph?” The man jolted himself awake, blinking the sleep from his eyes and glaring blearily at the small boy standing in front of him. The boy was holding a handful of change, and he looked nervous.

“Would you like my change? It’s enough to buy a coffee, or maybe a sandwich. I’m sorry it’s not much, but it’s all I have.”

The man looked around, recognizing his surroundings—the brick wall pressed against his back, the old dog that lay at his feet and the almost-empty jar of change between the dog’s paws—and disappointment shot through him. The boy in front of him was looking at him earnestly. He couldn’t have been older than ten; down the street, a woman was racing towards him, calling his name.

“I don’t need your money,” he told the boy gruffly. “Keep it for yourself, please.”

The boy looked uncertain.

“Do you have dreams, kid?” the man asked. “Use that money to fund your dreams. Spend your life saving and working and reaching for those dreams, because maybe one day you’ll find them. Because let me tell you one thing, kid: those dreams ain’t comin’ to you.”

“Sir?”

“I’m serious, kid—you need that money more than I do. Please, don’t let your life come to this.”

The boy only stared at him, and before he could say anything the woman—presumably his mother—caught up to him. “Come on, dear. We need to get going.” She pulled him down the street and whispered something in his ear, loud enough for the man to hear: “Jacob, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

“But, mom—”

They were gone.

“Just you and me now, eh, buddy?” the man said quietly to the dog. The dog was fast asleep, his eyes closed and his head in a warm patch of sunlight. “Just you and me… the way it’s always been. Who needs money and chicks and fame, anyway?” His voice cracked, and for a few moments he was silent, watching the city and its people around them.

“I had a dream once,” he said quietly, talking more to himself than anyone. “It was a good dream, I suppose. Coulda worked, if I had tried for it. Instead I sat back and waited for it to appear in front of me. Spent too much time dreamin’ to actually achieve my dream. And I didn’t learn I had gone about it all wrong ’til it was too late.”

Across from him, a giant billboard was set into the side of a building, flashing advertisements. It was easy to imagine that instead it showed his face, his product, his name: Clark Daniels.

The man grunted and shook his head. “There I go, dreamin’ again,” he said. “You think I’d be too old for that by now.”

The dog at his feet snorted and rolled over. Stroking the top of his head fondly, the man said, “You were always there, even when the rest of the world abandoned me. You’re too good for this, boy. You deserve a home and a loving family.” He paused. “Do you have dreams?”

“Maybe a dreamer is all I was meant to be,” he said later. “Maybe I don’t have what it takes to become some big-shot computer designer. I just don’t have the perseverance, the will, the guts to do something like that.”

The dog yawned.

“And so this is where I end up,” he said softly. “On the streets, with nowhere left to go. No money, no home, no future. But I can always dream.”

He closed his eyes.

I am empty and looking for meaning and
I don’t know where to go.
If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years it’s that
the world turns and people change but no one really knows.

It’s so easy to feel invisible and lost
in a world as big as ours
I wander and wonder and search for home, following
the path of my dreams and the map of my scars.  

Sometimes I wonder if the stars had eyes
what would they have seen?
Not even they are permanent in a changing universe, but they
are hundreds of thousands times wiser than me.

If the sun and the moon leaned closer
I would take them by the hand
They would pull me through endless emptiness of space and
tell me their secrets, and one day I’d understand.

But for now I stand on a moonlit lane
and I am tired and alone
I am empty and lonely and looking for meaning and
I don’t know where to go.

Chapter 1: The Funeral

On the day of the funeral, I refuse to get out of bed. I lie with my head buried under my pillow and pretend the world doesn’t exist.

It’s a ploy that doesn’t last for long. “Alex!” my mother calls. “You need to be down here in ten minutes!”

I don’t move. Ten minutes later, someone is pounding on my door. I push my pillow closer around my ears in an attempt to block out the noise. It doesn’t work; I hear the door creak open and footsteps walk across the sun-splattered floor. Someone’s weight pushes down the end of my mattress. A hand reaches over and tugs on the pillow, pulling it off of my face. Bright light streams down and stabs at my eyes, forcing tears.

“Alex,” my mother says softly, “the service starts soon. You need to get out of bed.”

“I don’t want to go,” I say, my voice muffled. I feel like I am just barely being held together, and any movement will shatter me to pieces. There is a dangerous balance within me. I’m standing on the tip of a knife.

“You have no choice.” Her voice is sharp. It cuts through me, like the knife I stand on. “Are you coming on your own, or are we dragging you there?”

Slowly I pull myself upright until I am sitting on the edge of the bed. My feet land in a puddle of sunlight and it warms my toes. Even the slight change in position has shifted the balance: unwarranted tears begin to fall down my cheeks.

“Oh, honey,” my mother murmurs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, “I know it hurts. It hurts us, too.”

“How could he think I didn’t love him?” I whisper.

“He knew. I’m sure he knew.”

“Not enough,” I murmur, so quiet I’m not sure if she hears me. It was never enough.

“The least you can do for him is show up today.”

I’m not sure if I can; I know the funeral, the crush of people, the casket, will be too much for me. It will break me all over again. But I nod anyway.

My mother kisses me on the top of my head and rises. “We need you downstairs soon,” she says, and then she is gone.

I sit, silent and still, for a moment after she leaves. And then slowly, so slowly, like a cripple or an invalid, I stand up and make my way over to my closet.

It’s not difficult to choose something to wear. I bring out a black skirt I haven’t worn in years and a black-and-grey checkered sweater. It’s a little too small, but I wear it anyway. My hair is messy and I don’t have time for a shower, so I put it up in a ponytail.

My parents are waiting for me as I come downstairs. They both look worried; I think for a moment that maybe I look as fragile as I feel. Just for them, I manage a smile, and hold out my hands for them to take. With my father on one side and my mother on the other, we make our way out to the car.

There are a lot of people at the church, many whom I don’t know. I keep my head bowed and my hands clasped as we make our way to our seats in the first pew. People begin to file in after us. They are all dressed uniformly in black. I think that together, we are the very image of death, and the balance within me tips again.

There’s a sermon. I’m sure it’s sad, but I don’t hear any of it; my ears are filled with buzzing, and the sound of memories.

“I feel so alone sometimes,” my brother is telling me.

“It’s because you’re different, David,” I say. “But in a good way. People don’t know what to think of you.”

He pauses. “I want people to think well of me. I want to be liked. I don’t want to be different; I want to be normal.”

“All you can do is be who you are.”

“What if who I am isn’t good enough?”

I pat his hand reassuringly. “Who you are is good enough for me.” And then I leave the room, intent on doing homework or calling a friend perhaps, and it isn’t until much later when I realize that I didn’t tell him what he needed to hear. My brother had always been much better at saying the right thing than me. I remember another time, years ago, when I was six and he was nine. I had just fallen off my bicycle and blood was falling from my knee the way tears were falling from my eyes.

“It’s okay to cry,” he says even as I attempt to hide my tears. “It just means that you’re hurting.”

“It means I’m a baby,” I say, sniffling. “I don’t want to be a baby anymore.”

“Everyone cries,” he protests. “Even grownups cry.”

“Do you cry?”

“Sometimes,” he confides, after a moment.

“Do you cry because you’re sad?”

“Sometimes,” he repeats.

“I don’t want you to cry. I don’t want you to be sad.”

“I don’t want you to cry either.” So just for him, I wipe away the last of my tears and give a watery smile. “That’s better.” He helps me to my feet. “You know,” he says, all serious, “it’s okay to fall down, as long as you get back up.”

There’s one more memory, a brief series of text messages:

I’ll be home soon. How’re you feeling? I knew my brother had been upset earlier that day, even though he had tried to hide it from me.

Better.

Are you sure?

Yep. See you soon.

Four words. And every single one of them was a lie.

The sermon has ended and people are on their feet. I’m curled into myself, sobbing. My heart aches and my eyes are squeezed tightly shut against the memory-images, and it’s a moment before I realize that my mother has her arm around my shoulders and is offering me a fistful of tissues. I take them and apply them to my eyes and running nose. And then I’m being pulled to my feet. I shake and shiver and almost collapse, but my mother’s arm holds me steady.

Everyone else is on their feet too, and slowly – or maybe it just seems slow to me – they make their way down the aisle towards us, the broken family standing at the front of the church.

There are not very many people with dry eyes, and even as I welcome their sympathy I despise their pity. Condolences are murmured in low voices, words of sorrow and regret. They mean nothing to me; I barely hear them at all. These aren’t the people who lost a brother or a son or a best friend. They can’t understand how I feel, no matter how much they try to pretend.

I put on a mask and reply with equally meaningless thank yous and it’s okays.

The church walls are lined with high windows filled with panes of multicoloured glass. The sunlight shatters through them and lands as scattered rainbows on the floor. How is it possible, I wonder, for something that has been broken to be so beautiful? I want to hold such beauty; unerringly, I move towards the nearest rainbow that plays across the back of a pew and attempt to cup it in my hands. The colourful light plays across my palms but it is as distant as my brother and as unreal as my memories. When I curl my hands into fists, they hold nothing within them.

Maybe all beauty is superficial. Maybe beauty that you can touch and hold doesn’t exist anymore. Or maybe my heart is just closed to it.

My mother reaches out to me and gently takes my hand. She pulls me forward, and I see that my father is already a few paces ahead of us, making his way toward the casket that stands at the front of the church, caught in two beams of rainbow light.

I don’t want to go anywhere near the casket. But my mother’s pull is insistent, and slowly I follow her.

The casket is dark mahogany shined to a brilliant polish. I lean over it and see my face reflected back at me. It’s closed; it’s something my parents both insisted on, a closed-casket ceremony. It’s hard to believe that beneath several inches of wood lies my brother, his eyes closed and his hands clasped. I run my finger along the smooth wooden surface and my breath catches in my throat.

“Good-bye, David,” my father whispers. His hand is touching the casket the same way mine is; impulsively, I reach out and take it.

“We loved you so much,” says my mother. There are tears in her voice.

I don’t say anything, because I’m incapable of speech. And what does it matter if he can’t hear us anyway? In my head, I say, Did you never realize how much I loved you? You were everything to me. And now I’m left with nothing. Now I’m empty. Is this how you felt, David? Is this why you did it?

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed it most. You were always there for me, and I should have tried harder to repay the favour. I loved you but I didn’t say it, because I always assumed you knew. I guess now I know that there are some things that need to be heard aloud to be believed.

This is the closest I’ll ever come to touching you again. Soon you will be lowered into the ground and covered with dirt and flowers and a stone to remember you by. I’ll visit you, every day. And I’ll never love you less than I do at this very moment.

My mother’s arm is around my shoulders and my father’s is around my waist. We stand close together, but are separated irreversibly by grief. We stand for a moment more over the dark casket that houses my brother’s body, each lost in thought.

“We should go,” my father says softly, and I nod. We remain connected to each other through touch as we make our way down the long aisle. I think that we are all depending on each other for strength. If we had stood apart, we would all collapse to the ground and never get up again.

It’s okay to fall down, as long as you get back up.

Outside, the sky is blue and speckled with clouds, and I am crying.

Prologue: Moonlight

It is the middle of the night, and a girl sits awake on the edge of her bed. Moonlight bleeds through the window and pools on the floor by her feet. In her hand is a cellphone, still blinking with the last message received.

Yep. See you soon, it reads.

Tears fall from her cheeks. They shine in the moonlight, break open on the floor. She reads the message over and over, four words forever engrained in her heart. They were the last words he ever sent her. The last words he ever sent anyone.

Something tears apart inside of her, and she whimpers.

The house is silent, but she imagines that her parents are sitting silent vigil downstairs. They may as well be a world away. She has never felt so alone. Her foot sits in the pool of moonlight, but it lacks the warmth of the sun. It is cold and unfeeling, a state she is attempting to achieve.

Eventually dawn washes across the sky and erases the moonlight. The girl doesn’t move. Her thoughts are in turmoil, but her demeanour is calm; the tears running down her cheeks are the only sign that she is alive. She sits like a statue on the edge of a bed with her feet planted on the floor and a phone clasped in her hands, four last words written across the screen. She is waiting, although she doesn’t know what for yet. She is lonely and empty and aching. She is angry and sad and guilty and missing.

She is me, and this is where my story begins, as a new day paints over the memories of the night before.