But my brother’s not with us anymore.
What’s replaced him is a shell of what he used to be—the boy always in the shadows, lurking in the libraries. Calm. Peaceful. At times, he scrunched up his face, pouting at whatever issue dared to stand in his way. He loved our parents, and he did whatever they asked—even give up his dreams of changing the world with one of his entrepreneurial ventures. When I was knee-deep in pussy I never even cared about, he was right there to assure our parents that we, their miracle babies, would be just fine.
“I’m sorry, Remo,” I blurt out. I stand by the wall, overlooking his room. It’s not messy because I clean up after him, but fuck, how I wish he’d go back to annoying me about the nasty socks near my bed.
Or when he used to ask me to come home when I was out partying all night, wasting my life away because I had no idea how to process my empathy or skills. Those moments… That was years ago. I don’t know how I let my own brother slip out of my hold.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want your pity. Your apologies. I don’t want anything. I’m not supposed to be here, yet you brought me back. I should’ve died back there, and I wish I did. I deserved it. My suffering is nothing in front of the pain that I caused the families of my victims. I murdered innocent children.”
He repeats that last sentence until his voice breaks.
* * *