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8

I listened. I didn't speak. All I did was listen about the eight-year-old boy who had been swimming with his brother.

I didn't even know he had a brother. I didn't know a lot of things about him.

Adopted brother. Adopted because Stephen's mother endured complications from his own birth and Stephen's brother was the result of another child wanted. He was also the result of all the love that was previously given to Stephen. Stephen may not have noticed the way his entire appearance changed speaking of him.

He became restless. Visibly irritated. His fingers tapped against the seat as he spoke. His eyes hardened. His voice was strong but each word that spilled from his lips like he was spitting out the poison. The poison of childhood, of his teenage years, of his family and resentment.

It was evident. He didn't have to tell me. He envied his brother. He hated his brother. They were the same age and I feared that the comparison of two individuals had been clear in the family as well. I don't think Stephen meant to loathe him but when your parents' love is clearly unequal it caused a strain on relationships.

And that one day was the day that topped everything.

Stephen was young, naïve, innocent as many children could be and his brother was the same. One day, they were a distance away from the adults that had been speaking. The families were close, laughter and chatter buzzed in the air in the area where the sand was. Sand. The barrier between sea and land. The restriction between the children and the adults in the situation.

The girl, about the same age as Stephen and his brother, had merely wished to be included in a game the two were playing. She was an only child and like many children, where the adults occupied was where boredom was certain. Stephen saw this and let her join but there was a period in the game when no one had seen her continue to go further into the water. Where the deeper parts of the lake Stephen and his brother avoided by the familiar memory of their father telling them the times they had been before.

But she didn't know and she went further. Further to the point where she could no longer feel her toes touch the wet sand. Where her head would sink underwater and her arms would flail as she would try to go up with no experience of swimming. She would kick with all her might as if the water was the enemy. She would try to fight her way to the one goal:

Air. Oxygen.

The essential part of life we take for granted. One second without it wakes us up from the routine of taking it in and out consistently. In that one second, we gasp in the fear that without it, our entire life can slip without it. We come to the realization of how important it is. In the medium of water, there was only one way to go.

Up.

But that didn't work. In this circumstance, without no experience of swimming, it could feel like an anchor was tied around your ankle and there was no way to go up. The only option was going down but you fought anyway knowing that in the moment of desperation, the issue was not just the water.

It was time.

How long would it take for the water to fill your lungs? For you to go into unconsciousness? For your organs to shut down? For your brain to shut down? For you to give up and breathe in the water anyway? For someone to find you and try to resuscitate you?

Did she feel her heart pounding in her chest at that moment? Did she feel her lungs screaming? Screaming for oxygen, not the water. Not the water that eventually you had to suck in because it was the only thing surrounding you? Did she feel herself lose consciousness?

I did. But there were differences between us.

She died. She didn't have a chance to grow up. To experience the life in western civilization. From my memory of Stephen's story, she was a child that was growing up in a wealthy privileged home. She didn't get the chance to be spoiled rotten. To be able to learn more about life. To learn more about love and how it doesn't just come from her family, from her parents.

I lived. That was the difference.

But for Stephen, that day changed everything. He noticed that the girl wasn't around anymore. That she was a distance away, her head bobbing to the top. The brothers both went on two different missions. One went towards the girl to pull her towards the shore not caring that he possibly was not strong enough to pull her body away. Then there was his brother who had swam and ran to the adults, telling them she was in trouble, thinking that the young girl could be saved.

But she couldn't be. She had swallowed too much water and died.

But which brother was the one who was most affected by this?

The one who went to the adults, running to them as fast as he could to inform them what happened, telling them to call the ambulance and tell them that she had gone to the deeper side of the lake.

Or the brother that was in shock. The one who was using all the power in his body to pull her own body to the sane in hopes that anyone could save her. The one that felt her cold body had no sense of vital signs. There were no signs of breathing just a face that made it seem like she went to slumber. He got to her as fast as he could, knowing that she was dead and spent two years remembering her face. And I imagined that at an age like that the event itself was traumatizing and stuck with him his entire life.

The answer was obvious.

The girl was pronounced dead at 2: 23 in the afternoon.

The aftermath? Stephen was an idiot. Ridiculed by his parents for such a cowardly act. For allowing the young girl to simply join them. To make her included in the game the two were playing. As a kid that's all you wanted to do. To be included. Stephen saw a chance and let her in a game without knowing she could barely swim like he and his brother could.

That family, who was very close to theirs, never spoke to them ever again. Stephen was blamed for this. Seen as the cause for this. From then it was clear that his brother received everything. He brother was not blame for the death. His brother had moved on with the knowledge that she had died but no one said anything about it to him.

Just when the topic and the incident was forgotten, it resurfaced years later. Stephen, a teenager in a fight with his parents. What teenager does not fight with their parents? They are at a stage where you want to be independent but still rely on others. Sometimes, they say things they don't mean in pursuit of their rebellious act. But this goes for both sides. One act of rebelliousness where the two brothers were involved in and Stephen could openly hear the resentment his parents cast upon him. His brother was let go but the fight caused damage in ways Stephen remembers vividly to this day. After high school, his parents wanted nothing to do with him. With a hefty cheque and a promise to pay for his apartment, Stephen left and hasn't spoken to his parents for years.

We sat on the window seat, my eyes still on the rain outside an hour later. He had his head buried in a book and I was wondering many things and kept all but one question to myself. "Why don't you speak to your brother?"

Stephen shut his book, looking at me with a heavy gaze. "Because we've always been two different people. He doesn't bother speaking to me. Why should I bother speaking to him, Juliana?"

I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth, "I see your logic but-"

He put the book on the ground beside him and the look he shot me made me stop my next question. "Question after question. You never stop do you?"

The way he said it would have been considered rude to another but I didn't take it that way. "You're closed off. I have to ask questions or else I don't know much about you. And I don't."

Stephen leaned his head back on the wall, keeping his eyes on me. "I don't tell people about me."

He moved his long legs over, picking up his book in the direction of the kitchen. "I know that," I said, my footsteps quiet as I followed him.

"Wine?" He asked. Even though I had not answered him, he poured a glass for me anyway. "Juliana, it is how I am. You cannot just change that." He handed me the glass and I opened my mouth to speak but he stopped me with a finger on my lips. "No, not another question from you."

I took a sip from the cup, watching his eyes scan the room before landing on the table. "Do you still have a headache?" I shook my head, watching the curve of his lips as he put both our glasses down before picking me up and setting me on the table. "Good."

"Why?"

"Juliana, what did I say about the questions," I opened my mouth to apologize but he kissed me to shut me up. He took the thought of those questions away and I allowed him to. When he pulled back, he let out a breathless laugh. "I'll answer it anyway. We're putting this dining table to its appropriate use."

"Dining tables are meant to eat."

"Exactly," He grinned wickedly, already pulling my jeans off my legs. "That is what I plan to do. Eat."

I didn't ask any more questions.