The Summer I Died

by Ryan C. Thomas

In my book, listening to a drunk get philosophical is on par with rolling down a hill in a barrel full of nails. You get dizzy, your insides shriek with stabbing pain, and you end up someplace lower than where you started.

The drug wasted no time climbing into the recesses of my mind and convincing my brain cells they could run the place with minimal staff.

The human brain has a difficult time rationalizing the absurd. It’s like watching aliens land in your backyard and take a dip in your pool. You think, “This is a dream, any moment now I’ll wake up.” And then you do wake up. And you laugh about it and go back to sleep. Only we weren’t waking up.

She was my sister, and I loved her, and if I had to die to save her I was prepared.