>You turn the key to the front door and open it as you've done so many times the past few months.
>It's been a daily routine for so long, that you couldn't imagine how hard it would be to stop when it's time to.
>There's nothing bothersome about it.
>You love your brother, and would do anything to make sure he is comfortable.
>Even if he isn't much of a talker these days.
>The living room furniture is starting to get dusty, a testament to how long it has been since they were used by anyone.
>It'll have to be cleaned sometime when you have a day off from work.
>For now, you'll just have to worry about checking up on Anon.
>You remove your winter coat and set it on the rack.
>As you make your way up the stairs, you look through all the framed photographs hung on the wall.
>Some are of the family get togethers, and one in particular catches your eye.
>It often does, it was one of your favorite days.
>The last July 4th party. 
>Anon had hosted it here in his home.
>He had to have someone else bring the food, because at that time, he was slowly losing fine motorskills.
>But he insisted that everyone come here for it.
>He wanted everyone to see him as himself one last time.
>The doctors said he didn't have much time with the rate the disease was progressing.
>After everyone ate, he prodded you into shooting his little backyard gun one last time.
>You were hesitant, but he wanted to share his favorite hobby one last time.
>He loved the gun so much.
>You could tell by the way he would talk about it so often.
>The way he held it as he took you out back.
>And admittedly, it was fun to you, too.
>You didn't do so great, but Anon had such a proud look.
>He must have felt pretty special teaching someone to shoot a gun.
>If only he had more time, you would have loved to do it again.

>A couple months later, he was unresponsive.
>It happened so fast, and it shocked the whole family.
>Even your cousins dropped everything when they heard the news and flew out to visit.
>It was pitiful, seeing him waste away even faster than before.
>The IVs feeding him could only do so much to prevent starvation, and slowly, his body whithered.
>You took it upon yourself to visit everyday to make sure he was doing okay.
>Dad didn't want you to be the one to find him when he finally passed, but you were firm on it.
>The hardest part was watching him turn from an already skinny man to a pale figure resembling a corpse aside from the occassional breath.
>You shake the thought from your head and start back up the stairs.
>Reaching the door, you mentally prepare yourself for the sight.
>Fruitless as it may be, you knock on the door and call out.
"Anon, it's me. I'm coming in, okay?"
>No response.
>You open the door and step inside.
>Immediately there is something very wrong.
>Anon is gone.
>His bed is bare aside from the clutter of hospice machinery meant to monitor his condition and the IV stands that fed him.
>In the pile of rustled blankets is a notebook.
>You recognize it as Anon's journal that he kept, which you have read on a visit after he went comatose.
>The first few pages were readable, but as the entries went on, they become incoherent.
>Only one line at the end of each entry could be made out, and even then only barely.
>And most of the legible parts seemed to be ravings about the hallucinations he was having.
>It hurt to read, knowing that he was slowly losing his mind.

>But there's a new entry where there wasn't one before.
>You snatch it up and try to read it, but it's just a bunch of scribbles.
>At the bottom, only legible after a minute of piecing together what letter the scribbles represented, you made out what it said.
>"We going shooting."
>Your eyes snap wide open.
>He shouldn't have been able to even move, let alone write this.
>You check the corner where Anon left his rifle before he became unresponsive.
>It was gone.
>The panic sets in and you race out the room and down the stairs.
>You run out the back door into the freezing cold.
>He's there, sitting at his bench.
>Unmoving in the slightest.
>His hand on his rifle, which is laying down next to his head.
>You walk beside him and check.
>If only just to make sure.
>As you pull out your phone to call your parents, you notice the paper target about seventy feet away.
>Even in the condition he was in, he was a better shot than you could ever hope to be.
>There's one thought that lets you have comfort in this.
>At least he was smiling in the end.