I put my fist through the goddamn window then the next and the next. I don't know what the hell I was doing. I didn't want to think; I never wanted to think again— I just wanted to shatter into pieces like the damn windows. Blood trickled down my fists but I didn't care; I was going to break and punch those windows until it killed me; until it killed everything. In my fiery rage I didn't notice the crunching of my bones as they hit glass. I sort of went ballistic, acting like a mad man, but I couldn't stop. I struck as if each hit could bring Allie back. As if each hit could start his heart again. I was cryin', too; big giant tears running down my face. I didn't swat them away, I just let them trickle down my nose and onto the floor.

I was there when Allie died, in our old summer home. God, I hate that place, with its long empty hallways and haunting rooms, every inch of it reeked of death. It was late at night and the house was so dark, the shadows clawed at you from every corner making the setting even more morose. Allie was sitting there in his bed, with a bunch of wires and shit running through him, and he looked so damn sick and tired it almost killed me. I mean, just seeing him there made my heart ache. His whole body appeared to be disintegrating; his skin was yellowed and flaked away at the merest touch; his face was sunken and grey, and the few times he opened his eyes they were dull and crusted. Gone was the shine of boyhood innocence that once gleamed there. Boy, was he thin; he looked like one of the prisoners of war D.B. told me about from his years in the army. Even his hair was gone; it had all fallen out in mangled clumps. That's what made me the most depressed, seeing Allie without his red hair. He wasn't the same without it; his hair was half of his personality, reflecting his bright joyful nature. He was a husk of the person he once was. He reminded me of a deflated balloon, he looked so damned small and helpless as his body went through its ultimate malfunction. I could barely stand standing in that cramped room, watching as the little life left in him drained away. It made me so damn depressed. Part of me wanted to run away and hide, but I couldn't take my eyes away from him. It was like watching a car wreck; no matter how much it hurt to watch, you just couldn't stop. And I felt if I left it would be betraying him. No, I needed to be there for him. He was such a good kid, just a good, good, kid, and I couldn't stand it, watching him die right before my eyes. I couldn't stand it.

The room was silent for the amount of people shoved in it. No one moved, no one breathed. It was as if everything was frozen and all. It reminded me of the natural history museum, the melancholy stillness of everything, forever frozen in time. We were all there, Mom at the head of the bed, her hand firmly stationed in Allie's. Dad stood behind her, his hand on Mom's shoulder. D.B. stood on the other side of the bed, facing mom and dad. I stood at the end of the bed, my hand holding onto Allie's foot. I felt like an anchor and my hand was the only thing keeping him on earth. And as we all stood there connected by the dying boy, we forgot that our touch alone won't keep him alive. We were all there, except Phoebe, who was sound asleep in the room adjacent, oblivious to the heartbreak and pain happening in ours. Part of me wished I could just forget it all— that I was a 5 year old without a care in the world. I hated myself as soon as I thought that; I would never want to forget Allie.

We had been in the cramped room since 8 and the clock had just struck 2 in the morning. We were all zombified; exhausted by lack of sleep. It had to be at least a hundred degrees in that room. Even breathing felt like you were trying to breathe in fire. Mom was running her fingers through Allie's nonexistent hair. She had been doing this for about an hour or two, dad tried to stop her but she wouldn't let him. We were all waiting for the inevitable. We all knew he was going to die, but none of us wanted to believe it. That's why he was here in bed and not in the hospital, because Mom wanted him to die in the comfort of his own home. Dad wanted to disconnect him from all the wires but Mom wouldn't let him. She got real mad when he suggested this, telling him he had no faith or some crap. I couldn't even imagine him dying. I had this stupid idea that Allie was invincible and couldn't be killed by anything, so this whole thing seemed like a dream or an act of play believe, because part of me thought he was just pretending. At any moment he was going to jump and yell "surprise!", then I was going to punch the crap out of him for scaring me, that's what I was going to do.

Even just standing there just about killed me. Everyone was crying. Mom seemed to be taking it the worst. Her whole body shook and she looked as pale as Allie. Even I was crying. Except Dad; Dad hadn't cried through this whole thing. Sometimes I would even stay up late at night to see if I could hear his cries, but he never did. I hated him because of it. The phony bastard didn't even look sad— his face was just flat, frozen in a look I couldn't decipher for the life of me. I wanted to kick and hit him screaming, 'he is dying! Cry, dammit!' I just wanted one tear out of him to prove that he was human. To prove that he cared.

Allie kept getting worse throughout the night. He was so sickly I couldn't bare to look at him. His eyes were crusted over and his breaths rattled. It made me want to be sick. I almost threw up, but I knew I couldn't do that. I had to be strong for him, but I didn't know if I could. I tightened my grip on his foot— hell I almost started praying.

After a couple more hours of this dismal display, Dad snapped.

"Okay that's it. It's 4 in the morning and we all need some sleep; I'm sure Allie will understand if we sleep for a few hours. We're all a mess, we need rest." Dad grabbed Mom's elbow gently and started to take her from the room.

"But darling what if he... passes while we sleep?" She objected, trying to slip her elbow from his grasp.

"He's held out this long, darling, he's a strong kid."

After coaxing her and reassuring that things would be alright, he finally convinced her to come to bed.

"You too, D. B. Holden. Bed. Now." D. B., like Mom, broke under Dad's persuasion. But there was no way in hell they were going to get me to go to bed.

"Come on Holden," D. B. pleaded, his voice cracking as he said the words, "let's go to bed." I shook my head and sat myself firmly on the end of Allie's bed.

"Come on Holden, I know you're exhausted." he reached his hand out again for me to take it but I just shook my head again.

"Honey," Mom said, putting her hand on D. B.'s shoulder, "leave him, he needs this time to be with his brother." D. B. looked torn, looking imploringly between Mom and I.

"Well if he's staying so am I," He Insisted.

"Oh, honey he needs time to be alone, come on, you need sleep."

"But I can't just leave him alone!" Dad gave D. B. a stern look.

"D. B., listen to your mother." D. B. grumbled complaints under his breath but eventually went with them, ruffling my hair as he left. As the three of them left to go to their respective rooms, I was left alone with Allie.

The room somehow felt even smaller without the constant presence of the others. It felt so claustrophobic I was baffled at how we all managed to fit. The darkness crept in from the open window, curling around the room. The light from the moon illuminated Allie's still body. I took the spot mom had previously occupied and held his hand. It was so cold, so unforgivingly cold. I felt so lonesome sitting there alone, with nothing for company but the weight of my fading brother's hand. I was so damn lonesome I couldn't stand it. The quiet made it worse, seeping into my every pore. I wanted to shake Allie; to yell at him and tell him to wake up, but I didn't. I simply sat and waited.

Hours passed with no progress, and I found myself wondering around the room. I used to love this room. It was filled with old memories. I felt antsy, so I kind of started horsing around, picking up random things and kind of throwing them round and crap, anything to keep myself distracted. There was this picture sitting on the old nightstand, of Allie and I when we were younger; we both had fishing poles and he was holding up this enormous fish— and when I say enormous, I mean this thing was huge. It took both of us to even hold the thing up. The memory made me smile. That was a good day. Before he got sick. Before any of this crap ever happened.

I picked up his baseball glove— God I loved that thing. Coated in its billions of poems. I kinda started reading them out loud to Allie just for the hell of it. I read some Emily Dickinson but those made me more depressed; Allie was always one of those real intellectual kids that liked depressing poems.

"Damn Allie ain't there any happy poems on this thing?" He didn't respond. Not that I expected him to. I just sorta started talking to him; I told him about everything that was happening, I told him how upset mom was and how we all knew how strong he was. I told him how we were going to all go swimming in the lagoon he liked so much with the ducks, and all he had to do was wake up, we were all waiting here for him, he just had to wake up. I started crying really hard while telling him these things, but I didn't wipe them away, I just kept talking. I kept asking him to wake up. After a while my delirious state made it impossible for me to keep my eyes open, and I began drifting off to sleep, my hand still firmly in his.