justprompts http://i46.tinypic.com/2w3c13b.jpg Cemetery

[tylerhawkins]

He's sixteen years old the day he finds his brother's body. They'd had breakfast earlier that day in their favorite place. Their coffee shop. A place to share stories and secrets. When you're sixteen a place like that doesn't seem so important. There's a hundred coffee shops in New York, so what's so special about this one? Tyler won't get what is so special about it until after his brother is gone.

They'd had breakfast just like they did when Michael and Tyler could manage to make their schedules work. Michael was working for their father now. Tyler didn't get it. Why? Why would he give up his music to go work on Wall Street?

"You'll understand when you're older."

God, Tyler hated that line no matter who it was coming from. It seemed even more obnoxious coming from his brother. His brother with his new hair cut and his new suit. Have to make a good impression with the old man.

"I got you something," Tyler told him. He pushed the present toward Michael. Michael hadn't touched his breakfast. His fingertips brushed across the light blue paper on the gift. It was professionally wrapped. Tyler was shit at wrapping gifts, but the girl at the shop had offered to take care of it for him.

"The party isn't until tonight." Michael didn't unwrap the gift. Later, Tyler would go over every thing that Michael did and didn't do on that morning at breakfast. He'd dissect it like he dissected the pig in biology. Where was the warning sign that his brother was going to take his own life? Where was that cry for help?

Was it in the way that Michael seemed a little distracted? Was it because he didn't touch his breakfast, and drank the coffee like he was dying of thirst? Was it in the way he touched the wrapping like it was a hot stove ready to burn him, but wouldn't unwrap it to see what was inside?

"I thought you might want it now. It is your birthday."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Tyler left for school, and Michael left for work. Except he hadn't gone to work. When Tyler got home he was warned by his mother that Charles Hawkins was in a mood. Michael hadn't shown up for work, and hadn't bothered to call. Tyler felt something twist inside him. It didn't make any sense. Michael had been all dressed up in a suit their father would approve of. He had that stupid new haircut. Why would he ditch work on a day when he knew he'd have to face their dad at his birthday dinner?

Michael wasn't the rebellious son. He mostly tried to keep Charles happy. Tyler was the rebel. Tyler was the one who challenged authority and the weight of their father's words.

"I'll go check on him. Maybe he ate something at breakfast that didn't agree with him." He knew that wasn't the case. It would have required Michael to have eaten something for it to be the case.

Normally it took Tyler a half hour to make it from the family home to his brother's apartment by bike. On the afternoon of his brother's twenty-second birthday, it took him twenty-three minutes.

One to grow on.

He'd knocked and then banged. He'd yelled for Michael to answer. Then he used his key. It was there that he found his brother hanging. There was a note, but Tyler hadn't read it. It was written to their father, not him.

It was laying on top of that unwrapped birthday gift from Tyler.

Later, Tyler would hear bits and pieces of conversation from the cops and EMTs. From his father.

Little pieces of dialog that couldn't really register.

"Maybe he's in shock."

"He shouldn't have cut him down."

"The scene has been contaminated."

"No, I'll tell my wife. I'll tell...Tyler. Tyler, look at me, Son."

He hadn't looked at him. Not at his father. Not at the Emts when they took the body out in the body bag. Not at the cops who tried to question them. His eyes were on the neatly wrapped gift in his hands. It wasn't until one of the cops tried to pry it from his hands that he woke from his daze.

"NO."

It was his first word. Not just the first word since he called 911 begging for help. Not just his first word since he called his father's office sobbing and begging him to come and fix this. Please, Dad, fix this. Bring him back.

It was his first actual word. The running joke in the family. Michael's first word had been Dada, Caroline's had been Mama, and Tyler's was no.

Always so stubborn and defiant. That's our Tyler.

"We need to examine..."

The cops words were cut off by Tyler jerking the gift back and clutching it to his chest. He rocked back and forth and closed his eyes up tight. Charles convinced them to back off. Just back off and give his son a moment to breathe.

The son that could still breathe.

He equal parts wanted to cling to his father, and swing at his father. This was his fault. It had to be his fault. If he'd backed off and given Michael room to breathe this wouldn't have happened. If he'd had faith in Michael's music, if he'd been more supportive, if he hadn't pressed him to take the damn job, this wouldn't have happened. Fix it. Just fucking fix it. That was what Charles Hawkins did. He fixed things. So fix this. Fix it.

He couldn't fix this.

They stood as a family in the cemetery the day they buried Michael Hawkins. Twenty-two years old. Beloved son and brother.

Caroline was in their mother's arms. Just a toddler, too young to understand her mother's wailing, her brother's silent tears, and her father's stony stormy expression. Too young to fully appreciate this break in the family. To feel the magnitude of this loss, and how it would rip to pieces the already fragile marriage of their parents. How it would drive even more distance between the rebellious son and his always so busy father. How it would break their mother's heart in a way that nothing could completely heal.

It was the night of the funeral that Tyler unwrapped the gift. The leather journal with all it's blank crisp pages. It was meant for Michael. He was supposed to use it to jot down his lyrics. It was supposed to inspire him to pick his guitar back up and to reclaim his dream.

With his brother's guitar at his feet, Tyler pressed pen to paper for the first time,

Dear Michael,