Pain is inevitable in life. There’s no doubt it’s meant to be felt every second of every day in some way, in some capacity; whether it’s for a fleeting second, or a fucking lifetime. The kicker is I’ve never really felt real pain before, not until last week. I’ve had it easy growing up. I’ve never been in trouble. I’ve never been arrested. I’ve never talked back to my ma because I knew better. I saw her take a wooden spoon to me brother’s arse more than once for giving her lip.
I learned to never disrespect her.
Me, Ma, and Da came to America when I was a wee boy, not but knee high, but there was one family member who didn’t come with us. My brother, Conor. He stayed behind in Scotland because he was in his prime in MMA and UFC. He was a champion, undefeated, and one of the biggest men in the ring.
We were so proud of Conor, but life went on in America. We visited Conor every summer, and I grew up wanting to be just like him. He was ten years older than me, my role model, my idol.
Since growing up so far away from Conor, I had to find my own way without him, but the road I wanted to take darkened.
I don’t know where to go now.
The thing he loved the most was the thing that killed him.
The road might be rough, but the reward at the end is worth every tear.
“It wasn’t worth every tear,” I say to the tombstone as I sit on the freshly broken dirt covering my brother’s casket that is settled six-feet underground. I’m wearing a tie too tight for the thick of my neck, and I fucking hate wearing this goddamn kilt. Things are traditional here, in Scotland, and when someone dies, we have to get out the kilts and bagpipes, and it’s pure fucking torture.
Conor fought in his kilt, lived and breathed wearing the damn thing, and he died in it too.
After today, I’ll never wear the damn skirt again.
I read the quote on the engraved stone again, the one that my brother said before a fight and after, and then I toss some dirt at it. “It wasn’t worth this, Conor. It isn’t worth seeing Ma cry and Da just as blank as a damn sheet. He’s been expressionless. We don’t know what to do without ye.” I blink away the burning sensations in my eyes and look away from the stone, the only thing that’s left of my brother. The only damn thing. The man was twenty-eight, and the only thing he has left is a rock slab.
It’s fucking bullshit if you ask me.
“What am I supposed to do without ye, Conor? Huh? What the hell were ye thinking going up against the damn Irish? Ye know they don’t fight fair.” I knock my fist to my head, the same place O’Roark hit my brother, the one hit that killed Conor before his body hit the floor of the ring. “Ye were the best; why couldn’t ye just accept it? Ye had to fight him, and I’ll never forgive ye for it. I lost a brother. My only brother because ye wanted to be selfish. Couldn’t ye, for once, think of someone other than yerself?” I stare at the stone, waiting for him to answer me. “My brother is buried a half a world away, and if ye aren’t here alive, what’s the point of me ever coming back?”
“Rohan?” Ma’s voice has me turning to look over my shoulder. The last of the relatives have left, and the only people at the family plot in the cemetery are me, Ma, and Da. “We are leaving. Come on, let’s go.”
I shake my head. “Go on without me. I’m not ready to go.” Thunder rolls above me, and the once blue sky is being encroached with black swirls of rain clouds. Maybe it’s a way of Conor telling me he’s pissed off.
Yeah? Me too, asshole.
“It’s not good to stay here. We need to leave, Rohan,” Da raises his voice over the loud boom of thunder that vibrates the air. The bagpipes finally stop too, and I can breathe a little easier. I know I should love them because they are a part of my heritage, but I can’t stand the damn things.
“I’ll find a way back to Conor’s. I’m not ready to leave him just yet,” I say over the rain that starts to pelt