I am a bad person. I haven't come to terms with the frequency yet, but I know I am. I've wished my brother 'unalive' (devoid of life).

His name is David and he's 14. He's sick. Has been, since he was like 5. I don't know for sure what it is or what the doctors call it, but it's something about his spine and bones in general. I'm no medical professional, but I know that spine issues has a way of affecting speech and vital organs. Over the years, we've hoped he gets better. We've prayed he gets better. I've prayed he gets better. Calling myself a very prayerful person would be a blatant lie, but I try. I believe in God and I like to think I have faith.
Faith is supposed to move mountains and I've been having faith, but nothing is changing. He keeps getting worse. Maybe my faith is broken. Maybe I don't pray well enough. Maybe I don't pray often enough. Maybe I've even given up without knowing. I wouldn't know.

The crazy thing is how I sometimes catch myself thinking, "if nothing—treatments and prayers—seems to be working, then why don't he just go?" To end the suffering. His suffering. My parents' mental stress. The stress of him being a 'liability'. Money being wasted.

I remember one time we were little, at the early stage of his ailment, I was supposed to help him get to his bedroom or something like that. It was a struggle, so we both fell. "I wish you were never born" was what I said next. I said it to him. To his face, and the guilt of that has never left. Maybe because I haven't really apologised to him till date, because I think he doesn't remember; or because during my confession I never tell the priest.