I know I should go see my parents more often, I really do, but every time I think about it, my stomach just knots up because of... well, because of my brother’s old room. It’s like a shrine in there, still full of his trophies and that one pile of clothes that’s probably been there since he left for college and never really came back. (My mom swears she’s going to wash them, but it’s been years.) It just makes me feel... I don't know, guilty, I guess, that I don't want to step foot in that house when I know they miss him so much. It's just too much, like a museum, and I can't breathe in there. We live in such a small town too, everyone knows everything.