everything dies.

It was dark out. A whisper of the summer heat still lingered in the air. The trees, slowly falling into shades of red and orange, littered their leaves throughout the garden. I could hear the sounds of the birds, flying away into the night. The boy stood next to me, oblivious to my mumblings. In his hand was a scrap of paper, hastily scrawled letters covering the slowly yellowing note.

It was a relief, in a way. The change in the air. The rest from the memories that haunted the old house. The boy turned away, drying his eyes on the sweater that was nearly dragging on the ground. He shut the door behind him, silent excpet for the creaking of the rusty hinges. It was still a recent wound, the growing seperation between us. Festering. Left to the passage of time.

I descend the rotting steps, past the ancient tire swing until I reached the big tree. Ollie had always called it the big tree. It had seemed so large and imposing only a few months ago. Now it was no more than a twig with a few bright coloured leaves. Pathetic. How quickly everything can change. One moment, the smiling faces, the green trees. The next is an empty void filled only with hurt and suffering.

I know I should follow Ollie. I should help him, like he would always help me. But it all seems so... hopeless. Useless. A waste. Why? Why does this world take the perfect people, the ones that smile for us when we cannot, and leave the rest of us incomplete? It’s like some cruel game to toy with us, letting us suffer slowly. Like the plants slowly die. The the air slowly freezes. Like the autumn slowly takes hold.

The light shawl I have wrapped around me doesn’t keep the chill away anymore. I can see the faint glow of the moon behind the storm clouds rolling in. I don’t want to go. Not yet. I don’t want to have to face Ollie. He’ll cry if he hasn’t already. I usually let dad deal with that. He was good at calming him down. I seem to only make things worse. I have a feeling Ollie blames me, in some way, for refusing to drive out to pick up Emma.

Back from school for the weekend, Emma had perfect grades, was popular with the boys and the girls and seemed to have everything going for her. I knew inside she was as messed up as the rest of us though. The road with covered in fog that day. It was ominous. It made my gut contort painfully. That’s why I stayed home and let them go. She was their daughter and barely my sister. That summer evening I didn’t even say goodbye.

The gale picks up, halting my wandering mind. It was nearly time for dinner. I should get back inside. I see Emma at the door, still leaning on her crutches. She motions for me to come in. For some reason, she didn’t seem to hate me. Out of everyone, she should want me dead. I’m the one who killed them all afterall. I can hear Ollie scuffling around inside, no doubt looking for something to eat.

I make my way through the garden, listening to the leaves rustle below me. Back past the big tree, the tire swing and up the rotting steps that feel like they’ll give way if I make one wrong move. Emma shoves the door open, letting it swing shut before me. I sigh and walk inside. The wind follows me through the house, like a ghost wandering. Lost. Without hope. I reach the kitchen.

Ollie sits at the table, deadly still. His legs aren’t swinging and he isn’t laughing to one of dad’s jokes. He never will again. Emma winces as she sits down on one of the unstable chairs. It was the one that was missing a leg. Ollie and I had sat down together and taped a stick from the garden to it. We’d painted the chair a bright orange, now faded to a dull yellow. Like the leaves outside. Everything dies.

The draws hang open. A few bent knives and forks are scattered on the bench. Only the spoons weren’t covered in rust or mold. I open the cupboards. A few jars of homemade jam. A loaf of bread. Tinned vegetables. Canned soup. A batch of cookies I’d made that night. No one ate them. I take what I need and slam the cupboard shut. I never knew one house could give someone so much pain.

Ollie shoves a window open, sticking his head outside. He points to something. The car.

“Can we get something better to eat?”

I hear Emma pull him back inside and lock the window. I knew without looking that she hadn’t even peeked outside. Hadn’t given the car a single glimpse. If you look closely enough, it looks like some of the read leaves have blown in the cracked window. They weren’t leaves.

“No. We can eat whatever is here. I’m sure she’ll make it taste real nice.”

Their voices sound like there coming from a different room. So distant. I construct the sandwich and notice the mold on the bread. I pour the vegetables on the side of the plate. They probably won’t notice. If they do, they won’t care.

“I don’t like her cooking. I want something else,” Ollie mumbles silently.

“Look. She made sandwiches. Just like mum,” Emma takes the plate from my hands.

A loud shatter rings through the house. The plate lies broken on the ground. The floorboards are cracked from the weight. Small splinters weaves lines below. Enough to see the dead leaves under the house. I look down. Blood drips down my leg, flowing into a pool of red at my feet.

"Why did you leave?" My voices echos throughout the empty house. The cracked windowpane distorts the world outside. The trees. The leaves. The red leaves. Like blood, slowly swirling through the sky. I see the car. Rusted. Broken. Like my mind. I turn to leave. The clouds have gathered together in a storm. Rain sprinkles down from above, showering me in water. No. Not water. Blood. Her blood. His blood. Their blood.

I fall to my knees. My breathing quickens. I sense them behind me. Emma. Ollie. Mum. Dad. All of them. Dead. The car crash claimed some. My hands claimed the rest. Why?

I ask myself that everyday. And it was for one reason. If you live life suffering, are you truly living? No, not to me.

Everything dies.