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A lost brother

Andria Weekes

    I was stuck in my car for 2 days straight. Ben, my partner, and I were staking out a guy who’d been robbing convenience stores. According to outside information, this store was apparently the next one on his list. Ben was sick of waiting, I was sick of waiting, but what could we do? It was our jobs as detectives. 9 am rolled around and that’s when I received a call. Ben sighs, “Just take the call here.” I nodded my head, and looked at my phone, unknown number. I picked up anyway.
    “I know what you did” the caller said, then immediately hung up the phone. What exactly did I do? I place my phone back in my pocket.
    “So who was it?” Ben asked.
    “No one.”
    For the next couple of weeks nothing particularly major happened. I carried on with my days like I usually would have. Was the call just a prank? Did they possibly have the wrong number? Either way I had to get the thought of it out of my mind, it didn’t seem as though they would be calling again. How wrong was I.
    The following month came around, and so did the caller. I’d remembered specifically when he called, it was the day I was promoted, September 9th. I was in the middle of having fun at my promotion party when my phone had vibrated in my pocket. Unknown number, just the same as the last time. I rushed to find a secluded place to answer the call.
    “I know what you did,” He’d said.
    “Who are you?”
    The caller hung up. So it was me
he was after, but why? I hadn’t done anything wrong.
    I began taking note of when ever the caller called. Every month on the 9th, at 9 am he’d always call, saying the same thing every single time, then hanging up. I tried asking what he wanted, who he was, what was the thing that I did, but there was never an answer. This continued until April. The calls had suddenly stopped then, and I grew warry of what the caller was planning. Why did he suddenly stop? I’d only realized a little late. He was sending me a message. 9 was the key. He stopped at the 9th month he’d been calling. But what could 9 possible mean to me?
    It wasn’t until my 29th birthday that I had finally understood. My birthday was September 18th, but I never celebrated it. There was an event that happened back when I was 9 years old. On my birthday back then I remembered a fire breaking loose in the orphanage I stayed in. It was my fault, I was messing around with one of my birthday candles and a fire started. Everyone had made it out, or at least that was what I thought. Growing up I guess I’d blocked the truth about that day, about what had really happened.
    My phone rang, and I knew it was him. My hands shook as I saw the call was unknown, but I answered anyway. “I know what you –“
    “Derek I’m so sorry,” I said, my eyes filled with tears. There was silence. “My baby brother, I’m so sorr-,”
    “Shut it!” Derek said, but I pushed his anger aside.
    “Derek please listen to me, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to forget you. I didn’t mean to leave you.”
    “Stop it! That’s enough,” Derek said, “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t get to cry, and you don’t get to say you’re sorry!”
    “Derek, just listen to me okay? Please, I’m your brother.”
    “You’re not my brother.” His shouting stopped, and Derek’s voice seemed more serious than angry. “The day you left me to die was the day you lost a brother, the day I lost a brother. You forgot me, erased me from your memories. How dare you call yourself my brother.”
    “Derek I didn’t mean to.” The call disconnected, and I was left sobbing on the floor.
    “Derek, my baby brother, I am so sorry,” I said, somehow hoping he would hear me. Hoping he would understand that I didn’t mean to. Hoping he would hear my cry, but why should he? I wasn’t there to hear his.

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