I can’t believe it. Eight days ago, my cousin, favourite member of my family and the only one born before me, was run over by a car and died at the age of 20. I then had to leave home for a week for a class trip to London, which was terrible, and now I’m home and nobody told me about his funeral – I just found out that I was yesterday via his sister’s tumblr.

My empathy for his siblings and his parents is killing me, so I have shut it off.

The family still isn’t over my sister’s death almost two decades ago.

I have overheard the telephone call, I have heard my mum try to speak, “Oh Scheiße. Oh Gott, oh Gott, oh Gott oh Gott oh Gott…”

His mother could barely stand seeing him losing a lot of weight due to stress at university three months ago because she could “see him disappear” and enthusiastically nursed him back to health after he had moved back in with his family.

We all live in the same city, we meet at least once every month and ususally eight times in October, November and December.

My eighteenth birthday is in five days. I can’t be anything but selfish now that I have killed my empathy.

This will be hell.