AHS freshman earns writing award for powerful short story

For Brennan Antonuk, writing has always been more than just an assignment - it’s a way to process emotions, explore ideas and express thoughts she might not otherwise say out loud. This personal connection to storytelling recently earned the Arlington High School freshman a Silver Key in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards.

Brennan’s winning piece, My Brother, Forevermore, was initially written for a class narrative essay assignment. The prompt asked students to craft a story - real or fictional - about a time they learned something. She took a blended approach, weaving together real-life experiences and imagined possibilities to create a deeply emotional and thought-provoking story.

“The real part is that my brother has been sick for a long time - he’s had post-COVID migraines for about four years,” Brennan explained. “The fictional part was exploring the fear of what could happen. You never want to imagine the worse, but there’s always a part of you that wonders and fears once you're faced with a scary reality.”

Her story follows a sibling navigating the emotional weight of watching a loved one struggle with chronic illness while also grappling with the overwhelming thought of losing them. Though deeply personal, Brennan’s work isn’t a literal retelling of her family’s experiences, but rather a way to process emotions - both her own and those that others might relate to.

“I think writing is a way for me to say things I can’t always say otherwise,” she shared. “It helps me cope, whether it’s through characters or blending reality with fiction.”

Hearing that she had placed in the competition - months after writing what she thought was a simple class assignment - was an unexpected thrill.

“I wrote the story for a school assignment, so I wasn’t thinking about it winning something like this,” Brennan said. “And then I found out that Scholastic is bigger than just local region - it covers a huge part of the country. That made it even more exciting."

What kills me the most is all at the same time, it’s like you were never here, and it’s like you still are. - an excerpt from My Brother, Forevermore

As for what’s next, Brennan is always writing. Whether it’s journaling or working on new stories, she continues to explore storytelling as both a creative outlet and a personal reflection tool.

Her Silver Key recognition is a testament to the power of writing - not just as an art form, but as a means of understanding, processing and sharing deeply human experiences.

Congratulations, Brennan, on this incredible achievement!

Want to read further? See her award-winning piece below!

My Brother, Forevermore by Brennan Antonuk

At the beginning of the summer, I noticed it was so often. So often he would come to my Mama with that look on his face, saying he was in pain. That he had a migraine. And you could see it in his eyes, that monster that was overtaking him, trying to overthrow him out of his own mind. You could see it in the way he stood, no longer tall and curious but beaten down, harnessed. 

But I was just a kid then. A kid who needed her parents as much as any other kid does. Who needs them to help manage her schoolwork, remind her of her chores, give her advice on friendships, and comfort her when she was sad. But I didn’t get that. My Mama was so focused on him. Always running to my brother, making sure he was okay, helping him. That she forgot to help me.

So I was cast aside, like a forgotten piece of clothing you no longer wear, stuffing to the back of your closet, forgetting that it’s there. That’s what it felt like to me. My eyes on them as they hurried away. Shutting my door and disappearing, while they never noticed. 

I was left alone to do everything myself as they dealt with his pain. Over the months and months of this, his suffering and my longing, I learned. I learned to not ask for help. To not ask for someone to explain part of my homework. To not ask for someone to comfort me and my depression—the one that felt like a cloak, hands holding mine, fingertips tracing over my heart, ready to infect it with ink—because it wasn’t as bad as his pain.

So I stayed quiet. I did what I had to do, alone. I struggled internally, and I fought to hold on. To stay. To keep going. I knew I couldn’t ask them for help. Because he needed it more. It was because of that that I let myself struggle, slowly sinking down, down, down. Into that dark place where the monsters stir and the world starts to dim, like an image on a TV screen instead of what’s around you. I let myself falter, if it meant they could focus on him. And maybe, just maybe, get him a little bit better.

As time passed, and the tracker of how many months went up, I couldn’t be annoyed anymore. I wanted to let myself be upset and angry, but I couldn’t. Because he was just a boy. A little boy who deserved to live as much as I did. Who deserved to do everything I was doing, what I was struggling to find the strength to do. So I picked my head up and kept going. Because I knew that I was given the opportunity he wasn’t, that he may never get, because he may never get better. So I had to do it for him.

He didn’t deserve to struggle like this. To go through each day with pain. To be incapable of living his life because of it. And so I felt it was my duty to do it all on my own. To make it through the day, even with my depression and anxiety and social anxiety. Because he had it too. But he also had the migraines.

I felt it was my duty to not complain about the stress and overwhelming blanket of life, when he wasn’t even able to experience any of it. To not need to be comforted about how all the friends I make after so much effort eventually leave me. Because he didn’t even have the chance to make a friend. He was always tucked away in his room, in the darkness, with all of the things that are supposed to help but don’t. Because if they helped, they should have helped a year and a half ago. But it’s all we have. So we try anyway. 

It was hard. It was hard acting like I wasn’t worried about him. Like I wasn’t scared for him. For what he was going through all the time. Because if I did, then my Mama would get anxious, more than she already was. She’d worry more about him, and she’d think she’d have to worry about me too. She’d start to have the same fears I did, the same compression in her chest when she thinks of him, stuck in his room, unwell. Not getting better. 

We all got good at pretending. Pretending we knew he was going to get better. But it’s been three years. Three years and we’re just used to it. Used to the fact that he can’t have friends. He can’t go to school for more than four days at a time before the pain is overbearing and he has to come home, back to the darkness of that room, behind the closed door. Where there’s nothing we can do to help fix him. 

And now it’s not the same. It was just a part of life, the fact that he got severe migraines every other day. We just all had to deal with it. But now it’s worse. He can’t function, and he’s had this migraine for so many days in a row. It won’t go away. His mind is overstimulated, and his body is tired. 

Last night Mama took him to the hospital. We know they can’t fix him, can’t make it better, can’t stop his pain. But maybe can help. Maybe they can pull him up from the darkness he’s drowning in, so his head is above the water, so he can breathe, even if they can’t pull him out. 

There’s a part of me that knows he’ll be fine. We’ve done this for so long, he’s dealt with it for so long, he’s been in pain for so long, and he’s always been fine. We’ve always dealt with it. He’s always been fine after, when the migraine goes away. But there’s a part of me that wonders what if? What if he isn’t fine? They can’t fix him, so how are they supposed to tell if he’s breaking? He’s been breaking for years, so how are we supposed to tell the difference of when he’s about to shut down?

But while he’s in the hospital this week, while he’s suffering, I have to ignore that. I have to go to school and act normal. Like my baby brother isn’t in the hospital. Like of course we know he’s going to get better. I have to participate in gym when my mind won’t stop racing. I have to be focused in band when all I can think about is him. I have to smile at my friends who wouldn’t understand. That this is just a part of my life, it’s nothing new. 

I have to act like he’s not struggling, holding on in the hospital. Like he’s just a regular boy. A seventh grader who is fascinated with math and used to play soccer. Who likes Mac & Cheese and plays video games after school. Who has such a pretty laugh and eyes that sparkle when he smiles. That’s how he used to be. And I know that’s how he could be now, if the monster was suffocating him. If the monster just left his mind alone and let him breathe, let him out of this cage, that’s how he would be. Just a little boy. A little boy who wants to feel the sunshine on his skin and the taste of refreshing ice cream on a summer’s day. 

I wake up one morning and my Mama says I don’t have to go to school. That we have something to do today. I feel a wrench in my chest and in my throat. I see it in her eyes. I’m not as good at reading her as I am at reading him, especially lately. But I can read her enough to know part of it. To know what I need to know.

I want to lock myself in my room and never come out. Just put on my headphones and block out the world. I don’t have to look at any of it. I don’t have to feel any of it. Just let me go to school. Let me continue living the way I’ve been living, in this routine, knowing it’s always going to be like this, just continuing on. Please….

My Mama starts the car and we pile in. My dad, Mama and I. I look out the window so they don’t see my face. It feels too vulnerable. I wish I were just going to school. My heart beats fast. My hands shake, so I fold them in my lap and squeeze them tight, like maybe if I squeeze them tight enough, this won’t be happening. Like maybe I won’t be hearing the words coming out of my father’s mouth:

”I know we don’t want to do this. It’s going to be hard. But we have to. We can’t go on like this. It’s been three years. Three years and we all know he’s not getting better. It’s torture to let him keep living like this. We have to.”

We don’t have to. I want to speak, but I keep my head turned to the car window. I won’t let the tears spill. I won’t be like that. I clench my jaw like it will stop the words from wrecking into my head.

We don’t have to do this. He’s just a little boy. He’s my baby brother! He’s only 12. He has so much he wants to do, he craves to do, and you’re just going to give it up? We’re never going to see him grow up? I’m never going to come home to him asking me to play Minecraft with him again? I’m never going to fight with him over that seat in the corner of the couch? It’s going to be just us? What good is this family if it’s just the three of us? What good is life without him? What am I supposed to do? 

I take a shaky breath, and then try to breathe. These words echo in my head. My body shakes, my heart beats, and I can't deal with this. I don’t know what to think anymore, I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what to do, because why would any of it matter? Why does anything matter anymore? If this is happening, why does anything matter? Why should I care about anything? How can I live thinking about anything other than this for the rest of my life? That’s all I can think in this moment. 

The walls are white. There’s two vending machines I don’t notice in the corner because I’m too busy pleading to the universe. The chairs are gray and fuzzy, with wide black armrests. There are 14 light panels on the ceiling in the first room. I try to focus on the receptionist: her name tag reads Marquee, a purple streak in her hair towards the front of her face, the way she rocks back and forth as she shifts her weight from foot to foot. 

The room number is 204. As I walk into the room, I can’t imagine my brother in this place. This isn’t where he belongs. He shouldn’t be here.

But as I take the first few steps into the room, I see him lying on the bed, tucked in to the white sheets. Machines all arond him, but I can’t see them. I can’t even move. All I see is his face. His face. In this place. Stuck in this bed. 

I’ll never see him outside this room again, in front of the backdrop of the green of nature. He’ll never walk the halls at school again, never hold his French horn, have the taste of the strawberry milkshake I’ve seen him get every time we got to Sonic, he’ll never get dressed up in his heavy winter coat that smells similar to a new car. 

I just see his face. His face as the rest of his body is tucked under the white sheets of the bed. 

I take careful steps forward, taking many moments to reach his bedside. I slide his small hand in mine. I hold it in both of mine, like it’s all I have to hold on to. I feel the tears in my throat, and suddenly all the poetry and deep words I’ve ever had flowing in my veins sinks to the floor as my insides create a lump in my throat.

His eyes slide over to meet mine. I stare deep into them. And I can’t read him, like I have so many times before. All I see is his small little face, the face of a little boy. His ocean eyes. Is this what he feels we have to do? Or is he crying on the inside just like I am?

As we’re here, like this, I feel our sibling bond. It’s in our eyes, linked, the blue shining, the look we share. It’s in our hands, the way I hold his, encompassed in both of mine. His little one delicate in mine. 

“I love you.” The words whisper from my lips to his, from my hand to his, from my heart to his heart. 

I kneel down next to the bed, next to his peaceful face, his dirty blonde hair falling into his closed eyes. 

I whisper close to him, “You’ve done enough. You’ve lived enough. You’ve been everything you’ve needed to be. Don’t think you need to wait any longer.” I pause, gazing upon his beautiful being. “And now the monster will let you go.” I take a breath and whisper, “You’re free.”

I stay there, next to him, in his presence, for many moments. It’s just us. Me and my little brother. Him and his big sister. Just us. For the last few moments. I lean forward wrap my arms around his upper body, across his chest. I feel the warmth radiating from his cheek. I feel his body in mine. I stay like this for many moments, just holding him. Until I bring my arms away. Our eyes meet again, and I feel the tears shining on my eyes. I offer him a smile: a sad smile, a comforting smile, and in a way a happy smile. Happy he’s finally going to be free. 

It takes every essence of my being to walk out of that room. Knowing what’s about to happen. What they’re about to do. I force my feet forward and to not look back. If I look back, I won’t go. I’ll rush to his side and stay there. I’ll have so many words to say and not enough time to say them. We never had enough time. And we never will. 

We start the car and drive home. I look out the window. My mind is blank but my heart has too many thoughts swirling in it, too many emotions bubbling up inside. 

All I can think about is that he’s going to close his eyes and let his body sink into the mattress, his mind drifting off to where it’s calling him. Where it might have been calling him for so long. Maybe it’s been calling him the past three years. Maybe it’s been calling him since he first awoke into this world.

My boy. I’m never going to see him again. I’ll never feel his hand in mine, wrap my arms around him, smile at him. I’ll never hear his laugh, see his pretty smile. I’ll never walk past him in the hall in the high school, get annoyed at him for asking me to play a game with him when I’m tired getting home from school. I’ll never ask him again why he doesn’t like music, or some odd hypothetical question he always found fascinating. He’ll never join marching band or become a neurosurgeon. Yeah, he had big dreams. But we’ll never get to see if they’ll come true. He was always special, and you could tell that. He just might’ve been able to do it. But we’ll never know. I can want to know as badly as I do, but we’ll never know. Sometimes that hurts more than I thought it would. 

We’ll never know how many cats he’d grow up to have, or where he’d chose to live. What his favorite book would grow to be and how often he’d call me when we lived apart. 

It’s odd because you could say we’ll always live apart. Or you could say we’ll always live together. I don't know which is true. I don’t know where he is anymore. If he’s everywhere, or if he’s nowhere. Or maybe he’s both. I try not to think about it. Because if I think about it, my heart and my thoughts will start to swirl and they won’t stop. And if they don’t stop, I can’t stop thinking of his face, in that room. And then it’s hard to breathe. So I try not to think about it. 

The universe promised you’d stay with me. The wind and the sunlight and the touch of our fingertips promised. From the moment you were born into this world, the second we were breathing the same air, we were always meant to be together. But now the universe has lied. The universe has taken you from me, and taken you from the world. And it will never bring you back. 

Day after day, I see your bedroom door. Closed. Like it was never open to begin with. I walk past it down the hall and we all pretend, ignore it. Ignore the fact that comes with it. Like if we don’t look at it, it’s not true. Like it never was true. It’s like you were never here at all. Like there’s not still some part of you, shut away in that room. Like there weren’t so many memories with the shadow I see in every corner of this house, even if it’ll never come to life. It’s like we’re supposed to forget all of that, pretend it never happened. 

But how can I when I still feel him in my heart? His heartbeat in mine. His pretty blue eyes in the way I look at the world. He sees what I see. And I see what he sees. 

In some ways, it’s like he’s still here. I feel him, and I see him. I see him in each turn around a corner of the house: in the way as Mama’s preparing dinner, sitting in his spot on the couch, in the bonus room in front of the TV. I feel him in the rustling of the leaves and the sunlight on my back and the quiet breeze on the weekend. I see him in the smallest of things. And I think of him. I think of him when things remind me of him. When we eat pizza for dinner, I walk to the bus stop alone, I see a Minecraft video on my recommended, I go to bed and don’t hear the shower turn on, I rewatch the Star Wars movies, our band director gives feedback to the mellophones; I think of him. I think of him when it doesn’t make sense to, when it has nothing to do with him. It’s such an innocent thought, but it carries such a tragic, slicing weight. I think of him when I’m planning my career, when I’m playing soccer, when I’m listening to the rain at night.

What kills me the most is all at the same time, it’s like you were never here, and it’s like you still are.