text: Ah, I really need to pee. I stare at my mother's tear stained face and wonder if this is the appropriate situation to excuse myself to go empty my bladder. I felt bad having to leave her for such a menial reason, but as I watched her tears streaming down her face, I came to the epiphany that my urine would be streaming down my clothes if I didn’t use the restroom soon. “Go, go,” an auntie gently patted my shoulder, looking at me with a face of empathy. “It’s okay, the rest of us are here for your mother. You need some time too, the death of a loved one is a difficult thing to process.” I guess I looked uncomfortable, which I was, but not for the reason she thought I was. But instead of telling her that I just needed to go pee, I tried my best to return her kind words with a grateful smile but I’m sure it turned out crooked. She stroked my head lovingly, giving me a sympathetic smile before leaving me to go be with my mother among the other dozens of the women who flocked to her side during the funeral. She had cried all her tears to the point where she had vomited, literally letting everything out. Now she simply sat still next to the casket, looking numb and broken. All I could do was watch. She didn’t feel like my mother anymore, as if her soul had left with him and she left me with her shell. She always loved him so dearly. I heaved myself to the restroom, leaving behind my mother and the rest of the funeral behind me for a brief moment. Finally being able to empty out your bladder always feels great, even after someone dies. The fluorescent light flickers ever so lightly as I lather my hands in some type of ambiguously-floral scented soap before rinsing off the suds of soap with cold water, watching bubbles disappear down the drain. As I turn off the water, my eyes flicker to the mirror and. I looked awfully put together for someone who’s supposedly grieving. Should I have been hysterically crying? It’s not like the deceased was a stranger, he was my best friend. But why didn’t I feel sad? My lack of sadness was balanced by the uncomfortable feeling in my chest. It didn’t hurt, it was just uncomfortable. I stared deeper into my reflection, I looked blank. I felt blank. All I could do was stare like an idiot. Was grief always like this? I watched as my reflection opened its mouth, “Do you blame yourself?” The words were as light as the wind, but reverberated in my ears. "What?" I mutter, disturbed. It was a face that looked so much like me, a voice that sounded so much like me, but it just wasn't me. I stared at the mirror, whatever that thing was, it wasn't simply my reflection anymore. It stared at me expectantly, urging me to answer its question. Was I going insane? Is this psychosis? Or are ghosts real? "Do you blame yourself?" The entity in the mirror repeated. There was no malicious intent in its voice, or maybe I was just oblivious. “I do,” I answer. Maybe this is a dumb decision, this always how people die in the movies but I didn’t care. “I really do.” I tear my eyes away from the mirror and stare at the sink, the uncomfortable feeling in my chest magnifying. I look back at the mirror and whatever was there is gone, my own eyes stare back at me. I clutched my chest, not knowing what the hell was going on but the uncomfortable feeling in my chest was getting worse. 𝌀 “I was afraid you fell into the toilet or some shit,” my brother bumped his shoulder into mine, chuckling as he watched me stumble into a tall vase of flowers. “Why so pale? Run into a ghost?” I look back at him with a sigh, “Maybe.” I say as I try to make sure the expensive-looking porcelain vase wasn’t chipped. “It’s so weird.” “What is?” “Being at a funeral for someone you love.” “Really?” “Really,” I took a good look at my brother, the uncomfortable feeling in my chest coming back. He was still wearing that yellow shirt, contrasting from the black swarm of funeral attendees. He smiled before grabbing my hand and leading me back to everyone, “Come on, the prayers are starting soon. Mom’s looking for you.” I walked behind him, like a duckling following their mother. All I could do was stare at the back of his head, only then did the uncomfort morph into pain. “I’m sorry,” I muttered as we walked. He said nothing. 𝌀 Parents not having favorites is bullshit, and kids know. My mother always loved him more, who wouldn’t have? My golden brother, a boy as bright as the sun. I was always in his shadow but that was okay, his light was bright enough for the both of us. His shadow was a comfortable place, he always took care of me. If I had no one, I had my brother. I stared at the smiling portrait of my brother on top of his casket then turned to see him staring at it as well with a scowl. “Why’d they choose this photo, my forehead looks huge!” He clicks his tongue in distaste as he turns to me. “How could you let them, my beloved sister? You should’ve chosen a better picture!” My brother has always been overdramatic, I guess some things don’t change even after death. I turn my head down to not meet anyone’s eyes. It’s a bad look to be laughing at your older brother’s funeral, especially when no one else can see his spirit. Whether this ghost was really my brother or my imagination, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I just missed my brother. I look away from my dead brother’s whining and stare at my alive mother, she was the one who truly looked dead. My mother and I had a somewhat strained relationship, partially due to her favoritism but I still loved her. Her anguish left a bitter taste in my mouth, the pain clawing at my ribs. Maybe if I was the one in the casket, she wouldn’t be in this state. I tried to sit through the prayers quietly, but that pain within my chest wouldn’t subside. My face was wet, I was crying. No matter how many times I dabbed my face dry they’d keep falling. It should’ve been me. That’s all I could think about, the short sentence reverberating in my mind. “Man, being at your own funeral is weird.” My brother commented as he sat next to me. I looked once more at my dead brother then at my mourning mother, I felt something break. “I’m sorry,” the word spilled out. “It should have been me.” I clutched my chest, the pain, it wouldn’t stop. All I could do was sob and repeat the sentence. “Stop!” My mother screamed, I looked up at her, her eyes were wide with horror. “How could you say- no, how could you even think that?” Before I knew it, her hands enveloped my face, her thumbs desperately wiping my tears. “Do you honestly think I’d be doing better if that was you instead of your brother?” Her voice broke mid-sentence. I stare at my mother, my mind feels numb and confused. How is it possible that she looks more heartbroken now? “Mom I’m-” “Stop apologizing!” She looked at me and I could see tears well up in her eyes. “My son is already dead, I don’t need my daughter wishing she was dead!” Her arms embrace me as she sobs, holding on to me as if she’s scared I might disappear. My vision blurs and next thing I know is I’m sobbing too. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my brother walk toward his casket. His yellow shirt gleams in the light. He turns back to me and smiles. I return it, even though my face is tearstained and smeared with snot. I close my eyes, and when I open them he’s gone.