four months

Four months.

17.3925 weeks.

121.7474 days.

2,921.9376 hours.

175,312.256 seconds.

I looked at my phone and I had already missed two calls, one from my house and the other one from my sister. I sat helplessly on the bed, slowly curling up into a ball. I heard a knock at the door and Elizabeth stood before me, draped in a blanket. The events of the other night didn't even matter because now, I could tell, we needed each other. "Four months," she sobbed, tightening the blanket around her. 

"Four months," I softy replied, scooting over to make room for Elizabeth on my bed. 

Elizabeth crawled in and just held me, but I was numb to the touch. My phone began to ring again and I couldn't even look at it because I didn't have enough energy. 

Four months ago, my older brother, Scott, passed away during a drunk driving accident in front of my house when he was home for winter break. My brother was parking the car in front of the house at 2:25 am. Then, at 2:28 am a drunk driver was speeding down my block, colliding with my brother's silver volkswagen. My mom looked out the window and saw the accident and called the paramedics as she ran outside, trying to pry open the shattered window of Scott's car. At 2:35 paramedics arrived at the scene. At 2:45, my brother, Scott, was pronounced dead while the drunk driver survived with only a broken leg. My mom couldn't look out the front window for weeks because each time she did, she could still visualize the cops pulling my brother's lifeless body out of the wreckage. My dad kept insisting he was fine, but tears stained his cheeks for weeks. He tried to concentrate more on his job, by spending more late nights at work, completely avoiding the house and its memories. My sister became angrier, unable to contain her usually bottled emotions. For a while, she rarely talked and I often found her sitting on Scott's bed in silence. 

Scott was one of the few people who lived life to the fullest and instantly became friends with everyone he came in contact with. He was passionate about music and was planning on touring Europe after college with only a guitar and the clothes on his back. I remember when he told me his plan one night in his room after dinner. I told him his plan seemed ridiculous, how would he be successful and where would he stay? He gave me his signature grin and replied, "Well, you don't know that till I try." 

For some reason, I knew he was going to make something of himself, no matter what he did. Music will always be his first love and it shined through whenever he transfered music onto my computer, bragging about each band. He would show me their websites and offer to take me to a show if I liked them. 

He was more than an older brother, but a best friend who reminded me to enjoy life. 

After the accident, I came home and locked myself in my room. Every time I walked the hallways, I felt as if I was retracing Scott's footsteps. Even though I knew he was gone, I still found myself checking his room, convinced I would see him sitting at his desk working on the next big hit.

Those painful "what ifs" fill my head every once in a while. 

What if I called him so the drunk driver would miss Scott as the driver turned the corner onto my street?

What if I told Scott he should leave earlier for college?

What if I was parking the car with him to warn him of the driver?

There's no point in "what ifs" because he's already gone and nothing would have stopped that driver. 

His friends couldn't even look at me for days because each time they did, they saw a part of him in me. At first I saw and felt that part of Scott people talked about, but as weeks went by, that part of him I so fondly remember, slowly faded away. 

I still remember

Scott's hugs and the feeling of my face pressed against his lanky body,

his reaction to certain comments,

the way he would bombard my door with knocks for Saturday morning cartoons,

how he wore dad's old baseball shirts,

the stupid matching outfits mom made us wear,

the smell of his after shave,

his hardy laugh when he thought something was really funny,

How he would call me a trickster whenever I would convince mom and dad to let me go to a party,

His mischievous smile whenever he was plotting something,

the way he told me to believe in myself when it felt as if no one else did. 

Growing up, Scott would pick up Elizabeth and me after school. He was two years older than me, but he still felt my age. He drove an old silver volkswagen that my uncle gave to him on his sixteenth birthday. I hated the leather seats in the car because my back always stuck to the seat. I remember when Scott finally raised enough money and bought a new stereo system, blasting underground electronic DJ remixes wherever he went. My mom often complain about it, but now, whenever she hears a passing car playing it, she still looks out the window, in hopes that Scott is coming home. 

I just hope he knew we loved him because people often don't hear how much they are appreciated. Whoever reads this, I just hope you know, there are people that really care about you. No matter how terrible your day can get, there will always be someone there wanting to make it brighter, Scott was one of those people. 

"I just miss him so much," I cried, "I feel so alone. I know this sounds crazy, but I keep thinking I see him. On the bus the other day, I saw some guy with a purple zip-up sweatshirt. I was running towards the back of the bus and then the guy turned around..."

Elizabeth hugged me tighter, "Everything is going to be alright. I miss him too. Smile, he's still watching over you."

"I just hope he knew how much we loved him. I just want to know he's safe. Where is he?" I pleaded, even though I knew Elizabeth had no idea.

"I don't know where he is," Elizabeth sighed, "But wherever he is, I know we're going to see him again."

I knew Elizabeth was right. For Scott and me, it would never be goodbye, but a see you later, whether in this life or the next.