Page 68 of Dead Love
“You don’t need me. You haven’t in years.”
A dull pain grew in my chest. We hadn’t been close since before our mother got sick, but the reason I didn’t need him like that was because he had always looked after me. We stood by each other, even when we were stupid idiots. Disappearing for weeks. Getting arrested. Shooting up when we should have been working.
Like now.
“It’s not about needing someone, and you know it,” I said. He rolled his eyes. “Give it some time. You know that—”
He put the syringe in the crook of his elbow and pushed on the plunger.
“The fuck are you doing?” I asked.
Another syringe caught my eye, tossed behind the toilet. This was his second hit. He was going to overdose.
I smacked the syringe away, but he was already halfway there. Rage flushed my skin, throbbing in my ears. I was back in our parents’ bedroom, watching as Dad put the gun to his temple, his body slumping over Mom’s blue-green flesh. Helplessness crawled up inside of me. None of it seemed real then. And it didn’t seem real now.
Justin’s eyes were bottomless pits staring back at me. He smiled.
My heart palpitated. Spots crowded my vision, covering him. We weren’t supposed to go out like this. I was never going to let that happen.
It wasn’t up to him.
My own fucking brother.
I ran to my closet, getting the canvas bag from the top shelf, then pulled out the pistol. I brought it to the bathroom, loading the gun as I walked. My heart drummed in my chest with each step, and I opened the door.
His eyes were glazed over, cast in front of him. His chest exhaled, and he settled deeper into the water. He wouldn’t feel a thing.
He wasn’t going to leave me. Like they left us.
But not without misery. I lifted the gun. Pulled the trigger.
The bullet went through his temple. He fell back, slumping in the water, a sinking ship. But that wasn’t enough. I rushed to the medicine cabinet and found my straight razor, then reached into the water, ramming it into his arm, slicing down toward his wrist. Red swirled in the tub. I smashed my fists into his chest, holding him under, then stabbed the razor into the other arm, going as deep as I could until the muscles, veins, and tendons caught on the blade. The water sloshed over the sides of the tub, spilling on the ground.
His face was blank. Emotionless.Empty.
I held my breath. Then I brought the blade down again, and again, until his chest was battered with punctures and my whole body buzzed with heat, soaked with water and blood.
The razor dropped from my palm, clinking on the floor. Thetap tap tapon the tile interrupted my thoughts. I looked down; my palm was bleeding. I must have squeezed the blade too tightly. I slid onto the floor, the bathwater soaking the bottom of my pants, my eyes burning, warm blood covering my arms and chest. The air conditioning kicked on, blasting from the vents. I shuddered, but my breaths came out even and slow. I wiped the back of my hand on my face; I was drenched.
Justin floated in the tub behind me.
Was it an overdose? The bullet? The loss of blood? Drowning?
He was going to leave anyway.
I should have felt something. Should have felt guilty. Afraid. Angry. But my mind fixated on the razor. On the gun.
I wiped them off, then I soaped the blade, ran it through the water, and wiped the edges until it was clean and smooth. Next, I used a cloth to wipe my fingerprints from the gun. Once the evidence was gone, I used a towel to bring both of them to the tub. I pressed the pistol into Justin’s hand. I put the blade in his other palm, wrapping his fingers around it. I would have to burn my clothes in the firepit soon.
I kneeled at the side of the tub, my eyes half-lidded. The steam rose from the water. I wiped my wet face on my hands again as the events kept replaying in my head: he hadn’t even moved; he had just stopped. There was no response, and there never would be again.
But it didn’t give me any closure.
I should have watched him burn.
* * *
Kora
