My brother always told me the reason he enlisted in the army wasn’t because he didn’t know what else to do with his life. It wasn’t one of those “I have no passion in any career, I’ll just join the army” sort of decisions that he’d made overnight. And if you think it was because he wanted to help people—save innocent citizens and help them feel safe as they lay down to sleep in their beds at night—you’re wrong too. He joined because he wanted to leave the house.

Our parents, to be exact. He wanted to be as far away and as disconnected as possible from this family. No one knew that—they just thought Aaron was a brave soldier, and that he was happier being one. Maybe eventually he learned how to become happier—to become content with the lifestyle he’d chosen for himself. But initially, back when we used to still sleep in bunk beds in the same room back at the same old humble house in the city, back before he’d even made a decision about enlisting, he had told me he wanted an out. And the army was his way out.

I never stopped hearing the little whispers and murmurs: “Why would they let their son enlist in the army when there’s a war—especially with all that money they have?” And the responses from my heartbroken mother: “It was never about the money, obviously. Aaron was just so intent on helping others, there was nothing my husband and I could do to stop him.” A response which was often met with a sad face from the gossipers, a soft pat on the back and a prayer to end the conversation once and for all.

The responses grew weirder and weirder with every passing day. May he rest in peace, they launched with. Then it was how are you feeling, honey? Any better? as if I was being forced into saying I wasn’t because, really, that’s what they wanted to hear.

I am not a horrible person, I tell myself every day. I sobbed unconditionally the day my brother came back from the war in a body bag. I was shocked and scared and utterly traumatized. But as the days passed and the people kept talking about it and my parents kept showcasing it to the whole world, I realized that among all the heartbreak and sorrow I was feeling about my brother’s passing, I was also jealous.

The lucky bastard got to leave. And I was left here alone, the one place he had told me never to stay in.

“Get out as soon as you can, as fast as you can, as far as you can.”

I glanced up at him from my bottom bed, but could only see his left foot as it dangled out of his bed and twitched repeatedly. “Is that why you’re choosing the army?” I was just around 9 or 10 at that time, could hardly understand what the army entailed except for cool machine guns and matching uniforms.

“It’s one of the reasons,” he had said, always making sure whatever comes out of his mouth is a mystery.

I was jealous because, for the 8 years my brother had spent defending our country, he rarely came home. And when he did, just as with any other soldier out there, he came back a changed man.

And so the murmurs and whispers stroke again—back then, it was “the war changes people” and “you have no idea what people go through over there” and “it must’ve been the worst 3 years of his life over there”, always referring to the warzone as a place where civilization is cut down to minimum and life is horrid: a place to be referred to as “over there”, somewhere we shall not go.

“It wasn’t that bad, Pauly,” he’d said to me. We were no longer in bunk beds sharing an old stinky room. We were now in a modern-day villa (as they like to call it here), a classy uptown 20-room 3-story house. “It wasn’t all guns and fire and battle. I met some good people there.”

I liked to believe him, but my 15 year-old brain told me that the scars on his face and the bruises on his body were hiding something, that he was still traumatized. “They like to make a big fuss of it, the media. But I would give anything to go back.”

And so he did. His stay lasted 2 months and 16 days, the worst 77 days of Aaron’s life. He would wake up in the middle of the night, sneak into my room and wake me up. Then we would hop into the car and grab some burgers, at 3 in the morning.

“They haven’t changed,” he said while driving and maintaining a straight face. “Sure, they have money now and a bigger place and a better life—but they’re still not better people.”

I couldn’t argue with him—because what do you say to your hero brother who came back from the war after 3 years and tells you that your parents are still horrible? Or maybe I couldn’t argue with him simply because I agreed: they were horrible people.

“So you’re going back?”

He didn’t say anything. And then 4 days later, he was packing his bags.

There was a different feeling to it the second time—saying goodbye to Aaron as he left for war. You knew the second time that there’s going to be a third and fourth time, maybe because I grew up a lot in those 3 years.

“The next time I come, I better not find you in this house, Pauly.”

***

The worst thing about becoming the brother of a dead soldier is that they start to label you as the brother of a dead soldier. It’s like you metamorphose from being a human to being what they want you to be.

I used to hear it all the time. There he is, Aaron’s brother. The guy who died in the war. I never let them know that I could hear them because I didn’t know what they were expecting me to say or how they wanted me to react. Do I smile? Do I cry again? Do I tell them I’m doing just fine?

And the worst people to be around in this kind of situation are your friends. They will try to make you talk and cry and be spontaneous, and be happy, and sad, and insane, all at once. They won’t let it go. Like Jake, who insisted on asking me repeatedly, how do you do it? How do you deal with all of this once you go back home and sit alone in bed?

They hate the truthful, honest answer I give them: I deal with it the way anyone deals with anything. I simplify it. I lessen its importance. I make it trivial.

Because, really, it’s what I do. I don’t lie down in my bed at night thinking about my brother, or crying as I go through old pictures of him. I don’t think about him and get sad when I’m alone.

I think about him when I’m doing insignificant (or even significant) things with other people. And that’s what stings more.

The fact that I’m really okay—and me and my buddy Jake are just having chicken at this cheap fast food place around the corner, then a man at the next table laughs. And it’s the same way Aaron used to laugh—then bamn. I’m thinking about him. And for that entire day, that’s all I can hear in my head: this strange man’s laugh. And the fact that I may have to follow him later to see where he lives whenever I decide I may want to hear him laugh again.

Many people ask me if it's harder to cope with my brother's death because we're always on the spotlight. Mom and Dad are always out there, taking on interviews and showcasing their hero son on national television. The news mentions us more than three times a day. Our pictures are always on the covers of magazines. His face is there, all the time.

I say to these people: "It's harder for me to answer your question."

Because, really, how could they ask me something like that? It boggles my head the level of inappropriateness that people reach when tragedy strikes. You’re not really trying to be helpful at all when you ask me that; you’re being selfishly curious about what I feel and how I deal with being rich.

It’s quite simple: I don’t associate myself to it. I didn’t willingly want to go on Channel 1 with my folks to discuss my brother’s heroism. Proof of that:

“You’re not dressed yet.”

I looked up from my phone to see my Dad, in his fanciest suit ever, standing at my door and looking at me with straight eyes as he strapped his grey tie on.

“I told her I’m not going,” I said coldly.

He sighed unhappily. “Give her a break.”

“I am NOT going.”

“You don’t want to mess with her, not today, aright Pauly?” He came closer to me and then took one step back, realizing he’d gotten too close. “She’s kinda havin’ a rough day, so I suggest you make it a little less painful for all of us. It’s just 30 minutes; we go in, we go out. Just like that.”

I put my phone down and grabbed a book. “I have plans with Jake.”

“Well, postpone them.” Her voice came dashing through my skull.

I looked up, terrified. Haunted. Annoyed.

There she was, my own mother, standing out in the hall right outside my bedroom—glaring down at me in the most uneasy way possible, almost like she’s murdering me with her eyes.

And wearing a f*ckin’ red dress.

Like, the brightest red dress you could ever imagine. How f*cking suitable for an occasion like that.

“You have one minute to get dressed, Pauly. Driver’s waiting for us downstairs,” she finalized before walking down the stairs and leaving me with the sound of her exceptionally high heels clunking on the wooden floor.

When the noise started fading away, I looked at my Dad again who had sad eyes. “I’m sorry, kiddo.” Then he left. I felt like he was about to say something among the lines of ‘The master has spoken; I can’t help it’ but he didn’t. Dad never went out of his way to prove how horrible she is, or how horrible he is himself for supporting every decision she’s made over the years.

And so, I got dressed.

Welcome back to Channel News 1 where we promised you with an exclusive interview with the city’s most prestigious and influential family. The grieving parents and heart-broken brother of Aaron McCarthy, the hero soldier who went down in combat earlier this week, are here with us tonight to share their gut-wrenching story with the people of the United States and the world. This is not the family’s first on-screen interview, but the first with the entire clan. Joining us for the first time is Pauly McCarthy, Aaron’s brother. Hello, Pauly. How are you doing?

I looked at her, Viola Cooper, one of the country’s finest reporters. Then I looked at the ten cameras that were blinking in front of my face. I looked back at Viola, who was starting to get a bit uneasy about my uncomfortable silence. I should probably start talking now.

“Hello, Viola. I’m doing fine.”

“So, tell me a little bit about your relationship with your brother.”

I looked at the cameramen thinking seriously, do you enjoy doing what you do? Then my eyes caught the teleprompter that Ms. Cooper was staring at earlier, and it read:

- Tell me a little bit about your relationship with your brother.

All that followed by (guest response) and then another question:

- What was Aaron like at home?

And another:

- Did Aaron get along with your parents?

And suddenly, I felt relieved. The whole world was about to find out the truth about my parents. And on national television.