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is exhausting. Flicking it away with my index finger, I take a deep breath before slumping back against the wall. I’m unable to wrap my mind around what’s going on in my head. The heartache comes from every angle and it’s overwhelming.
    And the guilt.
    Life just isn’t fair.
    Tears fall faster, my cheeks quickly becoming wet. I hate myself. My family is hurting too and they don’t deserve this. The way I’m acting is selfish, I know that, but they didn’t love them like I did. They don’t know the half of it—the secrets and pain that I’ve locked away with their loss is more than anyone should have to cope with. My family means well, but I just don’t see how anyone ever gets past all this. When your whole existence is ripped from your life, you can’t flip a switch on your grief. I’ve just lost three people who I loved more than myself. There is no quick and easy fix for that.
    “Here’s your lemonade, sweetie.”
    Startled, I quickly wipe at my face and make my way back to the couch. Flopping down, I let out an exasperated sigh. Mom frowns as she takes a seat next to me on the couch. I’m sure her heart is breaking. She was always my best friend and I want nothing more than to reach out to hug and comfort her, despite the need for my own comforting, but I just take the cup from her hand.
    The ice-cold glass feels nice in the unusual springtime sweltering heat. It’s damp with condensation, and I finger the beads of water with one hand lost in the patterns that I make on the glass. I take a gulp and let the sweetness cool me from the inside out. It’s refreshing and damn good. My mom always did make the best lemonade. Memories of Tommy and I waiting impatiently for her to make us a pitcher on hot sweltering days like today, come flooding back but I shake them free. I don’t need to go there. Memories do nothing but reopen the wounds of my past.
    I have to hand it to her, Mom knows what she’s doing, trying to awaken a part of the old me by surrounding me with familiar things. She gently pats my leg, giving me a hopeful look. I press my lips together to form a hard line and try lifting the corners of my mouth. I want to smile at her, but my lip starts to quiver. Smiling just feels so wrong. Tears threaten to unleash themselves again.
    Mom quickly stands, getting ready to flee and I have no doubt that she’s about to break down.
    “I’ll just leave you be,” she chokes, spinning on her heels. I know she’s heading to the kitchen to cry.
    I sigh heavily, getting my own emotions in check. Focusing on my deep breathing, I wonder if I will ever get used to this perpetual feeling of walking on eggshells, the breakdown always imminent. I highly doubt it.
    Glancing around the living room, I finally notice the faded boxed outlines all over the wall. The metallic taste of blood hits my taste buds when I bite down hard on my cheek, and sadness mixes with anger as I realize that picture frames have been taken down and hidden out of sight to keep me from freaking out. I appreciate the effort, but tucking them away in a box as though they never existed seems wrong, and that isn’t what I want.
    Or is it?
    Somehow, I get lost deep in my thoughts, which happens a lot lately. What exactly I’m thinking about is unclear because it’s a jumble of mess.
    My own world.
    My past.
    The memories.
    All the pain and heartache.
    The sound of laughter comes from the kitchen and I move slightly, my muscles stiff from sitting still so long. There’s loud talking, a voice belonging to someone other than my immediate family. It’s a voice I think I recognize but I hope I’m wrong. Gingerly, I stand from the couch, deciding to go check it out. Weeks of sleeping in a crappy hospital bed have done nothing for my normally athletic body. My muscles constantly ache and I’m finding that I have very little strength, tiring more easily than I should.
    Turning the corner from the hallway into the kitchen, I find my family talking