Here's the revised version of He's Just Human, with a new title. There is one swear (mild) in this part.

Day Three

The funeral is hell.

Relative after relative walks up to me. They hug me until I can’t breathe, they kiss me with their sticky lips, they cry in my hair. And I stand there and take it all, because that’s what I’m supposed to do.

They’re waiting for me to cry, to break down, but I give them nothing. I stand tall as I welcome people, and I sit straight as I listen to the priest. I don’t cry, but I don’t smile. I’m stuck somewhere in between; unfeeling, uncaring.

Empty.

My mother has to go to another room she’s crying so hard, but people pretend not to notice. Mascara trails down her cheeks; the black stain has been there all night. I can hear her sobs from here, and the priest’s voice breaks every once in a while when they become particularly loud.

Matty sits on our aunt’s lap, unsure of where else he’s welcome. He’s too old to be doing that, but she likes to baby him, and he likes taking advantage of it.

My father’s in the back of the room, talking to the funeral parlor owner in a hushed voice. He goes on and on, clinging to the distraction, until the man finally has to leave.

Now he stands alone in the back of the room, and he looks lost. For the first time since it happened, he has nothing to do, nothing to keep busy with. He looks above the rows of heads to the open casket where his son lies, motionless.

Nothing changes. His body doesn’t shake, he doesn’t frown, he doesn’t speak. But on his cheek, there’s the first tear I’ve ever seen him shed.

***

The funeral goes on around me, but I’m not aware of it. I go through all the right gestures, a numb feeling encircling my heart. I can’t stop thinking.

My mother crying in the hall, all alone.

My brother lying in my aunt’s lap like a child.

My father, left with nothing to do, grieving in the back of the room.

And my dead brother’s body in a cold casket.

I know I’m supposed to fit in there somewhere. I’m supposed to break through this hard exterior and give up, let it all out, cry, but I can’t.

It still seems unreal. I don’t believe that it’s really my brother in that casket, about to be buried six feet under. I don’t believe that my mother’s weak, or that my father has cried.

Never before have I been envious of Matty. Never before have I wanted to be like him. I’ve always been grateful to be past that age, to be respected, to have responsibilities.

Now there’s nothing I’d like to do more than to go back to that time. I want to crawl into my aunt’s lap and cry. I want to be able to believe that all parents are super-heroes again, and that no brothers lie.

But I’m not Matty’s age; I’m fifteen. I know that parents and brothers are just human, and that they have to break down sometimes. They have to cry, to break promises – that’s what makes them real.

***

The rest of my family and friends are milling around in the halls, their voices molding together until they’re one. It’s just my brother and me left. The casket and me. People glance inside the room, but they pretend not to notice me and continue on.

“Hey, Brendan,” I whisper from across the room. I half-expect him to respond, but, of course, he doesn’t. My throat still closes when he doesn’t answer. It’s finally real, concrete, and I don’t like it.

I open my mouth to say more, but then I close it. I know there are no words that will make this feel better, so I don’t try coming up with any. I just walk over and get onto my knees.

When people kneel before a casket, they’re supposed to pray, but I don’t. I look at him. His face is pale, and I know that, if I touch his skin, it’ll be cold. He still looks like himself, though.

My eyes water as I look down on him, and I find myself speaking again. “Wake up, Brendan,” I whisper. He doesn’t move, and I tell myself that this is the hardest part. Looking down at him, knowing that he won’t respond, won’t move. My chest clenches, physically painful, but I continue.

“Wake up!” It’s loud enough for my family to hear, but none come.

I’m crying now, but I don’t try to stop it. He’s not supposed to be dead. He’s supposed to be here for me, always ready to crack a joke or beat up some jerk who’s hassling me at school.

He’s supposed to keep his promises.

His eyes don’t open, and he doesn’t try to comfort me. I’m leaning against his casket, crying, but he doesn’t offer me any sympathy. He’s lifeless, and I don’t want him to be.

I stare at him, unable to get enough. I know I’ll never see him again, and I can’t stand the thought. My eyes strain to memorize every freckle, every hair, every detail on him. They finally fall to his wristband.

He’s worn it for as long as I can remember, and my parents were just going to bury him in it. He wore it so often it was almost a part of him – it seemed a crime to take it off. It’s made of black leather, and it’s tied around his wrist tightly. I’m pretty sure I’m being selfish as I reach down, but I shove the feeling aside. His skin is cool to the touch, but I don’t let my mind focus on that. It’s concentrated solely on taking off the wristband. I fumble with it for a few minutes, then I finally get it undone and pull it off.

His wrist looks bare without the band, but I don’t think anyone will care where he’s going. I tie it around my wrist instead, using my teeth and left hand. It’s a little tight, but it feels perfect there.

I let my hand fall to my side when I’m done. I know I only have a little while left, so I have to hurry. I look down at him, unsure of what to do. How do you say good-bye to your own brother?

“Katherine, we have to leave soon!” my father calls out from the hall. I glance at the open door and see him standing there. He stands tall once more, his shoulders straight, his face content. He’s given himself another task, and he has eliminated the option of being weak, but it’s okay. He’s just being him.

“All right,” I say. I look back at my brother, but I don’t say good-bye. I don’t think it’s possible to say good-bye to your own brother.

I thought finding his body – so close to death – was heart wrenching. I thought looking down at him, knowing that he would never respond, would be the hardest part of all of this. I was wrong.

The hardest part is standing up, turning, and walking out of the room.

I do it anyway. My legs shake beneath me, but my face is still. I know there’s no way to bring him back, I know there’s no way to make him keep his promise, and I know I’ll never completely get over this. Even so, I have the strength to do what he couldn’t do. I’m able to stand and walk out the door, into the sun, and live another day.

He broke his promise to me, but he’s just human. I can’t forget it, but I can forgive him, and that’s enough.

Edited 4/28/08. This is the version I turned in, but I could still use more feedback - I'm planning on fixing it even more.