It Doesn’t End With Death – Luke Velez

October 3, 2025

Dear Luke,

I don’t even know where to start.
I guess that’s a lie because I know exactly where to start.
It’s going to start at the end.
It’s been three years since you died.
I know. Time still passes here, too. Slowly.
I wanted to write this letter for so long, but I couldn’t do it. It hurt too much, and I didn’t want to move on. For three years, all I could write was Dear Luke.
I didn’t want you to write about me at all. It made me upset.
Mom was the one who found you. You were in your room, the same room where you used to play with your Legos and read all your books. There was blood all over your dog-eared copy of A Farewell to Arms. (Hemingway killed himself too, and you always said he was your favorite). She called 911 and held what was left of you in her arms, sobbing. The paramedics came and they pronounced your time of death as Mom screamed and cried. She didn’t want to let her baby go.
Why are you doing this? Stop writing. Please.
When Dad found out, he was in the middle of surgery. He had to stop and a replacement surgeon was brought in as Dad raced home. He told me last year that he wanted to be at home before they took you away and your room became empty forever. Your room hasn’t been entered in three years. Everything is exactly as you left it, save for a layer of dust that lies over everything. Mom can only bring herself to clean there once a year.
They erased what was left of me from the house and cried about it. Typical.
You left a note and it was awful, Luke. You sounded so angry and hurt. You were so…violent in your words. I was scared when I read it, thinking you were still here and you were going to take your rage out on someone who didn’t deserve it. I felt like I didn’t know who was writing–- there was no way the author could be my brother.

Why didn’t you say anything? We didn’t know you were hurting so badly. We would have helped in any way we could. Dad burned your note two weeks after the funeral. He said he couldn’t take it anymore, that your words were not going to be our last memory of you.
No one could have ever saved me from myself. I wanted to be strong, but I think- I think I was too strong for too long.
You never could have understood. I tried, Claire. I did. And everyone gave me that same blank stare like cows do when you walk up to them with a bolt gun.
Evan and I cried for weeks. He dropped out of university for the semester and I failed all my classes. We couldn’t stop seeing you everywhere we went. You haunted us.
It was so quiet without you there.
Your girlfriend was admitted to the wards several times in the months following your death. She lived.
I heard she got engaged to a playwright in New Hampshire last week. He looks like you.
That bitch.
We found your laptop, Luke. We read your writings.
You wrote like a poet. Every word you typed out was filled with emotion, from your musings on the human condition to poems about heartbreak and depression. We submitted your writings to a local publisher and your stories are very popular with literary writers. A professor from Vanderbilt said he lamented the fact that no more words would ever spring forth from your soul again. It sounded fancy, and I know you would have loved it.
… Really? That’s a fucking lie, Claire. I was a wretched man who wrote terribly. Hemingway, Plath, Bradbury– they all would’ve spat on my works, and rightly so. You just don’t get it, you can’t see what was wrong with it, wrong with me. Stop trying to make me feel like I did something wrong. It’s not working!
I really didn’t want to write about your funeral, Luke. But I will, because Dr. Lehr said it would help me.
It was a Saturday. Nine o’clock in the morning. The sky was the same color as your eyes, steel gray. It was cold. They wouldn’t let us do an open casket. We offered to pay for reconstructive surgery, but the mortician told us it wouldn’t matter.
The church was packed with people who loved you, Luke. All your friends were there.
We didn’t know you had left a will or gone to a lawyer three days before your death.
It was cruel what you asked of us. You wanted us to dress up fancy in suits and dresses, and to quote you, “If they don’t look like the world just ended, kick them out.” (You were so fucking selfish, Luke. Why did you hurt us like this?)
Don’t worry. We followed your instructions to the letter. They played “That’s Life” by Sinatra before the service as people lined up to pay their respects. Wade broke down in tears before your mahogany casket and had to be dragged away. Your sponsor finished his speech as the song “Blue” by LeAnn Rimes started. As she sang about her losses, he placed a photo of you with all your friends from your halfway house on your casket. And Mom wailed in the pew as “We’ll Meet Again” by Vera Lynn heralded the end of the service. (Did you pick those songs to torment us? Or did you want us to feel what you felt?! I’ll never know, and it keeps me up at night!)
Everyone kept talking about how great you were. You touched so many people, Luke. You changed their lives. But you robbed everyone of the chance to thank you for it.
No. That’s not how it happened. They all hated me; I was better off dead. Please, Claire, stop writing. I beg you. You’re messing with my head.
They buried you, and everyone left. The family and your close friends came back to the house for a get-together in memory of you. We laughed, we cried, and we missed you. Together.
I’m sorry, Luke. I need to take a break. I’ll keep writing when I’m good enough to keep going, I promise.

I’m back. Sorry for the wait.
The dogs died shortly after you did. I hope they’re with you. You adored those dogs.
They went to a better place. Good animals don’t belong here.
We have your two-year chip in the same box you got from Grandpa, and it rests on the mantle next to your graduation photos. You did the impossible, recovering from your drug abuse, and you showed so much strength in your recovery. Why wasn’t it enough for you?
I wasn’t strong enough, Claire. I was worthless. I was weak, and I was a bad man who tried to be good and failed too many times. I was constantly wrestling a giant in my head, and the giant always won. I was consumed by my sins, and there was nothing anyone could do. When God judged me, He made the right choice.
Mom and Dad almost separated because of the heartache and stress. Dad kept insisting that you had made your own choice, and there was nothing we could have done, while Mom kept shouting that we didn’t try hard enough to understand you. It almost always devolved into bouts of fighting about who didn’t do enough for you when you needed it. They managed to get through it, though. Neither of them drinks anymore, in memory of your better days. Sometimes they speak about their experience at meetings. Mom has aged twenty years, it seems like. She has adjusted as well as she could, but you can still see sadness in her smile. Dad won’t talk about you unless it’s a good memory. He puts on a brave face, but he’s withered inside.
Shut up. Please.
Evan is back in college, and he switched his major. He wants to be a therapist and help people like you. I think it stems from guilt. Evan looked up to you his whole life, and I think he wants to atone for letting you go without noticing it. He and his wife are going to name their son after you.
Please. Stop writing.
And I just think about you all the time. I have a job where I make music, and I have a new boyfriend who treats me well. But life still seems so empty without you. You were the golden child, the strongest member of our family, and you were the creative one in the family. Nobody ever talked about me or Evan until they were done talking about you. Neither of us had as many trophies on our dressers as you did. I’ll never say it to anyone but you, but Luke, I think everyone saw me as a mere imitation compared to you, and now that you’re gone, I’m the best they have.
No, don’t you get it?! I hated it when they talked about me! You managed to find a new life outside of me, now I can’t ruin anything anymore. This is a good thing, why can’t you see that? You’re free now!
Every year when your birthday comes around, the family gathers around your grave and we leave a gift for you. This year, it was a book. An In-Depth Look at Tolkien. Its plum cover contrasts very nicely against the jade grass. You were such a nerd, Luke. Every weekend, Mom and Dad go to your grave to drop off flowers and talk to you. Can you hear them? I hope you can. It would comfort you, wherever you are.
I always leave when they show up. I can’t look at them.
I wanted to write about all this for so long, Luke. And I’m sorry it took so long. But when I started writing every time, I just kept thinking back to when I heard the news. I died on the inside, Luke. Something was ripped away from me that can never be filled again, and it hurts so badly. It feels as if I’ve picked up a piece of your pain and held on to it, so you don’t have to, wherever you are.
… I didn’t want to hurt anyone else, Claire. Only myself. I didn’t know Claire, and I’m sorry.

I remember the last time I saw you. I had just broken up with Wyatt, and you took me home after I had a breakdown, and when you saw I was sad, you took me to go play pool at three in the morning. And you let me win, just when I needed one. You never let anyone beat you if you could help it–but you threw away your pride to make me feel better. I don’t think you’ll ever understand how much that meant to me. And a week later, you left me, all alone. You had a look in your eyes, Luke. You looked like you were gazing past me and into eternity. But you were staring in the direction of the drinks in the bar and I thought maybe you were just reliving bad memories. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t. I should have, and I think about that all the time.
That was the night I made up my mind, Claire. It didn’t matter if you won or lost. I simply gave up. I was done helping people when I couldn’t help myself. I was a hypocrite. A liar. Yet again, I was indulging in my selfish ways. Again, I failed you and everyone else. Why do you feel like you are to blame? I am the fucking mistake, I am the one who couldn’t hide it well enough, and I know you could see it, so why do fucking care so much?

But I forgive you, Luke, as much as I have to forgive myself. I hope you understand. As much as I want to, I can’t bring you back. All I can do is move on, holding on to your memory until I can hold you one day and tell you how much I love you.

I’m starting to tear up again, and I’m getting overwhelmed writing about this. So I’ll leave you with this until I can write to you again.
No. Don’t go.
Keep writing. You can’t stop, I won’t be able to tell you how it was if you stop. You’ll regret it, Claire, I’m warning you!
I’m sorry, Luke. I’m so sorry we couldn’t help you. But what we can do is keep living. For you. We all try to be like you, even to this day. We’re helpful, kind, and loving. We try to laugh at life like you did, and we always look out for those who have the same spark in their eye that you did. We still love you, Luke. And we’ll see you soon.

Forever yours,
Claire

No.
No.
No.
Why?
They should have moved on by now!
What did I do?
No. No, I see it now.
Oh my God, I see it now!
How could I have been so stupid, so blind?
CLAIRE!
EVAN!
DAD!
MOMMY!
HELP ME, PLEASE, I’M SORRY!
MOMMY, I’M SO SORRY!
WHAT HAVE I DONE?! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!