For some reason, uncle thinks it best that I start writing down these feelings of 'pent up guilt' down on paper. He thoroughly believes that it will get me to 'knock some sense into myself' and will 'let the dead be dead'. He also claims that the guilt that I harbor is 'abnormal' and 'unhealthy', though I truly cannot argue that. My life would be better had I not decided to hold all of my family members' deaths against myself, so I've decided to work through why I believe I harbor these feelings one family member after the other, starting with the first to go; my eldest brother, Lawrence.

Lawrence looked very similar to me, though his nose was more shaped like a button, his laugh more joyful, and he was a completely healthy young man. Instead of my reddish-brown hair, his was darker in color. He lacked freckles, but his teeth were neatly arranged in his mouth. His smile was charming and contagious. I was always envious of the way he played and jumped from dock to dock, the way he was shaping up and making my father proud. While I was stuck inside, I would frequently gaze up him, helping father outdoors. Subconsciously I would pull my blankets a little tighter, sucking in my bottom lip; why was I always so sick and so fragile? Why couldn't I play like the others?

While I was busily fighting one illness after the other, I was confined in my bed. There came a day when Lawrence lay with me, suffering from the same symptoms as I. It was odd, feeling my brother next to me. His body was larger, more muscular, and compared to him I was an elderly man. Warmth radiated from his still, sleeping body. I was able to feel some closeness with him, bonding through our experiences, suffering together. It wasn't a week later when he was pronounced dead.

Had I not been so susceptible to diseases, I think he may have lived to see the light of another day. I must have been the one to aid the illness on its way to him, right? I've little knowledge of how illness spreads, though I highly doubt it is actually my fault. My mother never seemed to be as happy after Lawrence's death, and this was evident when she came to visit me in my room. She no longer had a cheerful smile on her face. She would just bring me my food, ask how I was feeling, and exit. Occasionally I would get a little more out of her than that, but normally only if I inquired about my father.

After Lawrence was Dandelion, but I'll address her once I'm feeling more up to it. It's getting late, and I am growing cold. I should retire for the evening.