Logan’s first goal when he was about eight.

You can see our parents cheering for him in the background. My mom is pregnant with Hadley in the picture, and I’m on top of our dad’s shoulders, clapping. I plan on changing the photo to a black and white shot. Then keeping everything out of focus except Logan and our parents. I may even keep them in color.

With that plan, I tie the stack back up and place them back in their original spot. My finger travels over the other ribbons, but decide I’ll save those for another day. Today is about creating the perfect present for my brother. My hand come across a stray memory card that should be in the pouch with the other ones. After setting it on my nightstand, I lock the box, and slide it underneath my bed. Curious, I pick up the memory card again and turn it over and over in my hand. Finally I insert it into my camera and review the pictures.

The first shot is a closeup of a lane pool and I know immediately these aren’t just random pictures from a swim meet. There are pictures I forced myself to forget. This is the memory card that someone else put in here when I wasn’t “well.” That’s why it wasn’t in the pouch.

These are the photos I took the last day my family was alive.

Holy fuck, I can’t breath. Why couldn’t I have left it alone?

I set down the camera and step back, wanting to be as far away as possible from those memories. Without any other thought but needing to release the pain, I run to my bathroom. On my knees I grab the razor blade I have taped underneath my sink. Lifting my shirt, I press the steel blade to my hip. When the first trickle of blood escapes, I realize what I’m doing and throw the blade across the bathroom.

Dropping my face into my hands, I will myself not to cry. I will not cry over this. I’m stronger than this. I try not to feel the relief that washes over me as I watch the trail of blood. As much as I wish that my action sickened me, it doesn’t. I can’t lie to myself. I already feel better. I ignore the signs that I still need help, and clean myself up. With shaky legs I get off the cold tile floor and trudge over to the discarded camera.

I force myself to view the pictures again. I have to do this. This is yet another step in the right direction. I want to remember them happy, all of us happy, together. I want to remember their last moments.

I load the photos onto my MacBook Pro and slowly start flipping through them. Because I’ve re-played that disastrous day in my head for the past six years, I know the perfect pictures for Logan’s present are here. I just have to find them without falling apart.

After a couple more minutes of searching, I arrive at the picture of the guys from my last swim meet. Connor and Logan sport smiles, while Jax stares thoughtfully at the person holding the camera, me. Their arms encircle each other’s shoulders, the best of friends. Jax is simply perfect. Even in a photo it’s unmistakable how truly handsome he is. It physically hurts to look at him and realize that I lost such an amazing friend. I focus on his sad, tired eyes. For some reason I think it’s because of me, but I can’t remember why. There’s something important I’m forgetting, but I can’t grasp what it is. I don’t pry too hard because I’m afraid of what I may reveal. Instead I continue flipping through the rest of the pictures, ignoring the truth that I need to uncover.

My fingers pause over the button to view the next picture; Logan has one hand on Hadley’s shoulder. His other hand makes a fist pump in the air as they cheer me on at the end of my lane. This is the perfect picture. This was exactly what I was searching for . . . I’m so thankful to whoever captured this moment. Hadley looks stunning in her yellow shirt and creme tutu, making me have to catch my breath. She loved tutu’s, always insisting to wear them with every outfit. She was thirteen when she died; she never even had a chance to live. She had such a promising future ahead of her. I still don’t know how I can live without my kid sister.

She would be nineteen if it wasn’t for me. I miss her so much that I’m riveted to the screen, not wanting to blink or even change the picture. I want to memorize everything about her. I love how she was bouncing up and down with excitement, her long blonde hair flying through the air. I love that I was the reason for this smile on her last day. She drove me crazy, but was able to made me smile when I felt sad. I was never able to stay angry at her for long. I miss her each and every day.

I click to the next one, wanting to finish this project before I can’t handle it anymore. It’s not until the last picture that I have to fight the urge to find the razor blade. It’s of all of us, the family that is no more. Our parents are on the ends, Logan, Hadley and I in the middle.

This picture breaks me . . . like I broke them.

The darkness takes over as I stare into my parent’s laughing faces. I feel guilty that I’m alive and they’re not. They were my world, they were the type of parents that you read about in books, the parents that are always there for their children no matter what. They were always understanding. Even when we were fighting, I knew that I was lucky to have them. Of course at the time I didn’t, but reflecting now, I know that I couldn’t have had better parents. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t know they would always love me.

I didn’t have the horror of growing up in a crappy situation that some children face, like Jax. I was loved by them and everything they did, they did for us. I wish that I could still make them proud. I know that I haven’t. Since the accident, I’ve let the happy memories of them fade away and be replaced by their last hours, my worst nightmare come to life. I’ve let Logan down, too. I need to remember that I’m not the only one who lost them that day, Logan did, too. He continued to live, to make them proud. I need to do the same.

I don’t know how long I’m transfixed to the computer screen. It feels like hours, but I know it could have only been a matter of minutes when I finally I drag the three photos over to Photoshop.

Being as rusty as I am, it takes longer than necessary to edit them. It’s like riding a bike, hard to forget the basics, and soon everything else comes back, just slowly. It takes me an hour to finish. When I’m finally done, I go to a local store to buy a few picture frames. I only intended to buy four, but I end up carrying twelve back to my apartment because I want to hang up a few pictures of my own. Hopefully they will make my place feel more like home.

After setting everything down on the table, I force myself to eat a granola bar even though I’m not hungry. I hear my phone chime with a text as I finish my last bite, but ignore it. Oops, I forgot to bring it on my errands. I’ll check it when I’m ready for bed.

Crawling into bed, I set my alarm for the morning. Before I press the icon for my text messages, someone bangs on my door, making me jump. I watch in slow motion as my phone flies out of my hands and onto the floor.

Please don’t be broken. Please don’t be broken.

“Great!” I say when I flip it over.

A huge crack mars the screen, but at least it still turns on. Setting my now cracked phone on the nightstand, I jump out of bed fully intending to kick someone’s ass. It’s almost two in the morning. Too focused on wanting to murder my late night visitor, I open it without checking to see who it is.

Nope. That’s gonna be a hard no!

I slam the door and lock it.

Too stunned to do anything else, I gape at the closed door. Please let this be a dream. I contemplate opening it again, but I quickly dismiss that notion. As much as I want to see him, I so do not need his games. I’m an emotional wreck as it is. I pace my bedroom with the thump of him knocking on the door as a constant soundtrack.