Blood Brothers

I’ve heard some people can remember things in vivid color. You can ask them to picture a horse and they can tell you every single detail about it, down to the lashes on its eyes.

I’ve always seen things in black and white. Like a sketch. I only see the important things. The parts that tell me what I need to know and nothing more.

My memories are especially difficult. I think my brain is protecting me from the horrors that hide behind those doors. But the early memories weren’t so bad.

My earliest memory I have of my brother is when he fell face first into the fence that surrounded our small farm. It was a wire fence. Along the wire, every five inches or so, knots of spiked pain awaited any of the cattle that tried to push the boundary. It wasn’t enough to break their skin. Cows have thick hide.

My brother’s face was not as thick.

Now that I think about it, my memories do show blood very vividly, as if the sketch artist that lives in my brain sliced himself while portraying my life.

I think that’s why I remember it. It’s the first time I saw that much blood. I’d seen it before. As a young boy I wasn’t a stranger to scraped knees and fat lips. But a torn face is something else.

It was the first time it fascinated me.

I remember his hands trying to cover the gash while his voice screamed to the sky, trying to summon our parents, as if they’d be able to reverse the pain. I saw the blood seeping through his fingers, staining his shirt, mixing with the layer of dirt that was always glued to us.

I turned to the fence, seeing if it held any trace of his face. I remember reaching out and pricking my finger on the barb, squeezing my finger until a crimson orb appeared, like I was one of the magicians in the great city.

In that moment I would’ve told you that I could see my future in that little orb. But I never would’ve predicted this.

I watch as my blade now drips his blood. He’s not moving anymore. No more getting back up. No more fighting. I think he’s finally lost the drive to win.

My parents always favored him. They always told me that I should spend more time with him. Figure out how he accomplished so much.

Look at me now.

I’ve got to give it to them, they weren’t wrong about him. He did grow up to be the hero they knew he would be. But not just theirs. Everyone’s.

I look around and see them. Everyone. They’re all gathered around the rubble. They were smart enough to give us enough room. The sparks did fly. But now their faces are stained with tears and snot. They clutch each other. They’re probably wondering what they’re going to do now that their hero lies in the dirt.

I’m wondering why they didn’t do something while he was still standing.

Why wait until the hero’s done all he can? Why wait until all your hope begins to rot away with the corpse that over promised and under delivered?

Maybe they’re lazy. Or maybe they’re simple. Most people will lay back and let the world spin without thinking how it all works. Or how it can work for them. But not me.

I never needed everyone’s approval. Or friendship. Or love. I just needed to know that I had a chance. A chance to show them that I could be-

Better?

I shove my blade into the dirt next to my brother. I grab the collar of his breastplate and roll him onto his back.

His face is pale already. I can see the color draining from him slowly.

Oh how I wish I could remember this just as it is.

His lips try to form words as his eyes search for a place to land on my face. Once they do, they remind me of him as a child. Like when I woke him up in the middle of the night because of my nightmares.

“Are you real?” I hear him say.

I wince.

Is it really so hard to believe that I’ve bested him?

I stand up and his eyes go searching for me again. He takes a ragged breath, his lungs drowning in whatever his body can’t hold together.

“These people never loved you, brother.” My eyes flick to the people who mourn their hero. “They just loved the protection you offered. They loved the idea of you. Their protector. Their god.”

I kneel down again, his breaths coming in faster now. “They watched you, brother. They just stood there and watched.” My jaw clenches hard. I feel my teeth ache. “Four times. Four times you fell and nobody stepped forward for you. No one cared enough to come forward and offer their body as you’ve done for them.”

A bead of sweat falls from my nose onto his face. “There’s no love there. Only fear.” I wipe a smear of blood from the corner of his lips. They’re turning blue.

“They fear that if they lose you, they’ll have to DO something.” The corners of my mouth curl upward. I take my brothers head in my hands. “I loved you brother. I loved you enough to step in.”

Tears fill my eyes. “I saw what they were doing. I saw the pedestal that they were building under you and how fragile it was. How fragile you were.”

I bring his forehead to mine. Our clammy skin sticking together.

We were just kids when he had his first anxiety attack. Father never let him use that as an excuse to take a break. He always pushed him. Pushed him to be greater. Better. The best.

But I always saw what it did to my brother. He didn’t want to be the best.

He just wanted to be a kid.

And I just wanted my brother.

“I’m saving you.”