Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 9. Little Ache

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CHAPTER 8: LITTLE ACHE

It’s been two days since Albert was confined to the Adventist Hospital in Puerto Princesa. While walking to the main deck, he passed out and was unconscious. With nothing but this option left hidden in my sleeve, I did the one thing I’d promised myself I’d never do: use my family’s connections. I called the hospital where my grandfather had donated a considerable amount of money and demanded they send a chopper down to pick us up. They were more than happy to assist us; it’s not every day that billionaire donors make such requests. At 2:05 AM the same morning, they flew Albert to the hospital and performed emergency surgery. Since then, he’s been asleep and hasn’t woken up.

Glancing outside the Florida ceiling windows, I was in the clubhouse restaurant waiting for my lunch. I came back to the resort and was planning on picking up some of our clothes before heading back. I wasn’t really in the mood to eat, but I knew I wouldn't be eating if I didn’t grab a bite now. Not understanding what I was looking at, my mind wandered elsewhere and was not present. Whenever I thought of something else, some unknown force drove me to think of Albert. So I dithered my eyes against anything concrete. The group of people swimming was a good distraction.

The main pool area past the outdoor seating was filled with guests refusing to experience the splendour of the ocean. Apart from that, the poolside pergolas shaded with hanging exotic flowers and flamingo-shaped topiaries were a great selfie spot. The blossoming mix of orchids, bougainvillaea, and roses dangling above was an Instagram like waiting to happen.

Swimming in a large Olympic-sized pool and doing a butterfly stroke was the reigning queen bee of social media. Candy rose from the pool like a swimsuit ad waiting to happen. She stridently glided and walked to the stairs, where she was handed a towel by Katrina, the resort’s personal assistant. She immediately saw me and sashayed in her two-piece swimsuit, sitting on the vacant chair in front of me without asking if she could take the seat. "So how’s Albert?" she asked.

Cracking a smile from my hardened expression had proved to be a challenge. My usual relaxed nature after living on the islands for a decade was suddenly gone. I was frustrated, and the frustration never left my face. "Still not awake," I said curtly. I noticed her boyfriend, who was taking videos of her, was nowhere to be seen. "Where’s that guy that follows you around?"

"Jeffrey? He’s been editing some videos. He’ll be in our room the whole day." I expected her to stop there, but she added, "And he’s not really my boyfriend."

Her tone was a pitch lower. Gone was the sassiness in her voice, replaced by the sound of a gym teacher who needed a drink in the middle of the day. I heard her speak like this on the yacht when she confronted me. I never imagined she’d talk to me this way in a friendly manner. Now I’m forced to be courteous by asking, "Really?"

"We broke up. Months ago. I just kept him since he’s good at what he does. Like, he's superb at editing me into a size 0. I had to pretend that we're still together in public. Honestly, he’s got nowhere else to go, so I’m being charitable."

"And you’re explaining this to me because?" I said, sounding nonchalant.

She squeezed her cup D’s by crossing her arms and said in a higher pitch, "Because we’re friends, right?"

"Yeah. We’re friends. It’s like I have a choice."

"You don’t." When did Candy and I start speaking candidly? Did our shared experience that night completely alter everything? She raised her hands to get some service, and a server approached our table. Reading through the menu, she said, "I’d like to have one mango ensalada, adobo fritters, deconstructed kare-kare, crispy pata, mango and papaya salad—"

"Are you eating all of that by yourself?" I said, wondering why she ordered the group meals.

"No. It’s for us." She pointed at her personal assistant to sit on the vacant chair at our table.

Katrina smiled and said, "Sir," as she took her seat.

Candy continued with her quest to stuff her mouth with food. "Hmm. What else?" Her eyes lingered on the European section of the menu. "Oh, we’ll have the prosciutto pizza and paella; that’s good for four, right?"

The server said, No, ma’am. It’s good for two, but we can accommodate to make the serving good for four."

"Ok. Increase the serving size to four."

"There’s too much food," I said tersely.

"It’s also for you, silly."

"Me?"

"You’ll be needing a lot of strength once you get back to the hospital. So eat up, ok?"

"But I already ordered the yoghurt bowl."

"That’s your lunch? Nonsense." She bobbed her head to the server and said, "Please cancel his order, whatever that was." She kept browsing the menu. "Lunch is on me, so you’d have to eat what I get. We’ll also have mango juice and a watermelon shake, and what drink do you want, babe?"

I gazed left and right, wondering who she was speaking to. "Are you talking to me?"

She rolled her eyes at my enervated display and laconic response. "Yes. It’s you silly. I call my friends babe. Get used to it." She said to the server, "He’s having the avocado shake."

The server got all of her orders as he proceeded to the kitchen, and as I looked to my left, Carlo, the bartender appeared in front of our table. I didn't know where he came from except that he was suddenly at our feet. I was eyeing him, and his head was solemnly drawn to the ground, looking pitiful. But I wasn’t having it. Before needing to explain, I said to him, "You already know my answer."

"Ser. Please. I need this job. I have to send money to my family in the province. We need the money, ser. My father is sick and we need food on our table. Please. Forgive me."

Kulas was grabbing some lunch at the resto and possibly saw Carlo at our table. He came from the kitchen and quickly went to grab him by the arm. He whispered, "Anak, wag ka mag iskandalo dito. Nakakahiya. Dun tayo sa opisina." (Son, don't make a scandal here. It's embarrassing. Let's go to the office.)

But he was stern in his pleas. The only thing he needed to do to truly sound convincing was crawl abjectly on the ground with his face downward, crestfallen with tears running down his eyes, asking for mercy for his sins and shouting heedless adulation to the saints. Please, ser. I really need this job. Give me another chance. Maawa po kayo sa akin ser. Patawad po." (Have pity on me, sir. Forgive me.)

The restaurant was packed. My voice was like a long steel rod hitting an iron gong when I said loudly, "Then stop fucking the guests. It's not part of your job description, is it? I told you, you’re fucking fired. Get out of my face!" He stared at me, pleading. I shouted, "Out! Get the fuck out of here or I’ll drag you out myself—I swear to god!"

Everybody stared at us. Everyone stared at him as the whispering and murmurs began to dilute the sounds of the room. I felt him shrivel. I knew that in that silence, he had turned to nothing—I stripped all sense of his dignity bare. And I did that. My cruelty did that to him. The moment I said it, my eyes bulged upon the realisation that I had turned exactly into the monster I didn’t want Albert to see.

What have I done?

"Totoy! What is the matter with you?" said Kulas, shocked by what he heard. "Dis is too much. Way too much. You’re not like dis. What is going on with you boy?" He pulled Carlo as they walked back to the kitchen, dragging the man who’d found out that a single mistake had cost him his job, his livelihood, and his family’s only source of income.

Even Kulas got involved in this mess of mine. This hotheadedness, stemming from my frustration, dealt with my doubts and fears that whatever was happening to Albert was pouring out in real life. I was edging closer to saying something that could hurt those near my heart. I needed to get out of there. I got up and headed outside, trying to cool myself off.

I was sitting on the outdoor patio, huffing and puffing to get my stress to a manageable level, when Candy sat across from me. She said, "You were on a roll there. For an employee who’d slept with one guest, that reaction’s a bit much, don’t you agree?"

"How’d you…"

"People talk; the walls have ears."

"Today's just been a stressful day. I shouldn’t have said that."

Her thick lashes fluttered gracefully as she rubbed the tips of my fingers, lending me her ears and understanding. She placed her hand on top of mine and said, "What’s wrong, babe?"

"This isn’t how I imagined things to be." It sounded like I was complaining. And I was. Whoever heard me, that bastard in the sky, I was hoping he was listening. "He wasn’t supposed to commit suicide and try to kill himself. We were having a nice dinner, and I thought that we’d have a lovely night together. How did it get from here to there?"

"Life happened," she said. I tilted my head, puzzled by what she said, and she explained, "That’s just how it is. You were dealt a bad card and you tried to push through it. Babe, you’re being a brat."

Gazing down, I’d been complaining in my head all this time about how things didn’t turn out the way I had imagined them to be. In trying to control the situation, I was slowly losing my mind.

Dr. Manning, my old therapist, said that it was my way to ensure that everything around me was as it should be. No surprises while I’m around in my attempt to control everything, brought on by the last major surprise I’d had from seeing Jake kill himself.

If you think about it, Albert had been a big surprise in my life that I’d never expected. Was he driving me crazy with how unpredictable he was? Definitely. Was he the major cause of all my worries? Of course. Will he be the cause of my heart attack? Fuck yes, Albert was driving me nuts, and now that I’ve opened up to the idea, maybe I should just suck it up and appreciate how his brand of crazy is affecting me. Then I chuckled like a lunatic.

"Babes, you’re scaring me," said Candy.

"Sorry. I just realised that I’ve been a dick. I’d forgotten that person and buried him a long, long time ago. I don’t think he’s going to like that side of me."

No, he won’t. I don’t know Albert personally, but I’m sure seeing his boyfriend turn into a big dipshit is the opposite of a turn-on."

"He’s not my boyfriend," I said. The scowl I’d been hammering on my face was suddenly gone. I felt lighter.

"Babes, you literally jumped to save his life. If he doesn’t consider that romantic, then I don’t know what is."

There were several trolley carts pushed to where Katrina the P.A. was sitting. Candy went inside the restaurant and had pizza, several drinks, and a large plate of salad placed on Katrina’s table. Other personal assistants began arriving and sitting at her table. As Candy headed outside, she motioned for the rest of the food to be plated on ours.

I pointed to Katrina and her friends. "What’s going on there?"

"I told her to take the day off and have lunch with her fellow PAs."

I narrowed my eyes and told her, "That’s nice of you."

"Hey! Don’t ruin my reputation and start spreading that news. They know I have an attitude."

I chuckled and said, "Are we really going to finish everything?"

She tied her blonde hair into a ponytail and gazed at the food on the table; it was a lot—more than what she expected. Well, you better fucking try. I’m paying for this with my credit card. Your restaurant isn’t cheap."

"Ok then. Let’s dig in."

While we were in the middle of enjoying the unreasonable amount of food laying on our table, I asked her, "So about the interview?"

She stopped the fork in mid-air that was about to enter her mouth and said, "I’ve honestly forgotten about it, but since you’re bringing it up, I’m sorry about extorting you." She studied my face with a sincere gaze. "I originally planned to just talk to you and see how you were. But that assistant of yours may have gotten the wrong idea. And I may have had a couple of drinks to get some liquid courage, and I went deep—too deep."

My mouth twisted, and I said, "May I remind you of how you assaulted my boobies and frisked my crotch?" I glanced down at my pecs with a smirk.

"Oh, that. Well, you see, I think I have a thing for gay men having sex and doing the nasty. And since you’re gay, and er, very hot, I’m sure you know that, erm, you turned me on big time. And I was drunk. Booze with a hot gay guy doesn’t really go well in my books. Like I was really wet. Like you could’ve pumped one in front of me and I would’ve squirted in buckets. And imagine you're making out with another guy. Oh-em-gee. Shit. I need to stop. This is making me horny. Is it weirding you out that you’re a part of my sexual fantasy?" I blinked several times, and she wasn’t happy. "Oh, come on. Say something. I know you were a big whore back then, so stop making me feel like shit about my thing."

I laughed so hard that the water on the table spilled when I landed on my fist. "Whatever floats your boat. I’m ok with that. I’m just happy to help."

"Aww. You’re so kind. Like anyway, I’m seeing this therapist, and he says I should embrace this thing with me liking this gay shit. He says it’s empowering and liberating. That's the reason I lost interest in Jeffrey. He didn’t like pegging."

Oh, ok. Getting a strap-on dildo and fucking his ass sounds reasonable." I glanced at her, and she glanced back. Then we stared, laughing at how ridiculous the conversation had steered. I said, "You’re forgiven." Whatever her intentions were, she seemed like she was telling the truth.

"Thanks for not filing a lawsuit and putting me in prison."

"What’s the lawsuit going to be? You nibbled on my tiddies?" She grinned and went back to eating, just as I said, "So how’s Mark?"

There was a big grin on her face. Maybe she wasn’t expecting that I’d ask about her brother. But I genuinely wondered how he was doing despite being a miserable piece of a human being. "Mark’s ok. He’s doing 12 years for cross-border drug smuggling."

"Wow. So he went international."

"Correct. Very predictable, that guy."

"Somewhere south? Colombia?"

"Nope. Mexico. He was importing fentanyl and distributing heroin, coke, and meth from Mexico to New York. He’ll be out in five."

"I’m sorry," I said, feeling more sorry for her. I remember Candy being a quiet kid who really adored his older brother. I was glad she didn’t follow in his footsteps.

She sighed. "It’s ok. He’s always been a piece of shit. But he’s my brother. So...

"Will you welcome him with open arms once he’s out?"

"I’ll welcome him with an open fist."

We both smiled and laughed as we discussed other topics like how she started her vlogging career and how I ended up in the Philippines, including the top 10 things she’d do with a billion dollars. She went on a long speech about how she’d buy a huge yacht that could submerge underwater. I told her it’s called a submarine, and she was absolutely sure she’d call it a deep-sea yacht. Regardless of how asinine our conversations were, lunch with her was definitely a convivial occasion filled with laughter. And I badly needed that. I did not notice that we had been talking for hours, the sun had cooled off, the plates on the table were nearly clean, and I unbuttoned my shorts to let my gut out.

"Thanks for this day. You don’t know how much this means to me."

"Don’t mention it," she said. "When my brother went to federal prison... oh god, I wished someone did this for me. Like pig out at Chipotle and just talk the entire day. I’m just happy to help."

I tilted my head to one side, pursing my lips at what I was about to say. I’ve thought about it for quite some time, and I knew that this was the only choice to keep my mind at peace.

"I’ll do the interview."

"You will?" she said.

"I’ll do it once the dust settles here. I don’t know when that’ll be."

"Anytime you feel like doing it, just call me," she said.

I smiled as we shook hands. Her mouth turned up. "I probably won’t be seeing you in a long time, babe."

"Yeah." Knowing well that it may be months or years before we bump into each other, I said, "There’s always Facetime and sms."

"Or, you could just DM me on Instagram."

"I don’t have it."

"Oh my god! What are you, 80? Please rejoin the world."

Before leaving the resort, I knew there was still something I needed to do. On the side of the beach where the waves were big and crashed onto the vertical column of the huge jagged rock called a sea stack, Kulas and Carlo were slumped on their seats, drinking a bucket of Red Horse. I knew they were having the talk since what they were drinking was the preferred choice for getting wasted. Its sweet flavour and slightly bitter taste would convince anyone to keep the drinks coming, and a couple of bottles later, you’d be inebriated and seeing doubles.

There were three buckets and several empty bottles lying in the sand. The two of them had been drinking for a while. As I approached them, I said, "Mga lasengo talaga pag nakainom, sobrang saya niyo." (If drunkards started drinking, you guys would be thrilled.)

"Whose drunk?" said Kulas, slurring his speech as his head wobbled. He struggled to sit straight. "Totoy you’re here." He smacked Carlo’s arm and said, "See, I told you. He’ll come talk to you." It seems the old man was the one drinking. Carlo had two empty ones stuck on the sand with a quarter-filled beer in his hand.

The young man swivelled his head to look for the sound of my voice. "Hello ser."

I sat beside him and said, "You’re not fired. I’m sorry about what I said. I shouldn’t have said those things."

"It’s ok ser. Kuya Kulas has already explained how you’re a busy man and sometimes, the pressure gets to you. He said you’ll come to your senses and re-hire me. I understand now that it’s just the wrong timing, ser."

Feeling more guilty hearing that from him, I resolved to tell him the truth. "Your boss could be a dick sometimes. That’s why Kulas smacks his head when he’s being over his head. And this time, he was. Can you forgive me?"

"Yes ser." He raised his fist as I raised mine, and we shook hands, and he said, "always."

"But you really shouldn’t be sleeping with guests. If you wanted to date them, you could date them outside while you’re not at work."

A young six-foot moreno (dusky-coloured skin) with hazel brown eyes, Carlo was definitely a looker, a strikingly beautiful one, hence, why I hired him. It’s a major plus for being a bartender. He’s also a magnet for suitors, both young and old. I heard he swung both ways.

"Yes ser. It won’t happen again. But Erik said he'd pay me $1000 if we slept together."

"So did you get a thousand dollars?" I said, thinking he should’ve gotten something from sleeping with that douchebag who’s probably still at the resort looking for his next victim. "That’s a lot of money you could’ve used to send to your family." Then something hit me in the head. "Ouch!" I turned my back and saw Kulas with his arms crossed. "What did I do now?"

"Really totoy? You want Carlo to take the $1000? So he’s a prostitute? Do we hab a secret illegal prostitute ring in dis resort I do not know about?" He returned to his seat and glared at me. For a drunk man, he hit hard.

"Well," I said, rubbing my head, "I didn’t think about that."

"I didn’t take the money ser. I said I’d do it for free."

"Why?"

"I was just happy that someone chose me," he said, as he smiled, drank his beer, and gazed into the ocean.

It seemed that he had also been afflicted by my disease. There are probably lots of us who have this condition. Loneliness has a habit of stalking you when you're most vulnerable. And in a moment of weakness, Carlo grabbed everything he could to feel alive. No one may judge him for that, especially me, who had fished Albert from the ocean out of my fear that he’d leave me by myself. I tapped his shoulders and said, "I understand."

"Thanks ser."

Kulas stood up with a smile on his cheeks and said, "I’m tired already. Anak, (son) help me up."

Carlo went under Kulas as he supported an arm. The old man stumbled forward as he grabbed the boy’s shoulders. He clung there, slack-jawed and slumped over for a long time, before they headed over to the admin huts, with Kulas singing in the air, "Ip your happy and you know it, clap your hands. Ip your happy and you know clap it your hands…"

My hands were in the position of clapping when I whispered, "Once he wakes up, I will."

Coming from the kubo, I had packed Albert’s clothes into his backpack and was now packing mine in a duffel bag, when Ryan opened the door from the admin hut, and said, "Oh, where are you off to?"

I glanced at my watch, and it was 5:12 PM. I didn’t want to be left behind by the 6PM ferry bound for Puerto Princesa. I glanced over at my shoulders and said, "I’m about to see a friend."

Albert, right? That guy you've been hanging with lately?"

My arms froze as I held off transferring clothes from the drawer. "Who told you?"

"Candy."

I turned around and said, "That blabbermouth."

"Don’t blame her. I heard from one of the busboys that someone tried to kill himself and that you were with the person who’d jumped. I spent around three hours trying to convince Candy that we were tight. Then she gave me a summary of what happened last night, which explains why you were gone the entire day yesterday and the day before that."

I sat on the bed, hands smashed into my face, and told him about the events that led up to Albert’s plight with his medication, his mental state, and how he had jumped off the yacht. Minutes later, he asked, "How do you fall for someone you barely know?"

"It’s not like that."

"But you jumped to rescue him."

"You’d do the same."

"Yeah, if they tied me to a rope or onto something with coast guards surveying the area or boats doing their surveillance. Not when it’s pitch dark, like I’m risking my life in order to save him. But that’s what you did, didn’t you? You immediately jumped to save him without thinking for yourself."

Now that I think about it, I said, "Yes. I did that. All I know is that he needs me."

"Are you sure you weren’t doing it because of him?" said Ryan.

I remember being drunk when I opened up to him about Jake. Telling him about my best friend, whom I had been in love with since we were in high school, showed me how drunk I was to share him with someone else. Opening up about the story years ago, he remembered every detail when I said that Jake had committed suicide. It must be true. Albert was a reminder of a great person from my past. Piecing the puzzle pieces together; they were so alike. The difference was that Albert was still alive, and Jake was dead.

They both had this condition where they suffered through this persistence of sadness that held them by their necks, disintegrating all the beautiful things inside them as lifelong prisoners of these wounds that never revealed themselves—wounds that pulled them under a bed of misery and wounds that hurt more without the bleed.

"I can’t let what happened to Jake happen to him."

"Then don’t," said Ryan. "You’re the only person in his life right now that truly understands what he’s going through. So be with him and help him through this." I rose up and pulled up Albert’s backpack on my shoulders along with the bag of my spare clothes. "You’re a good friend. Thanks, Ryan."

"I know I am. Tell him I said hi when he wakes up."

"I will," I said, closing the door as I stepped out.

As I walked to the square, it occurred to me why Ryan was the first person I’d told about Albert. He said to me in passing that his father had died in an accident. Reading through his files, given to me by a detective I’d hired to do some background checks on his personnel information, I learned that his father had hung himself right after they had gone to church. Ryan, his two older brothers, and his mother had gone to the supermarket that afternoon. Upon getting home, they were seated in their car when the garage door opened, and what welcomed them was the sight of his father with a noose tied to his neck, hanging in their parking garage. It was a surprise to behold on a Sunday considered by many to be God’s day of rest. Ryan was 10. I could only assume that he was never the same after that.

I never told him I knew of his hurt—this ache that became the lens to see things through. This fucking ache that became a part of us and will be with us forever will be with us till our lungs stop breathing and our hearts stop beating. Maybe that’s why it was easier for me to confess to him about the pain I’d experienced when I lost Jake. We were two people left behind by selfish people who had chosen the easier route of letting us go, leaving us with a fracture that will forever be a part of us—always asking why we were left behind without someone to answer back.

It filled me with hate when Jake left me. Seeing his brain splattered across the wall granted me nightmares that prompted me to engage in more drug use, rampant sex, and the complete mission to throw away my life. The rage was obvious. I hated him, especially with the way he left this world, shooting himself in the mouth like the coward that he was. But despite that, despite everything, despite all the sleepless nights, despite all the mornings I never slept, just praying that I be given rest from this memory of seeing him cut his life short, every single day I missed him. I do. I miss him dearly.

Intervention came, and they put me in a lot of clinics for the wealthy and those tired of the paparazzi. My grandfather didn’t like the scandal it would cause, but it was nothing that money couldn’t cure if you threw enough of it. However, none of them worked. No amount of cash could cure a broken heart. I was still hellbent on following Jake to the other side, slowly and surely, by overdosing myself, where I tethered myself on the edge on several occasions, nearly dying but never there.

Until one day, I was idly drumming my fingers on my thighs, about to be assessed by another nutcase of a therapist. Among the other times, these overpaid whackos tried to sell me the miracle cure. She glanced at me sharply and asked me a question that changed my life.

"If your best friend was in front of you, reenacting the way he killed himself by putting a gun in his mouth, what would you do? Would you join him? Or, stop him?"

"What kind of question is that? Are you really a—"

"—just answer my question!" she shouted. Unorthodox or not, she got my attention.

"I, er, I don’t want to see him die again."

" You’ve been to four hospitals in the past five months. So why are you trying to do the exact opposite by overdosing and eventually killing yourself?" I didn’t answer. The doctor rose from her seat and walked over and shouted in my ear, "Answer me. Why?"

"I don’t know."

"Why Damien?"

"I said I don’t know."

"Just answer the question," she insisted.

"I told you I don’t know."

"Why? Tell me WHY!"

"Cause he left me! The motherfucker fucking left me alone. He left me here, by myself. I’ve got no one left. No one."

The doctor gazed sternly, lifted the glasses from the bridge of her nose, and returned to her seat. She smiled, sighingly gazing at me, and said that I still wasn’t a lost cause. A different person came out from that intimidating woman as she calmly said, "And that is why we’re here. To discover the reasons, you felt those close to you have abandoned you. I don’t have the answers for you, Damien. This isn’t some magic pill you can drink in a day and every heartbreak you’ve had or endured will magically go away. But in this office, I will be your guide. I’m here to guide you on your journey, as we both find the reasons why something in your life is the way they are and the way they’re not. So, will you stay to find out who you really are? If I see you here tomorrow morning, then I assume you’re curious to know about yourself. If not, then good luck Damien. I hope you find what you’re looking for."

I was at her office the next day, an hour before her doors opened. Dr. Rose Manning helped me a lot—no, she helped me save myself, along with helping me process my grief. She helped me see the things I’d been refusing to see. She also said that I might forever be traumatised by seeing the death of my best friend with my own two eyes. Sadly, there was no fix for that.

Having early-onset PTSD was the cue that I needed to start fresh. When she told my grandfather about her prognosis, he laughed it off. He said that I simply needed to go to the Caribbean and vacation somewhere in St. Barts. Years later, when the nightmares stayed and everything about New York reminded me of Jake, my half-sister, Delphine, convinced him he needed to let me go so I could find myself. And when I lived in the Philippines, he had Kulas, his trusted driver and friend, accompany me.

Even to this day, there were nights when I’d wake up sweating and crying because I missed his company. He was that shoulder I’ve leaned on since we were kids. Waking up from a nightmare, I would sometimes roll to my side and imagine him laughing at my joke or smiling at me when he found something funny.

If only I had seen what those smiles had meant for him. That there was something rotting and sad behind it. Whenever he’d laugh and listen to me, he would throw out a piece of himself to make way for my own problems and fears. As he listened to the things that kept me up at night, acting like the older brother that he was, he was dying inside. No one listened to him. No one listened hard enough to hear the breaking of his heart, the scream of terror that he was alone, or that something inside him was slowly being crushed by the tendrils of his mind gnawing on his sanity.

If only I had kept my ears open. If only I had seen the signs, then maybe things would’ve turned out differently. And then I remembered Albert. To be reminded of what I’ve lost. I can’t go through it again. Losing Jake, my mother, and my father, and now the possibility of losing Albert—how much loss can one soul take?

How much?