CASEY OLIVER SCHULZE ;; D6 [finished!]

I found a picture of us today; we look exactly the same, as always. Our bright blue eyes, clear and crisp as the ocean that I've only heard about in District Four, just as reflective and just as mysterious. But of course, I've only been told stories, their truthfulness only stretching as far as the amount of years they've been passed down. But I've been told it's a marvelous sight to see. Just as like you are must have been. I see the red circles ring around our ocean blue; they look like solar eclipses, like the rays from the sun couldn't bare to be hidden any longer. Only you knew that they came from a lack of sleep; The dark skin underneath can be blamed on that, too. I can see our golden brown hair, slightly tinged with bright orange, as if it were a recessive gene just dying to reveal itself. It curls naturally, slightly, and sometimes it's a pain to deal with. But of course you know knew that. I see our eyebrows, some shades lighter than our hair. Almost blonde. I can see the way that our faces blend into one, they're that similar. Our noses, narrow at the bridge but then widening at the ends, and our lips, permanently tinged red, like a woman's lipstick. Our chins are most prominent though, staying normal until the end, where it bucks up and out. A light stubble protrudes from mine now; you were too young.

I like to trace my fingers down to our chests, which are slightly different. Yours was large, bulky, and muscular; mine is small, bony, and lacks muscle. Your skin was always darker than mine, you got out into the sun more. I keep holed up in the house, and my skin is pale. Maybe I should get out into the sunlight more. Maybe I shouldn't; I don't know. You would, though. Your collarbone was always hidden by thick muscles, and when people touch touched you, they never thought that you were too skinny. When people touch me, they tell me I need more meat, I need to eat more. My bones are easily visible, almost sickeningly so. I can't eat, though. You know knew why. My arms are a similar story to my chest; skinny, gaunt, and pale. Yours were much more desirable, with your thick, strong muscles and dark, sun-kissed skin. Your hands were large, strong, and warm. Mine are skinny and cold. The gold ring you gave me still clings to my finger, a reminder that you are were always here.

You're You were beautiful, you know that? Everything about you was positively perfect. Everyone revered you, you know. Especially the way you ran. Your legs were long, lanky and built for running. Mine were also long and lean, but lacked muscle and build. You could run for miles and miles, while my flimsy and weak legs can barely keep me upright anymore. Your legs were untouched, free from blemishes, and unscathed. Bruises and scrapes and burns scour my legs-my arms too, but those are kept hidden-and yours were left untouched. Just as perfect as you. Perfect as you were, perfect as you will always be. You even have had the perfect shoe size; thick feet that could pack a powerful kick if they needed to, and mine are oversized, bulky and awkward. These days, I just walk barefoot because Mama can't afford to buy me shoes. But you knew how it is. I prefer it that way, anyways; more room for my toes.

I wish you were here; you knew how to make everything alright. I could walk with you then, in confidence and happiness, and people would stop us in the street and say "My, oh my, you guys are so alike!" And then you would flash your brilliant white teeth (mine are yellow in comparison) and you would say "Why yes'm, this is my brother, my best friend" and then I would be smiling all the while, and then we'd go on our way and I'd never feel better. I miss you.

Today I did something completely out of the ordinary. I talked to someone today, Zak. I actually walked up to someone, sat myself down in their line of vision, and made sure that they noticed I was there. Can you see me doing that? I still don't know how I did it. You know how shy and quiet I am. To be honest I don't even know who the person was; the only thing I know about them is that they're probably ten times as social as I am, and infinitely less awkward. But I said to them "Hi, I'm Casey," and then they smiled and said back to me, "Hi, Casey." I couldn't tell if their smile was genuine or just created solely for the purpose of making me feel welcome, but either way it was the first smile I had seen in months. And then I leaned forward and I pressed my lips to theirs, and their his lips were warm and lovely and the kiss was perfect. And the best part was that he didn't pull away. Mama always told me that we were made to be with women, but what does she know? I could never be with a woman. But then again, what do I know? You know that I don't get out of the house much, if at all. I don't even go to school. I buy books and learn that way. And notebooks, always notebooks for me to write to you in.

Last week was the first time that I had eaten in a while, too. Whenever I walk through the kitchen, the food just stares back at me, threatening and malicious. It leers and taunts me, wanting me to eat it. But you know that I can't. I can't eat it, because then I feel guilty, I'd have let you down. You always used to say that food was just something that we thought we needed, but we don't really need to eat every day. Just a piece or two every week or so to keep yourself moving on, going forward. That food restrained you, tied you down to the world, that it was the only thing that people really truly cared about. Something so small and insignificant, yet so insanely important to life. Just like you said I was. You said I was important. But you're gone, now; I don't really eat that much anymore anyways, it doesn't stay down well. But Mama always makes sure that I eat something once every couple of weeks; most of the time I'll just chew it and then spit it into a napkin when she's not looking.

Everything's so different without you, Zak. Mama and Dad used to love each other. They used to hold hands, and stare into each other's eyes as if nothing else mattered in that moment. But then when you died, the house turned cold, empty, and desolate. Your death wrapped around all of us for a long time; it still grips me. I don't think any of us really moved on. Why were you so selfish, Zak? Why did you leave us like this? Why did you leave me like this, left to deal with them and life and life without you and everything? How dare you leave me like this?

But I guess in a way, you're the reason that I discovered those razors, and those lighters. Hiding them in mom's drawer, did you think that you could hide them from me forever? At times like those I wonder if you're as inteligent as I think you are. The razors are beautiful, really, I can carve patterns and draw whole pictures into my skin with no difficulty, like paint on an easel. And if I want a different colour, a darker one, I can always use the lighter to burn my skin too. The cuts heal, Zak, and eventually the burns do too, but the pain that I feel because you left never does. Sometimes I like to carve your name into my arm, or my leg, to remind me that you're never really gone. I can't touch you anymore, but I can feel you, I can feel that you weren't truly ready to let go of me yet. As much as you believed you were when you took that knife to your wrists, we both know that you really weren't. You could have held on longer, you could have made it. But you're selfish.

I had to start a new letter to you, because I didn't know what else to write in the last one. Look what you've done, you've driven Dad to beat us. Why does he beat us, Zak? We do nothing except grieve over you, day to day. You drove him to this, it's the only way that he can get his anger out. It's all your fault, everything. Everything. I can't even go out of the house anymore-if I even wanted to-because bruises and cuts and burns cover my body and make me look like something that crawled out of the seventh level of hell. You drove all of us to our worst, and it can only go downhill from here. I've always been the true disgrace of this family, don't you know that? Holed up in the house all day, never eating, never talking, barely breathing, barely living. I bet Mama and Dad would throw me out right now if they could.

There are some days where I think you hurt Mama and Dad more than you did me. Whenever I mention you, they always raise their voices, pressing me back and making me squint my eyes. "He never existed, Casey! Why do you insist that he's still here? He never WAS." You've driven them to denial, Zak, to the point where they don't even acknowledge your existence any more. How do you think that makes me feel, Zak, to hear them deny that their son ever existed? Maybe you were such a shame to them, because you took your life. Whatever you did, they don't want you anymore. Maybe they never did.

And now I can hear them in their room, Zak, voices raised and things breaking. I hear Mama's body coming into contact with the wall, and I can hear her skull smack against the wall as Dad holds her there, and I can hear her gasping for him to stop, and I can hear her shallow breath, and I can hear as he throws her to the ground, and now he's coming here look what you've done Z---

I'm so tired, Zak. I probably don't even get an hour's worth of sleep each night. Your voice always filters through my thoughts, rattles my brain, and suffocates me. I always wonder if I could have ever stopped you, if I could have ever helped you. You could have saved yourself, Zak, you could still be here living and breathing and laughing next to me. But you're not, and what's done is done. But I also wonder if you regret what you did. Do you regret leaving me, Zak? Do you feel bad for leaving me here to slowly dwindle and fade? I really hope you do, because it's not fair how you just get to escape everything and I'm too afraid to do the same. I hope you're happy. I hope you're happy that I'm stuck here, left to dwindle and fade. But in the end, isn't that what everyone does?

I hope wherever you are, you're dwindling and fading, too.