Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky is clear, the sun is smiling, and when I breathe, my system is rewarded with a breath of fresh air each step of the way. Today is going to be a great day, I just know it. Another day of solving a mystery with the greatest, most loyal pup anyone could ever ask for: Blue!

We stroll outside in the backyard, searching for a clue to complete our game of Blue’s Clues . What’s that, might you ask? Well, it’s simple! To solve a mystery, we need to find three clues, and a clue has Blue’s paw print on it. Yup, you heard that right! So, we collect these clues by recording them in our handy-dandy notebook. Once we’ve collected all three clues, we sit back in our thinking chair and think, think, think. (Because that’s what we’re good for!)

Finally, we put all of ‘em together and solve the mystery!

That’s Blue’s Clues for ya. And always remember, with high spirits and a good attitude, you can solve anything! When you use your mind and take a step at a time, you can do anything that you want to do. You just have to believe in yourself.

A royal blue is set in the balmy spring weather of our nation. The sun’s rays pleasantly provide vitamin D, which we all need as a major source of energy. By all means, it’s a blessing to go outside. Of course, wear SPF to protect your skin, because, as great a source as the sun is for energy, it can be a bit harmful if you stay exposed to it for too long.

Walking, walking, walking . . .

And then, I come to a sudden halt—it’s as if my senses told me to stop walking. That’s okay, perhaps I need to slow down and look around for a clue. I carefully observe the area around me, the sandbox, the garden, and . . . aha! There it is!

Blue’s pawprint is set on a flowing cloud in the sky.

A relieved grin spreads across my face at my achievement. 

Unfortunately, my excitement was short-lived, interrupted by confusion. Now, hold on for just one second. My head tilts in disbelief as I marvel at the cloud, dumbfounded. I scoff with a hint of humor.

“How did Blue—?” I spoke out loud, unbeknownst to the weight of my words, I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. 

How did Blue get a paw print on the cloud . . . ?

I simply stand and stare, waiting for my brain to fill in the logic. Isn’t it a bit out of her reach? Oh, maybe she jumped!

. . . No, that wouldn’t work. Maybe she flew? No, that’s even more unrealistic. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. 

Okay . . . no additional thoughts. This is far from unusual. I’m friends with my mailbox. In conclusion, this should be normal. But something feels off.

With one singular blink, the paw print gets blurry. I realize that the cloud is drifting away. Distancing. I exhale once, giving up. I head back inside. Maybe some mysteries are better left unsolved.

I plop down on the thinking chair, but there are no thoughts to think about. My chin tilts up, I stare at the small wrinkles in the ceiling. I count the micro dots I can see with my naked eye.

One, two, three . . . One, two, three, four, five, six—

Blue nuzzles my ankle before jumping up to sit on my lap. My hand finds the top of her head and rubs it in a soothing motion, something comforting for both of us. I break my gaze away from the ceiling to find her lying in my lap, comfy. Her fur is extremely soft, I gently run my fingers over it again and again.

I keep my eyes on Blue. I know she’s here, but I need visual proof to keep my mind from slipping away again. A dreadful pool of anxiety stirs within my core, tightening like a knot that cannot be unraveled. The fear sleeps inside of me, but I’m awake. For the most part, I believe.

Gently sliding my hands beneath Blue’s torso, I pick her up off my lap and set her on the ground. One of her blue ears perked up in curiosity. “Don’t worry,” I tell her, patting her head before I head into the kitchen, “I just have to check around for a moment.”

I rummage through the cabinets first. Blue follows me, and for a moment, I feel more at ease with her presence, but she doesn’t stop me from completing my prioritized task. I reach for the handle of the cabinet I store the seasonings in—Salt ‘n’ Pepper. I swallow nervously, for some reason, before pulling it open.

The seasonings stand there—not literally, they just exist, no life to them at all. They’re just simple objects. That’s fine, that’s the way it should be, but confusion lingers. And I’m confused about why I’m confused. Were they always like that? I could’ve sworn something else was going on.

The barrage of questions occupying my mind is outvolumed by Blue’s consistent yapping. I turn to her, realizing that she’s been trying to grasp my attention for a while now. “What is it, Blue?” I ask her, to which she continues her yipyaps. She goes to the other side of the kitchen, pointing her chin to another cabinet. Blue keeps her puppy eyes on me as she goes, and I realize she wants me to follow her.

“Yeah?” I say as I walk over, glancing at the cabinet she’s dragged me to. “So what, Blue?”

Her gaze darts between the cabinet and me. My head tilted in slight confusion before I got it. “Ohh, you want me to open it! Gotcha,” I murmured as I reached for the handle of the cabinet. I opened it to reveal a collection of small bottles containing pills. Prescribed drugs from doctors—that’s what these are.

Which is odd. For one, I don’t remember seeing one of these in a while. I take down a bottle and turn it around, searching for the date. I got it a while ago, but it’s nearly filled to the brim with pills.

I can’t help but wonder why I even have these. I’m active and healthy, what’s the medicine for?

It can’t be anything too bizarre, it’s not like I have a serious, damaging illness that’s affecting my life—or has been affecting my life without my notice. I rotate the bottle some more in better lighting. I can properly read the tiny letters imprinted on this bottle. 

My eyes set on a big word—one I didn’t think I was familiar with. Labeled in bold letters: Schizophrenia .

Schizophrenia . . . ? Now where have I heard that word before?

It takes a few seconds for my neurons to connect. This is a clue I have yet to register—the meaning of this word and what it has to do with me. I think, think, think . . .

And the puzzle piece fits almost too well.

. . .

Oh.

Oh.

Chapter Text

Along with having the best pup in the world, I have a precious little brother. Well, he’s grown now, but he’s still my little brother. Joe is nineteen years old. Mind you, I’m twenty-two. I haven’t mentioned that already, so I figured, y’know. No harm a little insight could do. Joe is visiting for the weekend, which he does often—he’s a great brother, always visiting the family.

KNOCK, KNOCK!

Oh, speaking of—!

I open the front door and Joe treats me to one of his friendly smiles. We greet each other with a warm embrace before I welcome him in. This is our most genuine expression of affection—and I’m not a stranger to it.

“Hey, Steve! What’s up, how you’ve been doing?” he asks with his usual kindness. Joe is the kind of guy who isn’t scared to express himself, which is admirable. It must be nice, I imagine.

I recall what I’ve been up to lately. But it was just yesterday when I made an uncomfortable observation. Things felt like a dream. It’s a bummer that I didn’t take those forsaken pills when I should’ve. But hey, I’ve survived long enough without them!

And I’m just fine, aren’t I? Besides, the things you forget aren’t important if you forget them anyway!

“Y-Yeah—yes!” I reply hastily, although it wasn’t a yes-or-no question. “I’m doing great. And you?” I attempt to speak clearly with no faltering. Joe paused for a split second, his grin didn’t disappear—it only grew a bit faint. “I’m good, thanks,” he expressed with gratitude. “I think we should catch up,” he suggests, which is one thing I can agree on, as long as it doesn’t involve discussing anything too personal.

“Oh, but before we do that, how’s Blue?” he asks. I gladly call Blue over, happy to talk about her. “She’s been great as always,” I beamed.  Blue comes through the doggy door from the backyard and does a couple of excited spins when he sees her uncle Joe. Of course, because everyone loves Joe.

“Hey, Blue!” Joe’s smile was instantly brought back to life, as well as the spark in his eye. He stoops down to pet Blue, scratching her head and trailing his hand along her torso. I quietly sigh to myself, glad to know that Joe can also see Blue, and if this much is true, then she’s definitely real.

But I knew that.

. . . Did Joe know that?

Nevermind. I doubt he even knows what has gotten into me. There’s no need for that. I bite down on my tongue, trying to ignore the heat crawling into my cheeks as nervousness rises to the surface.

“Um, is there anything I could get you right now? Perhaps a glass of water?” I hesitantly suggest. Joe glances up at me before getting up, he shrugs casually. “I’m good, thanks.” Then, he jumps right into another subject. “So, how have your studies been going?”

My thoughts freeze for a second. For that singular second, I had absolutely no clue what he was talking about. I thought Joe had misspoken. Then it clicked, and the fact that I had forgotten, for only just a moment, sent a chill down my spine.

Right! I’m studying criminology to get into a college where I can pursue my dream of being a detective!

Ah, no wonder I loved playing Blue’s Clues . That’s my passion, and a bit eerie that I managed to forget it—but that’s okay because I remembered!

“Oh, yeah! It’s going great,” I tell him. A small sigh slips from my lips without my permission. Shoot, I hope that didn’t make me seem uninterested or anything like that. I mentally wrestle with the urge to facepalm myself. Joe is the one person who’s able to read me like a book. Unlike me, he’s great at picking up on social cues and body language.

He’s too good at those things.

And I know it the moment that look of concern flashes across his face. “Are you okay? Did you get enough sleep?” he asks as he takes a step closer to study me. I avert my gaze almost instantly. “No, Joe—it’s—it’s just—” I sigh, unable to articulate properly, to think of something to come back with. Nothing comes to mind. It’s like endlessly scribbling on a piece of paper—my mind is a cluttered mess.

And there’s no use in avoiding it any longer.

I steel myself before I speak. “Joe . . . Something weird has been going on,” I muttered. I’m going to do it—I’m going to confess what has been happening, no matter how weird it might seem to others—AKA my brother, who has been with me my entire life. “Yeah? You can tell me anything, Steve, I’ll listen,” he assures with the softest voice ever. I only nod. “Yeah, well, you might want to sit on the thinking chair for this one,” I suggested, and he did.

“Okay, there’s no way to sugarcoat this, so I’ll just say it as it is.” I take a deep breath before I speak. “I saw a blue paw print on the cloud yesterday. Yeah, on a cloud, in the sky, with one of Blue’s paw prints on it.”

“Oh, context?” asks Joe. I huff, feeling exasperation seep into my system. I don’t know what else there is to say. I bite my lip and go further. “Joe, I can’t make this up, you have to believe me. For once, I had to stop and think, How did she do that? because that shouldn’t be normal, right? But nothing is.”

Joe’s brows furrowed in confusion, I could tell the gears in his mind were grinding overtime, trying to sort this out. “Normal?” he echoed, his voice barely audible.

“Joe . . . I—” I stop myself before I can go any further. “I just don’t know anymore.”

“No, Steve, please—” Joe stands up and grabs my hand. It was an unexpected gesture, but I didn’t instinctively pull away for some reason. “Your words are safe with me, I promise. You can tell me anything,” he gently presses, and . . . I want to believe him. My heart softens when I see the look in his eyes. This is my brother I’m speaking to, the last family I have left, I should be open with him.

With that, I sigh, shutting my eyes as I allow my mind to process this. “Okay,” I give in, “I’ll tell you.”

And so I did. I explained all of the weirdness to the best of my ability. Everything— Blue’s Clues , talking objects—everything. And I’m surprised I got through it without faltering. It’s like the words just spilled out of my mouth effortlessly, as if they weren’t mine. Joe’s expression molds into something blank, something unreadable. Nonetheless, there’s still a faint glimmer that lingers in his eyes. I truly have no clue what he could be thinking right now.

Well, I have a few ideas of what he could be pondering: Is he serious? What the hell? My brother is insane. He’s psychotic, the textbook definition of a serial killer—I’m scared.

For a small moment, Joe opened his mouth, then closed it again. His eyes scanned my face as if searching for the right words. Then, he finally replied, the total opposite of what I thought was going to be said, “It’s going to be alright, Steve. I don’t think any less of you, I’m glad you could share this with me,” he expressed, speaking from his heart. And I could only blink. “What?” I breathed.

“It’s okay, Steve,” he repeated with more certainty. He squeezed my hand a bit tighter before letting go. “I can’t see things from your perspective, but the least I could try to do is understand.

“It’ll be okay as long as you get the right treatment.”

With that, Joe began to walk towards the kitchen. I followed after him absentmindedly before realizing what he was headed for: the cabinet with my prescribed drugs.

My breath hitched as I tried to reach Joe before he got to it.

“Where do you keep your medicine? You have been taking them, right?” he questioned with a hint of skepticism. I bit down on my tongue, surrendering, and said, “Bottom cabinet, left corner.”

Joe reached for the handle, opened the cabinet, and that’s when I decided to spill it. “I haven’t been taking them for a while!” I blurted. Shame immediately crept onto my face as Joe took out the tiny bottle, examining how it was mostly full of unused pills. “I had an episode, I guess—and I just couldn’t snap out of it,” I weakly declare—a poor excuse, if any.

After laying eyes on the thing, Joe’s gaze turned to me with yet another soft expression. I avoid making eye contact once again. But it’s almost impossible to look away when I look at Joe. Something about him is so tangible—something I cannot stress enough. He looks so much like our mother. He favors Mommy too well. And when he has that soft , gentle look about him, it’s like he’s the male replica of her. It never fails to send a chill down my spine.

“I’m sorry . . .” I utterly pathetically.

Joe shakes his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t know—I should’ve checked up on you sooner,” he sighs. That somehow makes me feel even worse. “But, uh, you should be taking these, I see they haven’t expired yet,” he assessed briefly.

“R-Right.” I nodded. “Again, it just takes a moment to remember things when reality is just . . . deattached,” I explain, although ‘a moment’ is a huge understatement. “And God knows how long that lasts for,” I add quietly.

Joe let out a low hum in acknowledgement, as if he knew it all too well. “Just be safe, OK?” he asked kindly of me. I nodded in response, a weary grin worn on my face to lighten the atmosphere. Joe returns it in a bittersweet manner. “Hey, remember Dad?” Joe mentioned delicately. I nod again, allowing Joe to continue, to hear what he has to say about Dad. “He had the same troubles as you, but he was a great guy.” Joe suddenly paused, sighing. “At least that’s what I heard from Mom.”

I absorb the layers of his words. We both take in the sentimental atmosphere and savor the moment of reminiscing.

Dad . . .

For the longest time, I’ve been told by countless people that I resemble my father to an uncanny extent. Down to his looks, his personality, his attitude, his drive, and his unfortunate mental state.

People have my dad engraved in their memories in all sorts of ways. There are all sorts of stories about him, good and bad. It makes me wish he had stayed alive a little longer so I could’ve gotten to know him better.

He is me and I am him.

It would’ve been nice to understand where I came from.

My mentality . . . Why I think the way I think . . .

Our mentality has a history. I remember this being mentioned once by my late grandfather—an odd disorder that lingered in the code for our psyche—it’s been passed down by generations of every eldest child. It was rare if the younger offspring got it, and Joe was lucky enough to avoid it—after all, he resembles Mommy a lot more than he resembles Dad.

I take one more good look at him and say, “You’re a great brother, Joe. Too good for all the craziness in reality.” Joe chuckles at this, which brings a smile to my face. “I don’t mind it if it means I get to spend time with my genius detective brother,” he teased.

I suppose he’s not wrong.

And for now, the weekend is ours.

Chapter Text

After a healing weekend with Joe, I decided to give the medication a try. Joe is good at coaxing me into things, and this was another example of that. I grabbed a glass of water with the pill resting in the palm of my hand. After filling the glass, I stared at the pill reluctantly, as if it was daring me to toss it away, but before I could hesitate any further, I downed it quickly and swallowed it with the cold water.

To distract myself from the medication entering my system, I look around my room at things to do. A stack of books occupies a corner of my room. I go over to the corner and peek over them, catching a glimpse of the title: Everything You Need to Know About Criminology .

I know these books like the back of my hand. I remember reading page for page, word for word . . . an unforgettable amount of knowledge is stored in a packed corner of my room.

And in another corner of my room, a stack of journals lay on the rug. I go over, sorting through the pages, until I find an old memory—a journal I used to keep from my years in high school. This was the journal I’d sketch in. I’m no artist, but I’ve been drawing since I was a kid. Something about drawing puts me at ease, just being able to create an image in my mind and draft it out visually with nothing but a pencil has been anything but boring.

I grab the journal along with a pen resting on my desk and sit on the edge of my mattress. The lights are dim—the atmosphere is perfect for a quick sketch. It’s raining outside, the droplets gently hit my window, which can be heard from where I’m sitting. It reminds me of rainy nights I’d spend inside my room as a kid while Mommy was out with her girls, which was often.

I have to admit, I grew a bit paranoid while she was out. My mind made a list of the worst-case scenarios that could occur while she was out. What if she got into a car wreck or a horrible accident like how Dad did? That’s what occupied my mind during those times. Anything could’ve changed my life in the blink of an eye.

I flip through the journal, these sketches become increasingly familiar to me. A field of flowers crafted with a pencil—I added detailed shading and value to the image. I trace the shape of the flowers with my fingertip. I can almost feel the warmth radiating from this drawing, the breeze that slightly tilts the flowers another way. I smile at the peaceful image.

I turn the page, and another page, and the atmosphere of the sketches grows erratic. They were unique, to say the least. Perhaps a bit messy, but they were mine. They came from my mind—these were my thoughts. My memories . . .

Something catches my eye.

A dark, scribbled sketch of a deformed figure. To my bare eye, it’s difficult to make out what’s going on in this picture, but I observe more, and the shading tells a whole story. Hints of red and blue ignite the page in a flashy scene, blending into a bruised purple. More deep reds paint the picture. My mind fills in the blanks.

It was just a sketch—just shaky, uneven lines. Just an image on a piece of paper—a memory I encaptured into art—I can handle this. I know what this is—I know exactly what this is—but I ignore it. It might’ve been real, but it can’t hurt me now. But the pencil smudges across the paper don’t make things better—the figure almost looks melted, which isn’t far from how it rests in my memory.

Why, why, why, why did he have to die?

My vision blurred around the edges. The spidery lines on the paper lifted off and began to swim. I blink, trying to put them back in focus, but my vision blackens even more. The tips of my fingers tingle, and I can’t tell if I’m too hot or too cold. The room felt like it expanded ten times its size.

I shut the journal too hard, the sound echoes in my skull. I didn’t see that—I didn’t. I try to count my breaths.

One, one, two—three, four . . .

I blink, and a singular tear grazes my right cheek. Falls down my jaw. It hits the corner of my closed journal. The sound of raindrops tapping my window grew louder, and more tears fell down my face. I cry more and more, silently sobbing in the darkness of the room, doing nothing but soaking up the loneliness. 

I was only six when he died, but I adored my dad more than anyone in the world. I didn’t get to grow up and learn more about him—I didn’t get to slowly realize that perhaps he wasn’t as perfect as I thought he was. No, he died before any of that could happen.

The older I get, the more I look like him. I look at old pictures of him—it’s apparent. We have the same eyes, the same smile, the same everything. Whenever I look into the mirror, I can’t help but feel like I’m looking at a dead man, a man who died a long time ago, selfishly.

With the way certain things were taken from me, I could understand why murder is a thing. It’s simple. Adrenaline gets people so heated, and sometimes there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop them.

A hint of light slips into my room. My door wasn’t closed all the way. I reluctantly stand up and see Blue standing outside my room. I guess she was unsure whether to come in or not. I open the door and give Blue some headpats. “Don’t worry, Blue,” I tell her, “it’ll just be a second.”

I went outside my room to where the telephone was in the living room. I pick it up and dial Joe’s number. If there’s anyone I can rely on right now, it’s Joe. I sniffle, taking a deep breath in, and wiping the damp tears off my face with my sleeve.

Please, pick up, please, please, please—

“Hello?” said Joe on the other line after what felt like hours. I exhaled in relief, finally getting the chance to speak. “H-Hi, Joey. It’s Steve—your brother. Um, I’m sorry if now isn’t a good time to talk, but you’re kinda all I have at the moment, and I just felt like you should know that if anything were to happen to you, I swear I’d—”

Joe cuts me off before I can continue. “Oh, Steve! Hey, wait— slow down. Is everything alright?” he asks. “What happened?” I can sense his concern all the way from where I stand on the other end of the line.

There was too much to explain. I took another deep breath in. “Joe,” I said more sternly. “I took my meds today. But for some reason, I kept having weird thoughts.”

There was a small pause. Joe spoke quietly with the mic close to his mouth, “What thoughts?”

“Oh, just thoughts about dying. I mean, nothing suicidal. Just very uncomfortable thoughts that invade my mind. But what’s worse than the thought of death is the thought of losing every ounce of sanity I’ve worked so hard to pull together! And dammit, I wouldn’t just be a danger to myself, but also others!” I exclaim without thinking. I suddenly fall silent before backtracking. “Oh, shit—I’m sorry!” I immediately apologize.

“Steve, stop ,” Joe ordered. Just like that, my trap was shut. I listened to his voice closely, hearing the soft sigh from the other end of the line. A sharp, deliberate breath, like he was steadying himself. “I’m right here, Steve. I’m not going anywhere, and nobody is going to die.” I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he says this.

“Just . . . what made you think this if you took your meds?” Joe asked suspiciously. I paused, truly thinking about it. “Um, just a memory,” I replied sheepishly. A damn memory . . . now that was just tragic, even for me. I squeeze my eyes shut, regretting what I’ve said. “I-I just think too much,” I finally admit over the silence that followed. Nothing was said for a moment. 

“Joe, are you there?”

“Yeah—yes, I’m here,” replied Joe, more calm. My tongue clicked. “Well, sorry for putting you through that. You’ve had to deal with a lot of shit due to my neurosis,” I said as a fact.

Joe went quiet again. I could tell that he probably wanted to say many things. He just can’t start, so now he’s kinda frozen. So, I end it for him.

“. . . I love you, Joe.”

“. . . Get some rest, Steve. You need it.”

Chapter Text

Behind countless nights of trying to perfect my application to my dream college, I got written back. Somehow, miraculously, I got in. I don’t know what it was—perhaps they saw my desperation or my drive, or maybe both! But all that matters is I got in.

And here I am now, in my first week of college. This is where the foundation of my career will be built. I’m on my meds, and things are going to turn around. I have faith. I’ve gotten my things settled here, and back at home, Joe is taking care of Blue. Things are going to be just fine.

I also have a roommate. His name is Josh.

Josh is amazing. He has this fluid air around him, a golden aura, very easy to talk to. Take all the best traits a person could have and fit them into one—that’s Josh. Sweet, kind, funny, all of the above. And coming from me, that says a lot. 

Meeting new people is nerve-wracking. And I was a bit nervous to meet Josh, but all of that faded away once I got to know him. He’s the type of guy written in stories—mere perfection. Too good to ruin. And I got the feeling that he has always had a great life. Turns out, I probably wasn’t far off.

The other day, Josh called me. He invited Joe and me to a concert happening not far from where we are. I had to think about it because I’m not all for huge social functions. Then again, this is a concert we’re talking about—everyone loves music. And it’s not just any concert, it’s a rock concert— Foo Fighters , to be exact. Real music.

Although I’m still trying to go steady and get used to my medication, this was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“So I’ll see you there?” The excitement in Josh’s voice was palpable. It gave me a bit of a sweat. “Yeah, I’ll call Joe and give him the address,” I said. “Awesome! It’ll be fun, I promise. Can’t wait,” he said before hanging up.

I brought my hand to my cheek, and it felt like it was boiling.

OK, this is just a rock concert. Nothing bad can go wrong. What should I wear? I’ve gotta wear the right attire. I mean, I’ve been told that I’ve already got a somewhat natural, gothic look to my features. Maybe I can lean into that.

I’ve always thought ripped jeans were tacky. Skinny jeans might work—only when styled correctly. A pair of black denim and Converse can’t go wrong. And on top? I’m itching to wear my green sweater, but that’s too typical. I rummage through my closet and find a white tank top along with a dark flannel. I put it all on and stare into my full-length mirror.

Does this make me look like a Greaser? . . . Nah, my hair is too messy.

Something’s missing. My eyes land on the edge of my desk, and I swoop up my cross necklace. Final touch. I take my pills and drive to the destination, my heart begins to race when I get close for some reason. I arrive when the autumn sky is about to set. Man, parking is a hassle. I didn’t think so many people in our boring town would be into good music.

I get out of my car and walk outside. I glance around, scanning the crowd. There are . . . a lot of people. Too much movement. I bit on my lower lip, debating whether I should ask the guy at the ticket booth if he had seen him—then, I heard his voice.

“Steve!” Josh approaches me from the side. He pulls me into a tight embrace before I can react. “It’s so good to see you!” he gushes. “Sure does,” I reply, awkwardly trying to hug back, but it was so compact I had no clue where to put my hands. Instead, I awkwardly pat his head.

“Where’s Joe?” Josh asks as he pulls away. Not even half a minute into seeing me and he’s already asking about my brother. I guess that’s on me because I just had to mention Joe when we first met, ever since then, Josh thought of him as a great guy and has been waiting for the chance to meet him in person. “He’s getting here,” I reply, to which Josh nods.

Now I have the chance to ask, so I must. “So uh, since when were you into rock music?”

“Oh, let’s just say I had a phase in high school,” Josh chuckled. “Didn’t we all?” I reply slyly—we both laugh. Sudden silence washed over the atmosphere. “Are you alright?” Josh asks me, which catches me off guard, “You just seem a bit out of it lately.”

“Ah—yeah. Just getting used to a medication I’ve been prescribed,” I said. A pause. “Professionally,” I add.

“Oh, OK!” Josh didn’t ask any further questions. He glanced around and another group of people caught his eye. My gaze follows the direction he looks in. Right, some people from our campus are here. Bold, outspoken people. The type of people who have no problem with grabbing others’ attention. Like Josh. He’s actually a bit popular. He can become friends with anyone and anything—I suppose I’m living proof of that.

“Hey,” Josh said as he was looking at the crowd, “you wouldn’t be mad if I ditched you for a couple of minutes, would you?” I bite on the inside of my cheek. I let out a forced chuckle. “Nah, I don’t need friends,” I respond sarcastically, hoping Josh doesn’t catch the heat behind my words. “Just don’t take too long,” I added in a softer tone.

“Oh, right. I forgot you have emotional problems and whatnot. Just don’t break down into tears while I’m gone!” he shouts as he walks off with a teasing wink. He disappears into the crowd. I exhale sharply, shoving my hands into my pockets. Yeah, whatever, I don’t need company anyway. 

Yet I fight the urge to bite my tongue until it bleeds.

“You’re just going to let him ditch you? Damn, me personally, I wouldn’t take that,” said a voice behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to tell who it was, but I did anyway. Despite Josh leaving me, I couldn’t suppress a small grin at Joe’s appearance. He’s taller than I, though, so at this distance, I have to look up .

He’s not wrong—Josh ditched me. And for what? A bunch of posers? Posers who are likely more stable—but still.

The thought irritates me to an extent. To a great extent, actually. Tell me if I’m overreacting or whatever, but I’m kinda pissed. Although my dear little brother is here to company me, the sting doesn’t just fade away. I don’t even know why I care so much and that itself is infuriating. Do I just want to feel special? Is my self-esteem seriously that low?

“Don’t mention it,” I tell Joe. Tints of purple and pink swirl in the sky above. It’s getting dark enough to see the stars peeking out now. The background clutter consisted of drums, bass, and loudspeakers —yet the sound of my heart beating somehow drowned out all of the noise. It’s all I can listen to, as well as my voice which doesn’t even sound like my own. My feet felt a bit unsteady to stand on. I grasp onto the hem of my jacket, fidgeting with it. I don’t look at Joe, only the ground.

“So, like,” I start, not knowing where I’m going with my words but continuing anyway, “What’s the point of even hanging out with me anymore?” The words poured out of my mouth without another thought. “It’s not like anyone is going to stick around anyway,” I exhale with a self-deprecating grin. I could feel bitterness boil in my blood, there’s no use in hiding it.

I force myself to meet Joe’s eye, his perplexed expression. His sugary brown eyes slightly squinted in confusion. I roll my eyes. “I don’t get it, Joe. Like, what the fuck even is my issue?” I ask harshly. Joe’s eyes widen when he hears my unsuitable language. “W-What are you talking about?” he stammered. That made me want to scoff.

“C’mon, you know what I’m talking about. Out of all people, you should know what I’m talking about,” I state. Every noise is too loud, my thoughts cannot be heard, and I can only yell to ensure my words are getting through. My hands feel too warm, there’s too much density in my skull, and I feel like clawing my skin off.

“Steve, calm down. You’re getting too upset,” Joe says. Too upset? I couldn’t be upset enough. “It’s worrying me,” he quietly added. And that’s what made me freeze for a second. How genuine Joe sounded—that must be real. I exhale softly, running a hand through my brown hair. “I don’t mean to worry you . . . But I guess some things are just out of my control,” I say, forcing my voice to sound lighter. Less aggravated. It’s OK, I got this. Joe nods. “You’re right,” he says. Good. That’s settled. We’re fine, everything’s fine.

And then—

“But hell, I could think of a reason or two why Josh might’ve left.”

The aggression in his voice was barely there, just a hint, but it felt like a gunshot. For a second, I thought maybe my mind played another trick on me. Joe didn’t just say that, did he?

“What did you just say?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied casually. But I wasn’t an idiot.

I take a step closer because I have to know if he truly meant to say that—I have to see his face. 

“Enlighten me, Joseph,” I challenged, my voice dangerously even. Then, the scent hits me. Barely. Whiskey masked in cinnamon cologne. It’s subtle, really, but it’s still there. Joe sighs and shakes his head like it’s nothing.

“Steve, I’m just saying. There’s no way to sugarcoat it, really. You have issues and a lot of people would just rather not get involved with that.”

The words hang heavy in the air. The music swells, but all I hear is the ringing in my ears. I just couldn’t say anything for that moment. Joe was the last person I expected to hear those words from. My brother, my blood, my last real family, just said that. He just said that. The only brother I’ve ever known is now intoxicated, and he’s not even of the legal drinking age.

I exhale stressfully, unable to look him in the eye. I can’t look at him—not like this. “Dammit, you’re turning into Mom.” My voice was louder and sharper than intended, but that didn’t stop me. “You’re wasted, Joe. You don’t know what you’re saying,” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the noise in the background. And on top of that, I don’t even know if my words could be heard by a drunk teenager. Joe scoffed. “Well, what I’m saying has a valid point!” he protests. “Just the facts, Steve! You asked for the truth, so I fucking delivered it.” Silence. He looks at the crowd, as if he’s already moving past this conversation, before glancing back at me.

“And don’t ever compare me to Mom as an insult ever again, you damn schizo.”

The words cut through the thick tension irrevocably. 

Just when I thought my meds might’ve been working, something snapped. 

The world stopped spinning. And suddenly, I didn’t care if I was in the wrong anymore, because Joe sure as hell wasn’t in the right. He couldn’t be.

He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t mean it, he—

But I see the look in his eyes, and he meant every last word.  I inhale sharply, trying to steady myself before I do something I’ll undoubtedly regret. I failed.

 “You’re gonna learn to watch what you say the hard way one of these days.” I almost walk away, but I know I can’t just leave it at that. My lips curl into something bitter and exhausted. 

I scoff, adding, “And you know, since we’re sharing our honest beliefs about each other, I think it’s only fair I let you know that you’re just another two-faced alcoholic whore like Mom.”

And that did it. There’s nothing I could’ve said that would’ve pissed him off more than what I just said. My insult lands hard, I notice the way Joe’s expression shifts to something darker because of it. I know it’s one thing to insult him, but to insult his mother— our mother? That’s a line that should never be crossed. And I just crossed it. His wide, doe-like eyes narrow into something threatening, predator-like.

And I fear it was incredibly satisfying to watch.

“Hit a nerve, didn’t I?” I couldn’t help but taunt. Now he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end. And I enjoyed it.

There’s barely a gap between us. Joe tensed, and I knew something was coming. Something inevitable that would hit like a wreck. I steeled myself for the mere second I had before it came.

“Better than being a schizophrenic, batshit, instable junkie, like Dad.”

My sly expression was wiped clean. My heart sank. My vision blurred, and the blood in my veins burned. Everything I had said— everything Joe had said—came down to this moment. And I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

I slapped the lights out of my little brother.

“FUCK YOU!” I yelled.

He stumbles back momentarily. Brings a hand to the side of his face where I hit him, a reddish mark already setting in.

“Because no matter what, I’ll always be your big brother—!”

My statement is cut short when Joe tackles me to the ground. My back hits the grass, cold and damp, and I struggle to process what’s happening before my brother manhandles me. I forgot how much he has grown. He might be my younger brother—just a hormonal teenager/young adult—but he’s bigger, taller, stronger, and I soon regret challenging him.

His weight pinned me down like cement. I couldn’t thrash out of his grasp. I made a mistake. Joe is painfully strong.

He grabs me by the collar of my top and shoves me against a nearby lamppost. His hands—bigger than mine—tighten around my wrists. I struggle to slip out of his grasp, and it’s no use, because the more I struggle, the more he slams me against the lamppost. My breaths come in short and ragged. Every hit heightens my dizziness.

I never cared much for physical fights. I’m more on the lean side, and I’ll admit without shame that I’m 5’8 ft tall. Joe, on the other hand, towers at 6’4 ft in height. If it wasn’t obvious before, I’m outmatched.

I never cared for fights because who needs to physically fight when guns exist? That was my logic. But now, I don’t think I can shoot myself out of this one.

Joe finally lets go of my wrists, out of breath. I took off my flannel and wiped my bleeding nose with my bare arm. Heat rises within me. There’s nothing I want to do more than punch Joe.

So I do exactly that.

And shit, I’m stronger than I thought I was.

Something cracks. Maybe it was Joe’s lip. Maybe it was my knuckles. He falters. I barely had time to register it before Joe shoved me into the grass again. “Motherfucker,” he spat. Now he’s clawing at my neck, digging his nails into my flesh, and I can’t do anything but endure it. I squeeze my eyes shut, gasping at the shocks of pain that travel quickly through my skin. Sharp, jagged lines from my jaw to my collarbone. Something warm beads at my collar. I open my eyes just a bit to find blood smear on Joe’s fingertips. “St-Stop,” I hissed in pain.

It becomes apparent that I must fight back, but I have no clue how to. Joe’s weight pins my limbs down. The only thing I can move is my legs.

. . .

My knee meets Joe’s groin in a swift, sharp action. With a whine, Joe completely stops. That’s when I land a fatal blow to his jaw. His knees buckled, and he slumped forward. I shoved him off me, panting. He didn’t move.

“Joe?”

Nothing.

My stomach twisted. I hesitantly reach out—

“Steve!” A familiar voice comes rushing in. “A-Are you alright?” I look to my side to find an overly frantic Josh. He holds out his hand, and I take it, his soft skin contrasts with the roughness I was just met with. I try to stand on my feet steadily, but it’s hard to breathe with anxiety pressing against my chest, suffocating me.

“I’m so sorry,” Josh immediately apologized. “I shouldn’t have left you. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t get here sooner. You don’t have to forgive me now, but just know I’m terribly sorry.”

The sympathy in Josh’s voice is touchable. I can only look at him in a new light. “I forgive you,” I say. Our eyes locked like magnets. Then, they slowly drag down at my unconscious brother.

Joe . . . ?

Chapter Text

Josh and I used our teamwork skills to carry Joe to the backseat of my car, and then drove to our dorm. I laid him on a plain mattress, luckily, he wasn’t as bruised up as me.

He’ll be fine.

But thoughts swirl in my mind. Anxiety and uncertainty. Are things going to be fine afterward? Joe and I were perfect, we were so close—or so I thought. And then that just had to happen. I had to let my temper get the best of me. Joe wasn’t in the right mind, he didn’t know what he was saying—it’s not like it was entirely his fault. And Joe is the kindest person I know, aside from Josh.

The realization claws at my ribs and makes it hard to breathe.

I’m scared to lose Joe. I don’t ever want to lose him.

I can’t believe he was under the influence. He’s too young for that—he’s too young for a lot of things. I wonder if he’ll even remember it.

I sat on the carpeted floor and watched whatever was playing on TV. At this hour, it was mostly a bunch of music videos, whatever was trending. After a while, I heard Joe groan.

“Dammit, this headache . . .” he mumbled. As he got up, I instantly went to get a cup of water for him. He looked around his surroundings, still recollecting his latest memories. Joe sips the water carefully before setting it down on the countertop. Then, he looks at me with his doe-like, nonthreatening eyes, as if our bond is as pure as it was yesterday.

As if violence were a thing that could never come across us.

“Steve, what happened?” he asked as he rubbed one of his eyes. I exhale, thinking before I speak. My brows furrow in thought.

“What, don’t remember beating the shit out of me earlier?”

Silence. Joe blinked, then averted his gaze.

“Oh, I remember that,” he murmured, barely audible. I could only guess what was going through his head. Joe shook his head as if to erase those violent images flashing in his mind. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget,” he said softly.

I scoff, a grin tugging on my lips, but there’s no humor behind it. “Yeah, I can agree on that.”

“Can you tell me how I ended up here?” Joe asks.

I think again. “Well, I was still dizzy when Josh came over. You were unconscious. Completely out. So, without many options, we decided to bring you to our dorm so you could get yourself together,” I explain solemnly.

“Josh?” Joe repeats. “I thought he ditched you.”

“Well, our little situation caught his attention. So, thanks for that,” I comment sarcastically. That brought Joe’s gaze back to me with a raised brow. “Huh.” He clicked his tongue.

The truth was I didn’t feel comfortable on my own. I have plenty of things to worry about. That’s just being real. And for some reason, I worry about whether Josh actually likes me or if he’s just pretending. Shit, I’m not confident at all. And I just found out that I’m not strong enough to protect myself.

And it’s ironic—the way it happened. Since the day Joe was born, I decided that I would be his protector. And I was. Growing up, I protected him like he was a fragile thing while forgetting to protect myself. The irony leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

Then, Joe speaks. No, he apologizes .

“I’m sorry for what I did,” he said ruefully, “I just want to get this whole post-fight awkwardness over with. I’m not going to avoid you just because I made a mistake. Drinking was a dumb decision I made—and though I can’t remember much of what I said, I know I didn’t truly mean it.”

He sounds sincere. His voice is so soft, and I’m tempted to believe him. To believe that he didn’t mean it. But I can’t unsee the look in his eye when he said those things to me, the way he carried his insults with confidence, knowing exactly where to strike.

The worst part is that he wasn’t even wrong. A lot of the time, I am unstable. I sigh. “I didn’t mean what I said either,” I tell him, although I wasn’t fully sure.

At least there was some truth in there.

Silence lingered, and Joe bit down on his lip before he spoke. “Were you upset because Josh left, or was it what I said, or something else?” he asks. He’s trying to understand me, and it melts my sensitive heart. I let out a soft hum, trying to think of a cautious response. “There are multiple factors as to why I reacted the way I did. I fear that sometimes I lose my mind, and I don’t even know why. Maybe there is no why. It just happens.” I exhale, bowing my head slightly. “Shit just happens,” I repeat more quietly this time.

Joe’s eyes were fixed on mine until they trailed down to my collarbone.

Shit, I forgot to change.

The marks are visible to Joe. He studies them with his once innocent eyes, and I shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze. Again, I have no clue what’s going through his mind. Maybe it’s best if I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know. I avert my gaze.

“Yeah . . . I’d say,” he mentioned quietly.

I look at him again. His eyes are brought back to mine. I try to breathe with ease. Then, Joe said, “But I’m glad you don’t hate me. I mean, it would’ve been completely understandable if you did. Y’know, if I were on the other side, I’d loathe myself. I wouldn’t want to see me ever again.”

I tilt my head in disbelief and confusion. “Seriously?”

Joe shrugged as if it were casual. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. But I just don’t want you to hate me.”

I scoff and shake my head incredulously. “No, I forgive you. I actually forgave you a while ago. And besides, there’s no way I could ever hate my little brother.”

Joe tilts his head, skeptical. “Impossible,” he protested.

“Don’t be a little bitch now.” I roll my eyes.

He snorts, shaking his head. “Right, because that’s you, huh?”

I shoot him a sharp glare, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Joe smirks, then raises his fingers in a classic finger-gun style. “Anddd that’s my cue out. G’night, fellas.”

Chapter Text

My teenage years were anything but golden. They were a bitter, sticky red.

Dad wasn’t there for it. There was just Mommy to take care of Joey and me. But she used to go out a lot. Those times, she’d typically arrive home early in the morning, very hungover. It happened every once in a while. One peculiar night, I decided to ask why she would come home so late.

. . . .

“Don’t worry, Stevie,” Mommy told me, her voice more shrill than usual. She always told me this whenever she got home at a highly unusual time. I can’t help but wonder what has been holding her up. I’m a senior in high school, on the honor roll. Thus, I should be smart enough to put the clues together. The way Mommy walks is a bit unsteady, she’s drenched in perfume, and her hair is a bit messy. I just don’t get it.

Neither does Joey, and that says a lot.

Another day, another piece of me drained. The sound of the television buzzed in the living room. I figured Joe was watching TV or perhaps playing another video game. I sat on the edge of my bed. I scribble a final note in my journal. My room is a cluttered mess, a reflection of my mind. The floor is used as a wardrobe, cups and mugs are scattered anywhere and everywhere. Band posters are plastered on my wall, the corners slowly peeling off. I took some pictures with my Polaroid camera and hung them above my bedframe.

I exhale softly as I get a glimpse of the landscapes I’ve captured, hanging above lightly, not even swaying. I wish something else would hang.

My journal might keep me from falling apart, but it won’t keep me from committing suicide. My body is pretty special. When I’m not writing, sketching, or slashing open my flesh, I’m either hallucinating or daydreaming. I don’t do drugs, none of it is drug-induced. My body just does it on its own.

I’ve lived a ton of lives. I’ve been a million people.

It’s time to move on.

I skim through my last paragraph before I shut my journal closed:

Tonight’s the night. I’m gonna take a whole bunch of prozac and see what happens. I can’t wait to rest. I want my mind, heart, everything to completely shut down. I want my heart to stop pumping blood. My blood is only good for spilling out of my body, but it gets in the way if I choke on it. Mommy’s out, she probably won’t realize I’m dead until much later. Joey’s here, I’ll just let him have my old stuff. And Dad isn’t here because he died 12 years ago. Don’t worry, Dad, I’m about to join you. Goodbye.

• Signing out, Steve.

This journal could probably go to my grave if that’s what I wish, but I haven’t thought about what I’d do with it after writing. Perhaps I could lend it to Joey, but I don’t know if he’d appreciate it. I don’t think so. Probably not. He’s just 15.

As if on cue, Joe walks into my room—without knocking, of course. I can’t be startled because this has become a typical occurrence. “Steve!—oh, sorry for walking in without knocking. Mom told me to remind you to take your meds tomorrow morning.” His eyes dart down to the journal I’m holding—the journal that contains my final note to the world. “Were you drawing?” he asks innocently, tilting his head. “Writing?” he guesses.

I push myself to my feet and approach my little brother. I hold out the journal for him to grab. His wide brown eyes scan over it like it’s made of glass.

“I want you to have this,” I tell him. “And thanks for reminding me, but that won’t be necessary.”

Joey blinked, dumbfounded. Hesitantly, he reached out and grabbed the journal. He rotated it delicately. “Why are you giving this to me?” he asks softly. I didn’t react. I just said, “Read the last paragraph and you’ll understand.”

I took the journal back and flipped through the pages, which got thick after some of my tears bled through the page, and some of my blood stained the corners. I flipped through until I reached the last page I wrote on with explicit black ink. “Here.” I handed it back to Joey. I watch his eyes scan line after line, becoming more dull, more lifeless with the more he reads.

Honestly, I know I’ve scared Joey a couple of times before. I can’t say I’m not edgy. I’ve told Joey some disturbing things— things that would’ve never been spoken from one soul to another. And he never told anyone what I’ve said to him. He was loyal, and maybe a bit frightened. I only saw it in his eyes.

My words crash like waves in a tsunami, dragging people under, drowning them in darkness as they claw their way to the surface, only to sink deeper.

That’s why only Joey can keep my secrets.

After reading, Joe’s slim hands tremble, and his face pales. He doesn’t look at me. He’s not trying to react, but I’m waiting for something. Anything that tells me he’s still breathing, still human.

Unlike me.

“Steve,” he finally murmurs, barely above a whisper.

Silence. I don’t say a word.

Finally, Joe’s breath falters. He swallows hard, forcing down whatever emotions dare to bubble up. “This . . .” His fingers twitch around the journal, like he doesn’t want to hold it, but he can’t let go of it either. “You don’t mean this, do you?”

Still, I don’t react. When I remain silent, his gaze flickers over me, searching my arms, legs, anything, for fresh wounds. Suddenly, his hands push the journal back against my chest, shaking his head.

“No,” he breathes. “You don’t get to do this.”

My brows furrow. “You don’t get it,” I claimed, my words sharp like a blade. “Death wouldn’t be a tragedy. If anything, it’s mercy. Besides, I said I’d let you have my shit. I-I can’t stay here, Joey.” I let my words hang heavy in the air.

Then, Joe panicked .

His breath quickened. His chest rose and fell fast, like he couldn’t get enough air, and his hands weren’t trembling—they were violently shaking.

“No!” he yelled—his voice cracked. “I don’t want to be alone!” He sucked in a sharp breath, but it came out as a jagged, choked sob. “What would I even do without you?” His voice wavered, climbing the ladder of desperation higher and higher.  

“I-I’d just rewatch your old True Crime documentaries—alone! Reread your journal entries, over and over and over again, thinking about you—”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I stated bitterly.

Joe’s eyes widened. His breath shuddered, and he lunged forward, grabbing my arms in a vice-like grip. “AND I’D VISIT YOUR TOMB, WONDERING WHY I COULDN’T SAVE YOU!” he cried even louder, his voice raw, and tears streaming down his child-like face. 

That’s when I felt my soul sink. Slowly but surely. I had never seen Joey like this. So desperate to cling onto any ounce of hope he could get.

And his fingers tightened, now squeezing my arms, as if he was holding me onto me for dear life. “And I’d be thinking about us, all of our moments together. I-I remember my first memory still, you were in it! You were smiling while holding me—you were so happy!” His voice became breathless.

I felt hollow, like I had already disappeared. 

Joe wasn’t just panicking because he was worried. He was panicking because he knew I’d do it. If I truly wanted to, I’d take my own life tonight, which is exactly what I want. Nothing would stop me.

But the ache in my bones is suffocating, drowning me in an inescapable pressure. Joe is stronger than he was when we were little, but I lost track of how strong he’s gotten exactly.

The worst part is, I know what Joe means. I remember it all too well. I remember being a toddler with my baby brother in my arms. 

The pure happiness I felt because I knew I wouldn’t be alone.

. . . I haven’t been able to cry in a while. I’ve felt numb for the longest time. I couldn’t feel anything, but for the first time in a long time, the world crumbled around me. My breath hitched before I spoke. “I’ll take my meds tomorrow, Joey. Thanks.”

Chapter Text

I walked out of Steve’s room, tears soaking my face—I wiped them away with my sleeve, trying not to sniffle.

I was always the kind, sweet kid, unafraid to speak up. But I feel like things are changing. In three years, I’ll head into adulthood, and in its way, that is terrifying. I often think about how I’ll adapt to adult life. I mean, although he’s still in school, Steve is an adult. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be anything like him.

I was about three years old when Dad died. At that age, I could barely think. But I was happy. Mommy always took good care of me. Dad died an unreasonable death. I could hardly remember the scene, I only got a glimpse of it, but I knew it was something that would change my life. The damage was irreversible.

I don’t think about it much because there wasn’t much to remember, not in my toddler mind. And when I get upset about things like that, I just think about what makes me happy. A lot of things make me happy. For example, drawing, the beach, and sunlight. The small things make me appreciate life the most.

But Steve sees things a different way.

He’s my only older brother—my only sibling. The only one who tells me dark secrets that nobody else can know about.

I didn’t get in on his bad habits, but I can’t lie, he can influence me when he wants to. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not dumb. I’ve noticed the warnings—the subtle hints nobody else picked up on. Losing Steve is not an option for me. I’ve begun to check on him more often, and it annoys the hell outta him.

Mommy is out again. It’s just me and Steve in the house— again. I go to his room and open his door abruptly, barging in. I find Steve on the floor, playing with his Nintendo 64. He doesn’t look up when I open his door; he only groans. “My God, what is it now?” he says without an ounce of patience dripping from his tone. I lean against his doorframe smugly. “I think I’ll stay here before Mom returns,” I declare.

That made Steve break his gaze away from his controller. “Seriously?” he scoffed. “Don’t you think you’re a bit paranoid?”

“You’re gonna lose your game,” I said.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Screw that, I was losing anyway.” For the first time, he disregards the game. Color me surprised. But his expression isn’t as playful as mine. He runs a hand through his dark hair, irritated. “Why do you insist on being around me? Aren’t you scared?” he asks. “Scared?” I echo. “Of me,” he adds.

My eyes widen for a moment. I know what he means.

“Bro, I’m not scared of you,” I tell him. What I don’t tell him is that I’m scared of losing him. Terrified, quite frankly. I say, “I don’t care what you think, it helps me to know you’re safe.”

That’s when Steve’s eyes narrow. “Are we ever really safe?” he questions. 

I look at him with a frown. He goes on, his voice lower, “Death is all around us, Joey. It surrounds us, it’s what we live upon. Death is our ticket to life.”

I went silent.

I knew Steve was fucked in the mind, but what comes out of his mouth is something else. My mind scrambled to find a response, but nothing came for a moment. After a second, I finally spoke without thinking. I said, “We live because dying is too easy.” I begin to walk over to him. “But purposely dying? That’s even trickier than living.” I tap the tip of his nose, to which he narrows his eyes with the classic what-the-hell-did-you-just-do look.

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”
“Well, it’s not easy like how you think it is, edgelord.”

“Right, because seeing and hearing things that aren’t there is normal. Gotcha,” he responds blankly. I sigh and sit on the edge of his bed. “Face it, Steve. You have people who care about you,” I try to tell him, but he isn’t paying attention. My eyes narrow. Anger buzzes beneath the surface of my skin. I have to get him to listen somehow.

I stand up. “Think about it, I can’t have a dead older brother! And what would Dad think? Have you ever considered how he’d feel if he knew his first son was thinking about this?” I’m nearly yelling. That’s when Steve fully sets down his controller and just looks at me. He says nothing, but his eyes tell a whole story.

“I can’t get you to leave, can I?” is all he says.

“No.” I shrugged lightly as if we were just discussing the weather. With a long sigh, he picks up his controller and turns away.

“Just don’t start following me around like a stray. Oh, and you better gimme some privacy—or at least knock before going into my room. Otherwise, you’ll walk in on something you’d rather not see.”

It takes me a moment to register his words. It clicks into place, and my face immediately boils. “STEVE!”

Chapter Text

With midterms approaching, college life has gotten serious. I’ve been studying nonstop, endless nights, reviewing the most vital notes from countless lectures. Memorizing everything restlessly. Which has been giving me a bit of trouble lately.

Sometimes, I can’t distinguish what’s real and what’s not. My pen will move on its own. Words will float off my paper. Getting used to the medication I’m on is a journey itself; the side effects mainly caused a ton of mood swings so far.

The hours of sleep I get each night vary. I have no routine, I’m just doing what I can to get through. Since I’m studying criminology, the more I look into it, the more I realize how closely tied the subject is to psychology.

Turns out, a lot of crimes aren’t accidental.

My grasp on my pen loosens. My chin rests on my jaw. My vision blurs, I’ve felt dizzy for a while now as I was studying, but I think it’s truly taking effect right now. Occasionally, Josh would check on me to see how I was doing—he’s a great guy. I kept telling him I could handle staying up late to study. I can . . .

But at the moment, I can barely think. I click on the top of my pen, hoping the sound will keep me awake. Suddenly, the clicks grow louder exponentially. Louder, and louder, until the sound is ringing in my ears. I groan, tossing my pen across my desk. But for some reason, I can still hear it. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to block out the noise, but my attempt at doing so is futile.

My face is buried in my hands, my elbows rest on the edge of my desk. Vivid, blurry spots pop into my vision with my eyes closed. A headache pounds against my skull. My muscles tense before loosening. Colors swirl in the darkness behind my eyelids, shapes flickering like afterimages of a dream. A deep breath—a shift in the air. I’m somewhere else.

Slowly, my eyes flutter open. Things were blurry at first before I could grasp onto my consciousness, more tangible. But also like a dream. My surroundings become clear now.

It’s a sunny day, the grass is greener than ever, and the sky is a bright blue, clear of clouds and fog. I glance down, and a path of little flowers flows fluidly. I breathe in, and the atmosphere is heavenly—maybe I died while studying. I don’t even care. I’m back in my storybook-like world, and it feels good to be back.

I trail along the path to find a sunflower, more noticeable than the daisies, beaming at me. Which isn’t personification, I mean it literally. I sat down on some soft green grass and acknowledged my friend. “Hey, Flower. It’s been a while.”

A light breeze whooshed by, brushing my dark bangs away from my eyes. I exhale peacefully. “I haven’t been here in what feels like years, though it must’ve only been months.” I chuckle at the thought. “Can you believe I’m in college now? I’m a student studying to become a detective. Yeah, I’m going to be a detective like how Dad was! Remember Blue’s Clues —the game I’d play with Blue? Ah, what a time.” It warmed my heart to recall the memories.

Although these memories took place during a very strange time in my life, they were nice nevertheless.

“ Blue’s Clues !” Flower repeated with undying enthusiasm. “I could never forget. Also, how’s Blue?” she asks kindly. I smile again. “She’s being taken care of by Joe back at home. He’s doing a swell job, I’m sure of it,” I say.

“Oh, how’s Joe?”

My smile fades, but it doesn’t leave my face. I awkwardly avert my gaze and shrug. So much has happened with Joe. Things are turning, and our lives are changing rapidly. Things I would’ve never thought of happening somehow happened.

That fight . . .

It had a significant effect on our relationship. I wasn’t sure if things would be the same between us after that—then again, we’ve been through a lot together. A fight couldn’t rip us apart, even if one of us got extremely hurt. Maybe that fight brought us closer in a way we didn’t expect.

Clearing my throat, I finally respond. “Joe is well, but um,” I say, leaning a bit closer to whisper, “sometimes he needs a little help.”

No shade, of course.

Flower nods. “I’m sure things will work out in the end! And keep chasing that dream of yours because when you use your mind, and take a step at a time, you could do anything . . .”

“That you want to do,” I finished. It felt oddly sentimental to say it this time, although I’ve said it many times before. My heart throbs at the memories; they aren’t painful, but something about them makes me want to melt into a pool of warmth I’ll never forget. 

I feel feverish.

Flower beams once more before the sky above us gets dark. Stars sparkled in an otherworldly manner. Like all of the most beautiful stars in the universe gather around to ignite the sky with something magical. I stand up to admire the sight.

The breeze turns into wind, growing stronger with every second that passes by. The stars shine brighter, the atmosphere gets more intense. Leaves from trees are carried into the wind, and it soon picks up the small daisies on the path, flowing in the air.

I shut my eyes and utter, “Blue ska-doo, we can, too?”

It took just a moment, perhaps a second or three, before I got washed back to my current reality. My mind got foggy again in an instant. My eyelids flutter open, and I find myself back at my desk. It takes a couple of blinks to clear things up.

The lighting is warm and dim. I barely notice the faint sound of footsteps approaching my door. I turn around to see Josh peeking in.

“Hey, just wanted to check in since it’s getting late,” he said quietly. “No rush, of course. Just making sure you’re still in one piece while studying.”

His caring attitude brightened my tired expression. It filled me with a warm, gentle feeling that swirled gently in a special place deep within my heart. 

“Yeah, I’ll head to bed soon. Thanks, Josh. Goodnight,” I say, my voice low and quiet due to my fatigue. Josh’s lips slightly curl into a smile. An increase of dopamine rushes into my mind.

“Goodnight, Steve. Rest well.”

Chapter Text

I’ve always wondered how someone could be so liked, talented, intelligent, and kind—all of those simultaneously. I met Josh, and my questions haven’t gone away. I wonder how someone could have it so easy. Is it ever that simple?

Josh has never shown a flaw other than the time he left me at that concert. But so what? Nobody is perfect. Besides, he kept apologizing for what he did days after. Sure, I’m sensitive, but Josh cares a lot. Though I’ll admit, I’m not complaining.

Although we have similar interests, we are two remarkably different people. I wonder what life is like through his lens, in his shoes. Hell, it’s not the first time I’ve thought about being someone else. I can’t help but wonder, What if my mind were wired differently? What if I were more normal? What type of person would I be then? What changes would be made?

I’ve never disliked Josh, not truly. But someone like me could never compare to someone like him.

I think about it a lot, but it’s not like I’m obsessed—don’t get the wrong idea. It’s just that once a thought starts unraveling in my mind, there’s no stopping it. I began to hang out with Josh more. He’s let me in on some information that I could store mentally. As I spend more time with him, I’m trying not to get too attached.  I’m just curious because I’ve never met anyone like him.

I even did some digging. I already have his number saved, and we’ve sent emails back and forth, but I’m diving deeper. I looked through the people he’s mutual with on AIM, checked out some old yearbooks in the library, and dug through newspaper clippings of local events he or his family might have been involved in.

No, it’s not like I’m stalking him or anything. I’m not that weird. Just a little compulsion, a little curiosity. That’s all.

And it practically became a part of my routine. Fun fact, this isn’t the first time I’ve done something like this. People come and go. And what they don’t know can’t hurt them.

I’m flipping through pages of a yearbook, alright? As usual, but this time something catches my keen eye. I didn’t even notice it until I looked deeper into it. I’m going through an old issue from a town over, innocently scanning through club photos. But someone too familiar is standing next to his mom in a picture. I squint under the dim glow of my desk lamp and take a good look. 

I stare at the photo, my brain refusing to process it at first. Because this can’t be right. There’s no way that’s my mom standing right next to Josh’s. No way.

But the more I look, the more I realize—there is a way

I eventually put the puzzle pieces together. Mommy never really talked about her side of the family much. Let alone mention them. I did not want to figure this out, especially not this way. I went too far with my little routine. I stare at the caption beneath the image:

With my dear sister, who puts the misery in the family! #functionalfamily #lotsoflove

I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is how I find out that Josh, my college roommate, is my blood-related cousin. A knot in my stomach twists. This makes my bloodline feel so damn distant. I wish I could just sink into a coffin underground. Instead, I stare at the crappy CRT monitor of my late ‘90s computer, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Hey, Steve! Whatcha doin’?” Josh couldn’t have come into our room at a worse time. 

Panic shot through my veins. I minimized the screen as quickly as humanly possible. I faltered as I stressed and fumbled with the brightness dial on my monitor, making the process take even longer. 

Yeah, real subtle, I know

Nah, he immediately realized I was hiding something. I could tell from the look in his dark brown eyes. I quickly answer, “Nothing! Just . . . you know, looking at stuff.” I bit down on my tongue uncomfortably. 

Josh cocked a brow. “Uh, did I come in at a bad time or—?” Josh’s eyes darted down to my lap, then back up to my eyes. My entire body ignited with heat. Great, now I look guilty of something way worse.

“Nope!” I replied quickly, too quickly. I knew what he was insinuating. My pants aren’t off or anything, so it’s not like I was . . . Yeah, I’m not finishing that. “Nah, I don’t . . . anyway—” I cut myself off by clearing my throat, trying to get as far away from that topic as possible.

Josh tilted his head. “Seriously, though. Are you alright? You got pretty startled, man.” He took a few steps toward me, nearly making me forget how to breathe. Josh then got down to my level, and he had the most understanding gaze I’d ever seen in my life, as if he’d never judge me in a billion years. It set off a general feeling of well-being within me. Well, that’s until I remembered the information I kept to myself.

“Steve?” Josh’s voice made me snap back into reality. He had my attention instantly drawn toward him, so I nodded. “Yeah, I’m alright. Thanks, Josh.”

His eyes then glanced over to the screen. He saw the minimized window. He saw it, and I know it. Yup, I’m done. 

Josh grinned. “Ah, I see.”

There’s no going back now. I have to tell him. I should tell him something. This is too awkward. I take a deep, steady breath. “Josh, there is something you should probably know . . .”

His eyes return to mine, his expression softening, his features as gentle as ever. “Yeah? I’m listening.” Of course, his voice is smooth like honey. I bite on the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to snap out of it. My lips parted, slightly agape, still trying to find the right words.

Then, the words just spilled out.

“I might have . . . sort of . . . been keeping an eye on you and the people you know.” The last part came out rushed. The second the words left my mouth, I slapped a hand over it, heat rushing to my face. Oh god. Oh god. I shut my eyes because I can’t bear to see his reaction—I feel like I’m burning up. I’m experiencing a feverish warmth I’ve never felt before.

“But—that’s not even the big thing!” I blurted against my hand, my voice pitching higher. A nervous laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. This is a mess. I’m a mess.

But instead of freaking out, Josh let out a low hum, waiting for me to continue. “Mm-hmm?”

I pulled the yearbook over and flipped back to the page. “I was curious—please don’t ask. Nothing odd here, I was just . . . looking through some old records. And I came across your mother’s name. I found this picture. Odd enough, the woman standing next to her? Her sister? That’s—” I exhaled before I spoke, “that’s my mom.”

Josh studied the image carefully. His eyes light up, I think he can also see the resemblance. His eyes darted between the caption and the photo. The weight of the moment presses against my chest.

If I don’t say anything else, he might not be convinced. This is just messed up. I should say something. I force my muscles to loosen.

“You know,” I started, “my mom would go to her sister’s place occasionally. She didn’t tell Joe or me many details. But she did tell some stories from her childhood.” I cracked a reluctant smile, slightly brightening the atmosphere. “She told me how she and her sister would steal sparkling bracelets from cheap stores. And how they were supposedly pretty good at it, too.” I chuckled as I went on. Josh’s expression also brightened, as if he was recalling an old memory. 

“Really?” Josh mumbled, his voice barely audible. “My mom told me the same stories. She also told me about going to her first college party with her sister, and how it ended in glitter hangovers— something miserable like that,” he says. My expression softens.

“I remember my mom telling me the same story. At the end of it, she tried to do something on a skateboard and ended up with a sprained ankle,” I express. Josh’s eyes ignite again. “You’re right!” he exclaims. “Gosh, you’re right . . . !”

We let the revelation sink in for a moment. I’m not sure how to feel, but Josh seems pretty thrilled.

“Wait, so we’re, like, cousins,” he assessed. “Small world, huh?” he chuckled. Before I could react, he pulled me into a tight embrace. I didn’t expect it, but this time, I openly accept the affection. I don’t say anything about the knot of awkwardness and confusion twisting inside me. “Y-Yeah! That’s . . . this is . . . wow.” I couldn’t find the right words to articulate how I felt, so I just expressed myself in the only way I could. Wow, indeed.

The next thing my mind shifts to is the word family itself.

What does family even mean to me? Most of the time, it’s just the people you inconveniently share DNA with. Thus, you’re stuck with the people you call family for a while. And sometimes, they might leave you when you’re not ready. Sometimes, they don’t leave, but they make you wish they had. But no matter what, you’ll always be related to them, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Family is who guides you, who sets you on your feet, and prepares you to walk the path ahead, the path they help you set out for yourself. If they help you, some push you forward. Some hold you back. Some let you go entirely.

Dad set me on my path—he’s the one who inspired it.

It could be a miracle, it could be a tragedy.

But maybe it doesn’t have to be so bad.

Still, I could’ve gone my whole life without knowing Josh is a blood relative of mine. And maybe that would’ve been easier. Not that there’s anything wrong with him. Josh is perfect. He’s the type of guy people admire without trying. The kind of guy you want to be around. The kind of guy who makes everything feel lighter . Like I said before, I could never compare myself to him, but now we know we have a legitimate connection. It should probably boost my ego or fragile self-esteem if anything, but instead, it stirs something complicated inside me, something I can’t quite pin down. I should be happy. I am happy. But at the same time, I don’t know.

It could be fear, or doubt . . .

Maybe it’s just the exhaustion of trying to define something already written in our blood.

I shouldn’t feel this way, should I? I don’t get myself, either.

“. . . You’re right, Josh,” I finally said, my voice softer now. Our bond just grew stronger. And Josh smiled sweetly before going in for one more cousin-to-cousin hug.

Family is someone you share blood with. But does it have to be? I think about all the people who’ve been there for me and helped me through things, even my so-called family never could.

And yet, here I am, realizing that the person I already considered one of my closest friends—someone who makes me feel like I belong—is my family by blood, too.

Chapter Text

It’s that time of the year. Holidays.

I’m back home for the holidays. And it feels great to be home. I catch up with my loyal pup, Blue. I’ve never felt more refreshed in my life. Blue couldn’t stop wagging her tail when I got back. I was greeted with a ton of jumps. I lifted her and patted her head. I’ve missed her, too. I miss when she was there for me and got me through tough times.

Blue deserves the world.

Joe is here, too. At the moment, we’re sharing what used to be my bedroom. Looking around, it seems to be similar to how I left it. The walls are warm, inviting shades of lavender swirls that dance across like friendly clues. The nightstand is in the same place as it was earlier, a small lamp that casts a golden glow resting on it. The corners are full of some old books I’d read, and some pages are left in another corner—old writings, I presume.

Boris—Joe’s duck stuffy—perched on the edge of his bed. I sigh in amusement at the sight. Joe, still technically a teenager, but nevertheless a grown man, is an adult. Yet he still sleeps with that thing. I don’t think he’ll be getting a girlfriend anytime soon. Turns out, my baby brother is still my baby brother. Cute and all, but I can blackmail him with this if measures call for it.

I exhale through my nose before sitting on the edge of my mattress. The old journal I went through a few months ago was still in this room. I decided not to take it to college because I didn’t need my past horrors haunting me. I’m sure it’s in some dark corner. I’m sure Joe hasn’t found it. He looking snoop around like that. Probably. But just in case, I get up and try to find it. I look in every hidden corner. Yup, here it lies, in a drawer—untouched. Joe hasn’t discovered it. Let’s keep things that way.

A wave of nostalgia hits me as I pick it up and flip through some pages. Skimming through for a while wouldn’t hurt, right?

I’m lost in the pages. I don’t know how long this has been going on for—maybe four or five minutes. I’m interrupted when Joe stumbles into the room. Without knocking. Could you guess?

“Hi, Steve!”

“I see you still don’t bother to knock.” I roll my eyes. “How shocking.” Joe’s expression faltered. For a second, he looked perplexed, but then he scoffed. “Shut the fuck up, dirtbag,” he retorted. Now that didn’t sound right. I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes into the back of my head. Again.

“Oh, great,” I groan as I stand up. “Are you experimenting with alcohol again?” I didn’t fully mean to ask. It was more of a joke—a teasing remark. But I saw the way something came across the gleam in his eyes. With that, I approach him. I poke his right cheek. “You’re too young for that, dummy,” I said, hoping to keep the mood light.

Joe’s eyebrows furrowed and he swatted my hand away like it was a fly. “I don’t understand, Stevie,” he whined. Christ, I haven’t heard that nickname in years. “What?” was all I could respond with at his tone of voice. “Whaddaya mean, ‘what’?” he slurred as he reached out, hanging his arms over my shoulders. I stared at him, deadpan.

A thought occurs to mind: Joe doesn’t usually talk like this. And he isn’t usually this touchy. And—and he usually doesn’t have a faint scent of alcohol on him. How absentminded can he possibly be? My eyes narrow.

Clearly, he didn’t learn his lesson from last time.

I shove his arms off me. “What the hell, Joe? Don’t you remember what happened last time you drank? How—how did you even get hold of the substance?” I question incredulously. A clear display of offense sets on Joe’s face. “Steve, I’m an adult,” he said with a humorless huff of laughter. “I think I can handle it.”

I’ll hand it to him, he didn’t do a bad job at trying to sound sober in the moment. But it’s not convincing me.

“No, Joe.” I shake my head. “I swear, sometimes it really feels like you’re still a child. Just look around, with your Boris and—”

“Hey!” he cut me off. “Don’t you dare insult Boris,” he demanded with a childish frown. He lets out a muffled hmph and goes over to Boris. He took the stuffed animal into his arms and squeezed it in a tight embrace. “At least Boris doesn’t criticize me,” he mumbled. I can’t do anything but roll my eyes at how ridiculously immature my brother is acting.

Like I’ve mentioned before, Joe is tall. He towers over me. Strong, too. Hell, he’s grown since the last time I saw him. It’s hard to believe. One day, he was just a baby in my arms, and now we’re here as the adults of this generation. I bite on the inside of my cheek. No matter how grown Joe is, he still has a youthful look to him. How could someone like him have such physical prowess?

As I think, my eyes dart to a corner they shouldn’t have—the little dark corner where all my dark thoughts hide. I didn’t even notice until Joe turned his head in the direction I was looking.

I realized my mistake when it was too late.

 I need to get Joe’s attention as far away from that corner as possible. It can’t be too hard to direct him elsewhere, right? I mean, how hard could it be when he’s under the influence?

Easier said than done.

“Joe! Hey, Joe—look at me. I won’t criticize you anymore or tell you what to do, okay? Although you’re just a wee bit too young right now. Joe?” Snapped my fingers to no avail. I rushed over to him, which was another mistake. Without even looking at me, Joe pushed me aside, a little rougher than necessary. He inched closer and closer to the dark corner, stooping down to see what in the world his older brother could possibly be hiding from him.

A sharp gleam catches both of our attention. Shiny metal. Carefully, Joe reaches for it. He pulls out a small blade.

“Why are you hiding this in your room, Stevie?” he asked as he rotated it, examining it with his brown doe eyes and a child-like wonder. My breath hitched. “Joe, put that down. Now. You could seriously get hurt if you don’t—”

“You never told me about this! Hmph, unfair much.” He pouted. It felt like I was demanding a clueless puppy to do something it couldn’t comprehend. “Anyways, you didn’t answer my question,” Joe says as he continues to gaze at the danger in awe. 

“Oh, right,” he said as if he had made a connection in his mind. “I forgot about how much of an edgelord you were. Lemme guess, this was used for cutting? Slicing things that weren’t meant to be sliced?” he giggled. “Or did you just keep it in your pocket to feel like a badass? Y’know, to compensate for everything else—how weak you are.”

Lord, help me. Someone—anyone—please help me. Joe knew exactly where every jeering remark would land: right into the glass in my heart. I felt more hollow with every word he spoke. I couldn’t recognize Joe anymore. This wasn’t my brother. It couldn’t be—he’d never say anything like this.

“God, you really are emo!” he throws his head back as he laughs. Real, genuine laughter. All at my emotional expense.

There are no words to describe how I felt. Nothing. Everything. All at once. 

But most of all? I wanted to strangle my little brother. See how grown he is when he can’t go four minutes without oxygen. It’s taking every ounce of strength within me not to do so right now.

“Not funny,” I state, my voice firm, unwavering—for once. “Put it back and forget about it,” I demand. This is exhausting me. Everything is. I’m overstimulated. I know it’ll take me a while to come back down from this.

“Hm, OK.” Joe set the blade down on the nightstand. I sighed. “Thank you,” I said, heat barely lingering behind my words. The room fell silent. Not exactly a peaceful kind of silence—just an eerie quietness. Dot, dot, dot . . .

“Show me your wrists,” Joe suggested after letting out a low hum, glancing down at my fabric-covered arms. My eyes instantly widened. “I— pardon ?” I uttered. I had to have heard him wrong this time. Sure, he’s said things I wish he hadn’t said, but there’s just no way this was true. 

I look at him. He’s serious.

I scoff loudly. “No! What the—? hell no.”

Joe cocked a brow. “No, as in you won’t show me, or no, as in you don’t cut yourself?” His question was so blunt that it rendered me completely silent. He tilts his head. “Is that a yes ?”

I couldn’t even respond. It was like an out-of-body experience. This wasn’t happening, right? Obviously, it’s just another dream I’ll wake up from. Soon enough. Soon, as in right now. Anytime now.

But the time doesn’t come. It never does.

Joe leans close. “Look, it’s not that hard. I know you have scars somewhere on you, silly.” His tone was lower now. Has he been staring at me this whole time? How long has it even been?

Suddenly, Joe grabs my sleeves. My body stiffens. He’s rolling them up, trying to expose my skin in the dim lighting.

The more I resist, the worse it gets. His grip tightens, unbreakable and bruising. Borderline abusive. I bit on the inside of my cheek hard, painfully, trying to distract myself from the pain that shot through my wrists as Joe held them in place. I can’t even make an effort to get away from him. My eyes fall shut. I’d like to pass out right now, I don’t even care—I just don’t want to be aware of the excruciating moment I’m living through.

I can feel my healed scars being exposed to the authentic air. It’s not exactly something I usually try to cover up, but I hate feeling forced to display them. What Joe is doing to me is utterly humiliating. Degrading. A violation of my right to privacy.

The worst part is he’s treating this like it’s a joke.

Amusement. Humor. All of the things this is the opposite of.

Helplessness spreads all over me.

My brother—my flesh and blood—brings my wrist closer to his face, studying the old gash, the angle I slashed it, measuring it, the width and length, taking note of every detail of the past. “Hey, these look different from the marks on your neck—those are still healing,” he observed.

The marks on my neck . . .

The ones he etched into my skin. Those are still there. He drew blood, he dug deep, it’s no wonder they’re still there. Barely noticeable, but they’re there. The fact that Joe dares to point it out drowns me in another wave of despair.

I finally spoke, my voice raw, stripped of any dignity I had left. “Yeah, the ones from our fight, remember that?” My words were full of bitter venom. “Thanks for that, asshole. It’s not like strangers would stare at me in morbid curiosity already!”

Joe let go of my wrists after what felt like forever. I glance down at the reddish spot he imprinted on me, rubbing away the soreness, my bones tender. What might be vulnerability flickers in Joe’s doe eyes. He averts his gaze shamefully. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. My eyes snap back at him—the pitiful sight is enough to make a grown man grimace.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he breathed. “I guess I’m just not a good brother . . . No matter how hard I try . . . I always mess up.”

I blinked. Silence and uncertainty—that’s all there is to describe. How could a dramatic scene shift to gloom and doom so suddenly? There is no appropriate way to react. Well, I should just walk out. That’s the only answer there is, but I can’t. I’m trapped.

I’m torn.

A nagging part of me wants to empathize with Joe despite everything that just took place. It’s an instinct, something my body tells me to lean into. But can I? I’m not even sure if I could forgive Joe. After everything he’s done—the remarks, the wounds, the chaos—how am I supposed to feel sorry for him? 

His words cut me deep.

What’s spoken cannot be unspoken.

I can recognize pain, but trying to understand it? It’s like trying to grasp onto smoke, it’ll always slip away. And this has only made things harder.

“I didn’t mean what I said, by the way,” confessed Joe. “I’m sorry again. I probably won’t stop apologizing.”
And I know he won’t. Not until I accept his apology.

“. . . I forgive you,” I said, although I didn’t truly mean it. But Joe bought it. With a grateful sigh, he leaned into me. “Thank you,” he sniffled into my neck as he wrapped his arms around me. I sigh, reluctantly hugging him back. The scent of something delightful mixes with alcohol. Just like the air when Mommy came home from her endless nights out. I muttered quietly, “You’re just like Mom.”

Chapter Text

As a child who didn’t know any better, I loved Mommy. It’s the truth. But sometimes, I really didn’t like the way she’d make me feel. Things felt unfair between us. She was both physically and emotionally absent. But she was the only parental figure I had since Dad died.

From the moment I could speak, Dad knew I was a bit different from others. He knew what I was because he was like me. Maybe that’s why his death shattered me. That was a huge factor. Thus, I clung onto my mother. I didn’t want her to leave. 

But there were times when I had to be alone. At least that’s what it felt like. I’m sure I wasn’t truly alone because Joe was there, but he wouldn’t understand. I remember one night in particular.

I was twelve years old.

. . . .

“Please, Mommy! Please don’t go!” I begged my mother as she got glammed up for another night out. I didn’t know why she was going out, why she had to leave. All I knew was I didn’t want her to go. “Don’t worry, Stevie,” she says as she applies some cherry-flavored gloss to her full lips, “you’re a big boy now. You can handle it. You’ve gotta grow up somehow and become the man of the house. Y’know, keep an eye on Joey.”

Man of the house . . .

What did that entail? I am filling in for my father. It’s time to wear his shoes, that’s what Mommy wants from me.

I exhale, gently tugging on her black leather jacket. “When are you going to get back?” I ask with pleading eyes. She responded with a sigh, closing her lip gloss and facing me. For a moment, I worry I’ve upset her. She levels her gaze with mine. “I’ll be back before you know it, son,” she said with her sweet charm.

I knew it was a lie. I know better. But whenever she lies, I’m always tempted to believe it, just for a moment. Relish in the chance that she could be telling the truth, but that never happens.

Mommy patted my dark hair, her smile—almost motherly— offering a fragile sense of comfort. Her perfume lingers in the air, that familiar rose fragrance wrapping around me. She has this appeal to her that surprises people when she tells them she’s a mother.

If anything, she looks less like a mom and more like a Hollywood star.

There’s a dazzling air around her; her long, flowing hair paired with her brown, doe eyes, topped off with her sharp yet feminine features, make her exquisite. She’s always beautiful, whether bare-faced or dolled up. Her magnetic looks passed down to Joe, less to me. I favor Dad more, and yeah, he was handsome. 

It just rubs me the wrong way because he’s dead. When people look at me, they aren’t just seeing me, they’re also seeing the remnants of a dead man.

At least I took after him in wits. Like I said, he was like me. He thought the same way I did. He just made the wrong choice one night—an awful, devastating choice. Dad was once an admirable man, a smart one, too. Dammit, I loved him. I wonder how someone could be so selfless and selfish at the same time.

I was so lost in thought—I didn’t even process Mommy getting up to leave. She pressed a quick peck to my cheek, leaving a faint lip stain, and walked out the door.

Great, now it’ll only be hours until she returns. Just a matter of time and luck. I bet she’ll be drenched in perfume to cover the scent of alcohol.

With the back of my hand, I smear the cherry-colored stain off my cheek, and march up to Joey’s room—who’s typically screwing off, doing whatever, like how any nine year old would. I swing open his door and declare, “Joey, you better get your ass in bed before Mommy gets home.”

“Steve!” he exclaimed, turning around. Of course, he was building his Legos. “That wasn’t very nice! And besides,” he says as he crosses his arms, “you’re just my silly big brother. You can’t tell me what to do.”

In response, I cross my arms in the same fashion, mocking my little brother. “Oh, yes, I can!” I state. “Mommy made me the man of the house. That means I’m in charge!” I made myself as stern as I could be. 

Joe scoffed and mocked my ‘ oH yEs I cAn !’ then adds, “She isn’t going to be back in, like, a long time! We’ll be home alone for a while, which means we can do whatever we want! Hey, we can stay up all night with no consequences!” Joe is thrilled.

I’m not.

I know the truth. We won’t have any consequences because Mommy doesn’t care enough to give them to us. I shouldn’t be complaining, but something just doesn’t feel right.

. . . .

When Shannon (Steve and Joe’s mother) went out, she’d go to a place for adults to have fun. The most common setting was a bar with her friends. Alcohol was her favorite pastime, it was second nature, perhaps even a hobby. Whatever it counted for, it certainly made her life a lot stressful. Deep into intoxication, she’d ramble about how fucked up her eldest son was.

Exhibit A:

“Oh, he’s just like his daddy!” Shannon claimed. “Adorable kid, but an absolute spawn from hell at times.” She and her friends laughed at this. “Don’t worry, Shanny. Kids are always a mess,” said Debra, who has been Shannon’s closest friend since high school. The girls were inseparable.

Shannon pouted. “Aw, I know,” she whined, “I just don’t understand because my other son, Joey, is perfectly normal. I mean, how does that work? If Steve didn’t look anything like his father, I would’ve assumed my baby got swapped at the hospital.”

Perfectly normal was a bit of a stretch, but at the moment? Joe was the most normal family member.

The other girls, Lainey and Grace, simply chuckled. Shannon shook her head in mock disbelief. “You two wouldn’t know, you have yet to become mothers like Debra and I,” she said. “Yeah, put some respect on that!” teased Debra. All of them laughed. Shannon beamed. “This is nice. I just need a break sometimes, y’know?”

They nod in agreement. “Yesss.”

“Also, Steve is super clingy. I’m beginning to worry that it’s not a phase—he’s done this ever since his father passed away,” Shannon complained about her oldest again, letting out a soft sigh as she watched her drink swish back and forth. “I dunno, maybe it’s some sort of odd psychological response. So weird,” she mindlessly theorized. Debra tilted her head and clicked her tongue. “I sure as hell ain’t no psychiatrist, but you might be onto something.”

The mothers sighed, and silence fell before Debra spoke again.

“But hey, it’s better than ‘em being cold and distant. Like my boy, Morgan, he’s always isolating and rotting away in his damn room. It must be those new video games his father bought him for Christmas,” she exhaled. “I’m sure Steve’s fine, Shannon.”

Shannon let out a low hum, biting on the inside of her cheek before nodding. “You’re right, Deb. Let’s take a round of shots, shall we?” she suggested. The girls started whooping. “Let’s!”

And the rest of the night was a blur. Shannon must’ve blacked out at least once. Faint memories linger in her mind, painting hazy images of unclear events. She might have almost hooked up with someone, but decided not to because he wasn’t sure if he was clean. In the end, she was left with a few hickeys here and there, disheveled hair, and two feet she could barely walk on.

Impressive that she hasn’t thrown up all of the liquor she consumed that night.

Then again, she’s been doing this for a while now. She’s a professional at keeping it down.

Shannon met up with Debra at another bar—the last one for the eventful night. “Hey, what time is it, Deb?” she asked with half-lidded eyes. 

Debra checked her watch. “3:21 AM,” she replied casually, then cocked a brow. “What? You gon’ bail?”

Shannon groaned. “Ugh, I wish I didn’t have to. But y’know, being a good mother comes with certain responsibilities! Hm, I wonder if Steve is still awake. He tends to stay up late on weekends, or whenever I’m out.” She scoffed before mumbling, “Weird ass kid.”

“Oh, it’s okay, Shanny. You’re a great mother, like, seriously, I could not do the things that you do,” Debra said, her tone full of certainty. Ah, yes, it took strength to tolerate Steve. What a burden.

“Thanks, Deb.” Shannon smiled. “Anytime.” Debra returned it.

. . . .

I was playing video games on my Nintendo again when I suddenly heard the door knob twist. I was in the living room, somewhat near the front door, so yes, I heard it. I was also paying careful attention every minute, every second, to when Mommy would return. Finally, she arrived.

I bolt down the hall to get a whiff of scents mingling with one another—alcohol and rose perfume—Mommy’s signature scent. I rush to hug her, burying my head in the crook of her neck, to which she awkwardly pats my head in response.

“Hey, sweetheart,” her voice is so quiet, so soft. “What are you doing awake at this hour? Is your little brother asleep?” she asks.

I let go of her. “Oh, yeah! He’s fast asleep. And y’know me. I was just—well, doing stuff.” My mind raced to find an excuse for what was keeping me awake. I clear my throat, but Mommy silences me. “I-It’s fine. I know, I know,” she said, sounding more exasperated than understanding.

In the dim hallway, it’s dark, but a nearby lamp is on. I can barely see the marks scattered on Mommy. My eyes accidentally trail from her neck down to her chest. It looks like . . . bruises. 

My brows furrow.

“Mommy, are you alright? Are those bruises? What happened?” I’m already asking all of the questions that sprang to mind, worry growing with each passing second. Mommy didn’t look pleased. “No need to fuss over it,” she said. “I’m fine. Great, actually. Or at least, I was,” she sighs. 

That didn’t dissolve my concern. What did she mean by that?

Before I could ask any more questions, she says, “These things? They’re just love marks.”

Love marks.

The term echoes in my mind, bouncing off my skull. I have no clue what it means or how one can obtain such a thing. If these marks come from love, then how come I don’t have any? I’m loved, right? Yet there are no visible marks of affection on my body. I’m puzzled, and I have so many questions.

“You should get some rest, you look exhausted, sweetie,” Mommy told me. “But—” I immediately tried to protest, but she shushed me again. “Quiet. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

It’s been a week since she told me that, and hell, I still don’t get it. Yeah, I’m only a week older, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about that night. Visible marks appear on someone’s body when they’re harmed, right? Of course.

Say you get slapped or hit, your skin will turn red. When you skin your knee or elbow, a layer of your skin is scraped off. Break a vessel beneath your skin, a bruise will appear. Cut yourself, and blood platelets will clump together, forming a visible scab. These are my clues.

Think, Steve, think.

How does this relate to what Mommy told me that night? I saw marks on her body. Does this mean she got hurt? If that’s so, then why did she call it love? Could this mean love relates to harm? Is there something beneath the damage that makes it worthy of love?

I think I just discovered the secret about love. If my theory is correct, then I cracked the case.

You cannot get hurt without love as a factor.

. . .

This makes me feel so much better! You know why? Because whenever Mommy has enough and starts hitting me, I’ll know she’s doing it out of love!

SMACK!

She forces her palm down roughly on the side of my face, causing a bitter sting to set in. Ow, that was sore, which means it’ll leave a mark—and that’s what counts.

What good is pain if it doesn’t leave a mark?

One day, I drew blood by accident. I was just scratching myself again. I guess my nails got too sharp. This will take longer to heal, but it’s time to get used to bleeding. And once I get used to it, my body will become more and more numb. Then, I dig deeper.

Mommy found the evidence of my exploration.

“Steve, care to explain this bloody rag?” she asked me as she held it up, dangling it in her stern grip. I shrug, deadpan. “That wasn’t my fault,” I lied. Mommy scoffed. I could tell she’s had enough, but that didn’t bother me.

“You’re not supposed to enjoy pain, Steve! It takes away the purpose of discipline, which is supposed to teach you a lesson! This defeats the whole purpose!” she stressed.

Little did she know, I was getting taught a whole other lesson.

“What’s the purpose then?” I asked, unaware of how my voice had raised, and I stepped closer to her, acting unafraid—but I wasn’t even acting. At the moment, I feared nothing. “What am I missing? I mean, I’m pretty damn sure you beat me because you love me!” I stated without thinking, and realization set in. Blood drained from my face when I realized what I said. 

I had never used such strong language against Mommy before. I stayed silent, too scared to attempt an apology. My eyes flutter shut. I was bracing for something—a hit, a slap, maybe even something worse, but it never came.

Slowly, I open my eyes to see her perplexed expression. She tilts her head in confusion. “Steve?” she says my name quietly, as if testing how soft she could make it sound.

“Mom?”

“Has there been a misunderstanding?”

I stood there for a moment, clueless. Blankly, I swallow. “No.”

That said, she sighed. “Well, stop getting blood everywhere. It makes me look like a bad mom.”

“All right.” I nodded, understood. From there, Mommy threw the dirty rag in the washer, then turned to me as she mumbled, “Son, why are there marks on your body? Surely nothing inspired them, right?” I feel like pinching my skin. I shake my head. “I’m not sure anymore,” I quietly confess. For once, I told the truth.

I might’ve been wrong. But not completely.

There has to be some truth to my theory. I know there is. I can feel it.

“Okay.” Mommy nodded. “Well, I’m going to give you another lesson. Obviously, I have to clear things up because you’re too damn naive. You see, people like me enjoy going out and getting covered in hickeys that will later have to be hidden in public.”

My eyes squint in confusion at the unfamiliar word. “What’s that?” I ask. Mommy hesitates, but then she sighs, a deep, resigned breath, knowing there’s no way around it. “I’ll give you a brief explanation,” she said.

And she did. Just like that, I was exposed to a foreign world without sugarcoating. 

I stood there, silent. Just taking the information in. I could do nothing but nod at the end. My fingers twitched at my sides, my stomach coiling in on itself like I had eaten something rotten. I wanted to stop listening. I wanted to unhear it, but it was too late. 

The words were already sinking into me, lodging themselves in my brain like sharp glass I couldn’t pull out.

It was too explicit, too much. My mind was overloaded with information I certainly did not need. She told me about it all. And now, with my heart pounding in my chest, my throat dry, my hands colder than before, I just wondered: Does she do this every time she goes out?

I certainly hoped not.

. . . .

Looking back on it now, it’s quite silly, the way my world tilted. Those things Mommy told me that day stuck with me.

It gave me something to think about. And to this day, I’ll admit without shame, I am still a virgin at the bold age of twenty-two. I plan on keeping my virginity for a while. I’ve thought about how I wanted it to be the right person at the right time, although it feels like life is giving me narrowed options. Maybe I’m just not meant for that kind of thing.

As I got older, there were times when I was offered something similar to a hook-up or fling. I could’ve gotten it over with just like that, but I declined each and every offer I was given. I didn’t want to feel weird or regret anything afterwards, and I’m proud of myself for not regretting turning them down.

Sometimes I wonder how different things would’ve been if I hadn’t declined. I’m extremely vanilla.

There were so many ways it could’ve gone down. I don’t like thinking about it too much.

I doubt Joe is anything like me in this case. The more I think about it, the more I see Mom in him. Though I don’t think he’ll be having kids anytime soon. Also, Joe loves to be loved, that’s a big thing about him that I didn’t think was mentioned before. He loves validation and approval of any kind. Yeah, he’s nice to anyone he meets. But the unfiltered version of him truly shines when he’s not sober. Joe is the male version of Mom in every way imaginable.

Even the violent, unhinged tendencies. I am just so glad that I have no clue what Joe’s life in bed is like because if he’s anything like Mom in that way, I would NOT want to know.

Chapter Text

The sun hangs lazily in the sky, its golden rays spilling over the rippling water like liquid light. A gentle breeze dances through the trees, rustling the leaves in a whispering symphony. The scent of pine needles and fresh earth mingles with the crisp, clean air, carrying the faintest hint of sunscreen and the smoky aroma of a distant barbecue. It was just a day at the lake for the young family.

“You still don’t know how to swim?” Dean asked his impressionable five-year-old son, Steve. “Nope!” he replied. Dean clicked his tongue, shook his head in mock disapproval. “Tsk. Ah, that’s all right. C’mere.” Dean held his arms out to Steve. “Embrace your old man, will ya?”

Steve happily ran into his father’s arms. Dean lifted him into the air as he giggled. The father grinned up at him, his eyes full of something Steve couldn’t quite place—pride, maybe, or something else hidden beneath the surface. “I think you’re ready,” Dean said, adjusting his grip. “Most of the world is water; better learn how to swim. You’ll thank me for this, trust me.”

WHOOSH!

The wind rushed past his ears, Steve’s stomach dropping as he tumbled through the air. For a split second, time seemed to slow— the lake stretching below him, shimmering like a sheet of green glass, the sky a vast, open expanse above.

Steve was flung into the body of water, his small body being taken under the surface, which was about 4 feet deep, taller than Steve at the time. The splash of water echoed across the yard. Panic clawed at his throat—lungs burning, body heavy. For a brief second, he thought of calling for his mother. But then, survival instinct kicked in. Then came the noise of desperate, frenzied splashing to get back up to the surface, all in a manner of panic. The world turned murky and disorienting as he plunged beneath the surface, tiny bubbles bursting around him.

Dean watched from afar. He called out to his boy, “Not too fast! Take it easy, you’re alright!” But it certainly didn’t feel like it.

The warmth of the sun and his father felt impossibly far away as the salty water engulfed him. Frantic movements sent ripples above, distorting the sunlight that barely reached him. He thrashed, his small hands reaching for something—anything to grab onto.

Steve could only try to get his head above the water, getting the salty taste of it in his mouth, spitting it out as he attempted to inhale oxygen instead of gasping in the water. He decided that using only his hands wouldn’t be efficient, so he used his little arms, kicked his feet at a steady motion—not too fast. The sound of splashes died down and got less aggressive. Suddenly, Steve wasn’t gasping for air anymore, he was just panting. He spat the rest of the salty lake water out of his mouth, mixing with saliva as it drips down his chin.

“DEAN!” Shannon called Steve’s father’s name out in fury. “Stevie doesn’t know how to swim!” she cried, rushing to the scene.

“He does now.” Dean’s response was nonchalant. He glanced at his stressed wife, then back to his son, panting and huffing as he got back onto the surface, struggling to pull himself up. “This is the way my father taught me how to swim, sweetheart,” Dean told Shannon, “Clearly, he knew what he was doing.”

“Clearly, your father was an idiot!” Shannon yelled in exasperation. “Steve could’ve drowned!”

“But he didn’t,” Dean asserted. “That’s my son.”

He gave Shannon a stern glance that stiffened her posture. She said nothing. Dean’s attention then shifted back to his son. 

“C’mere,” he said as he motioned for Steve to come to them. Easier said than done. Steve was treading, trying not to slip underneath, still struggling to get back onto the grass, now damp with the water that splashed onto it. Dean exhaled through his nose at the sight. “You got it, Steve,” he said, but did nothing to help. Shannon stared at her husband incredulously. Dean caught her expression. “He’ll get it,” he assured her. Shannon only sighed and shook her head.

It was a process, but with a ton of effort and wasted energy exuded into it, Steve finally got back to the land his parents stood on. Dean grinned with pride as Steve came back to him. Shannon, on the other hand, not so much. The proud father stooped down to pick Steve up again. “Atta boy.”

“Why do you keep doing stuff like that? Throwing him into a dangerous situation, and you expect him to claw out of it. It’s not right!” Shannon was trying to settle this dispute with Dean in the kitchen. Steve and Joe were fast asleep in their rooms. The conflicted mother made sure of it: she had given them more melatonin than necessary so they wouldn’t hear the inevitable yelling that came with the argument.

She wanted to scream and cuss out her “unreliable” husband.

Dean didn’t like to raise his voice at his wife, he wasn’t that type of man. He took a steady breath, placing his hands on his hips to steel himself. “Maybe because I don’t doubt him,” responded Dean, his tone sharp. “Listen, Shannon. You’re raising our son like he’s some—like he’s a little bitch. No, I’m gonna raise him to be the best version of himself he could be. He will be,” he stated, his voice low, eyes piercing through Shannon’s. The wife’s lips part, as if to speak, but they’re left slightly agape at the sizzle of shock in her blood at how clear Dean made his words.

“But doubt is what keeps people safe—along with fear—if people didn’t have that radar, then the population would be severely decreased, hun! They’d die stupidly, tragically!” Shannon’s voice rose as she fought to make an argument. Dean only averted his glare and chuckled in spite.

“So you’re gonna let our boys be wimps forever?” he asked disbelievingly. He let out another exhausted sigh. “No, Shannon. That ain’t happening. As long as I’m here, I’ll keep ‘em safe.”

Shannon hadn’t thought that far. Dean does a good, if not better, job of supervising the kids when their mother isn’t. She bit down on the inside of her cheek for a second before she spoke.

“Well, Dean,” she started, her voice softer now with an everlasting bitterness lingering behind it, “you better be here for a long time then. By their sides.”

The father nodded. “So be it,” he said. There has always been a hint of arrogance behind his stance, but it was truly shining through his silhouette at this moment.

But Shannon wasn’t done. After a pause, she spoke. “I find it incredible how smart you are and how much you can accomplish whilst having responsibilities on your plate being handled. What can’t you do? It’s astounding, Dean, but you know what happens next. People will drive themselves mad over their selfish desires, and you—” Shannon cut herself off, drawing in a sharp inhale.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. He stared at her, deadpan.

“What, Shannon?” he said, taking a step closer, only feigning cluelessness in his tone. “Go on and finish. What are you trying to say?” The look in Dean’s eyes was menacing, his voice an illusion of softness. Shannon paused. She didn’t have to spell it out for Dean; he already knew.

He knew what others thought of him, how they’d talk behind his back, all because of something he couldn’t control. People said the beloved officer of their town had a few demons on his shoulder. But Dean didn’t need their pity or ungrateful stares.

He was so much more than that.

Shannon let out a shaky exhale. “Listen, hun . . .”

“Don’t tell me to listen, all I’ve been doing this entire time was listening, what else is there to tell me?” asked a rushed Dean.

Another pause.

“You know, you have a major influence on our boys.” Suddenly, Shannon’s tone was a lot softer now. More gentle, as if she was handling something made out of glass, which wasn’t far off since she was dealing with Dean. “Steve adores the crap outta you, dearly. Our firstborn wants to be just like his daddy, and it seems he’s already on the right path,” she said quietly before clearing her throat. Dean got the hint.

She’s implying that Steve is like Dean. And she wasn’t wrong. When Dean was Steve’s age, he was exactly like him. Steve is a replica of his father. Like how Dean was a copy of his father.

It’s a cycle.

“He's following in your footsteps," she finally said, voice barely above a whisper. She hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant for the words to land so sharply. But they did. And from the way Dean’s jaw tensed, he felt it too. For a moment, it seemed like he might deny it—or at least defend himself, or say something cruel, but instead, he just scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah? And what do you want me to do about it?"

Shannon swallowed. "Stop him."

Stop him . As if it were that simple. As if Steve was just some reckless kid who could be steered back onto the right path with a stern lecture or a firm hand on the shoulder.

Dean let out a dry laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion.  He dragged a hand down his face, the weight of her words pressing on him like an anvil. “Oh, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, shaking his head, “if only.”

If only there were a way to stop Steve from becoming who he was going to be. It’s too bad that there was nothing. No solutions.

Not a thing in sight. Dean looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he wasn’t sure if they were his own. "It’s too late,” he said finally, his voice stripped of any pretense, any amusement. Just the quiet acceptance of a man who had seen the inevitable coming from a mile away and had been powerless to stop it.

A beat passed before Dean spoke again. “He’s gonna be fine,” he said. There was no heat behind his words. With that, he dismissed himself. Shannon exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lord, please let my babies be okay.”

A YEAR LATER . . .

Dean took on a shooting late at night on the rough side of town, the kind of place where trouble festered after dark. Flashes of red and blue patrol cars painted the empty parking lot of a rundown mall, sirens wailing into the night. Chaos was unfolding. An armed man had opened fire on civilians, his gunshots ripping through the air like firecrackers. Reports suggested he wasn’t alone. Multiple assailants—a coordinated act of terror. Seven people were hit, bodies collapsed, and blood slicked the asphalt beneath the glow of streetlights. People were wounded. Survival was a question left unanswered. Who knew how many would wind up dead?

One too many.

Members of the SWAT team arrived on the premises, they didn’t know the current location of the shooter until they heard shots being fired from a distance, taking place a couple of yards outside.

A gunshot cracked through the night, sharp and sudden. Pain exploded in Dean’s shoulder, white-hot and searing. His grip faltered, and before he could even register what had happened, his finger slipped on the trigger. 

BANG!

He fired a bullet into the criminal’s chest. And so Dean immediately took cover. He placed his hand over the gash to stop blood from spilling out. Needless to say, the feeling wasn’t pleasant. 

It was like a scorching hot pinch. Just by feeling the agonizing pressure, Dean wished he’d pass out, although he had a job to do, but the pain kept him awake.

It’s okay, he’s just wounded. He can survive the injury, it’s nothing fatal. He could’ve survived. He should’ve survived. Maybe in another universe, that was the only injury he sustained, and he made it out alive. Back to his family, back to raising his sons, back to helping Steve, who needed his guidance. Maybe—just maybe there’s a world out there where things worked out in the end.

But it didn’t happen in this one.

Life isn’t one of those cop movies you watch on DVD for the first time and can’t stop until you’re in college: no dramatic effects or flashy cutscenes, flashbacks, moments of impeccable timing, nothing of the sort. In life, there is no plot armor.

The only shooter in Dean’s vicinity was down, but there was nothing to celebrate. Blood seeped from Dean’s shoulder, his vision blurring as dizziness set in. His grip on reality wavered—his breaths came in short, uneven gasps. He fought to stay alert, but the edges of his world darkened.

Backup arrived, but not nearly in time.

The man leading the attack wasn’t just some lone gunman—he was part of something bigger. A gang, maybe, perhaps a terrorist faction, something similar to that. Reports were conflicting, but one thing was certain: the remaining members were relentless. They had already taken down several officers, leaving the scene littered with bodies. Safe to say, it was one of the most brutal gunnings that’s gone down between terrorists and law enforcement in the town’s history.

These men weren’t just armed with rifles. They had blades, knives, machetes, weapons used for something far more personal than bullets. Anything they could use to dismember and dissect someone’s body. And that’s just what the bastards did to Dean. Even as they tore into him, slicing through flesh and bone with merciless precision, he refused to scream. Blood filled his mouth, but instead of crying out, he spat it in their faces. He didn’t give them the satisfaction they wanted. There wasn’t an ounce of mercy to be spared. But that’s not the worst part.

Even if Dean knew his life was going to be taken that night, he wouldn’t have changed a single thing.

He dove deep into that pit of hell, signing his life away selflessly, dying in vain. Dean always told himself that if he was going to die, he’d go out with honor. With his dignity intact, and the permanent fact that he wouldn’t have done it any other way. Thus, the way it went down was the way it went down.

Dean died the way he said he wanted to; therefore, his life was complete, despite not getting to raise his sons or look after them like he said he would. That was just another empty promise. But that didn’t matter because his wish came true; he died like a man, one of foolish pride, and served his purpose as he went through it.

Nobody knows what would’ve happened if Dean had made it out alive. Perhaps Steve wouldn’t have grown up to be so distorted.

We’ll never know because Dean didn’t live to tell the story.

The impact was sudden—the screech of tires, the deafening crash of metal against concrete. For a second, there was only pain—blinding, all-consuming. And then it dulled, like the world had been wrapped in cotton.

Dean coughed, tasting blood. His vision blurred, headlights dancing in the distance. The cold seeped into his skin. He tried to move but couldn't. A thought flickered—disjointed, barely there. 

The boys.

The darkness closed in, and there was nothing there.

His death destroyed Steve, the boy, young at the time, who remembered it all too well.

. . . .

I woke up at an unconventional hour, Mommy shook me awake. I rubbed my eyes tiredly. “Mommy?” When my eyes fluttered open, it sent me into distress to see her so panicked. She carried lil Joey in her arms after fixing his tiny shoes on his feet.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” I asked. She didn’t respond. She only told me to put on my shoes and that we had to go. Quickly.

She clutched the keys to the car frantically. “C’mon, let’s go.” And we went into the garage, into the car. It was happening so fast.

Mom didn’t even ask me if I was buckled. After strapping Joe into his car seat, she drove at a hurried speed. We didn’t get pulled over because the cops in town were focused on a larger matter at hand. The alarming pace made me tremble. I glanced over at Joe, who was half-asleep, but the speed stirred him awake.

“Mommy, what’s happening?” I asked her. She took a deep breath, trying to keep herself together at a red light, and she eventually decided to pass. “We’re going to see Daddy,” she said.

She wasn’t incorrect. We were going to see Dad. I was going to lay my innocent, pure little eyes on my father’s mutilated corpse. I just didn’t know it yet.

Red and blue lights painted the scene, flashing in the corners of my eyes, thickening my dizziness. Mom got out of the car, she scooped lil Joey into her arms and held onto him tightly. She didn’t say whether or not I could get out of the car. I was so lost.

Reluctantly, I open the door and peek out, glancing around my surroundings to find Mommy. I found her afar, absolutely losing it.

That’s when I felt fear for the very first time.

It wasn’t the sharp, sudden kind that sent bodies into motion— it was the cold, creeping kind that settled deep beneath my vessels until my psyche was nothing but an impending sense of doom and terror. The air felt heavier, a silent whisper that there was nothing I could do that would matter. Edges darkened like ink bleeding through fragile paper. Time stretched unbearably thin, each second a thread pulling taut, ready to snap.

Mommy was sobbing. Something she witnessed sent her into a state of hysteria. Even at that clueless age, I knew I shouldn’t look, but it was inevitable. It wasn’t curiosity or stress that made me turn my head, it was something of a greater force. Call it destiny, fate, a divine intervention, whatever it was, it changed me.

I saw it.

And everything in my world shut down. Tense and frozen, the noises of the sirens drowned out as I could only hear the sound of my heart beating in my ears. I’ve never seen something so gruesome, so haunting, so damn corrupted. 

Everything was out of place. I watched as the paramedics took my father’s remains into a body bag. My six year old eyes lingered on the image that would follow me like a damn plague. Dad was gone, but his blood remained on the ground, accompanied by the shreds of some organs. Staining the grass as it stained my memory.

And for years to come, I’d throw myself into situations as Dad would throw me into them. Except now he wouldn’t be there. From that moment on, I was going to see things whether I wanted to see them or not. I would manipulate and throw myself into a storybook-like world where I was safe.

Where I could be in a safe dream forever.

Maturing is realizing that didn’t make things better.

I made a quiet vow to myself that night—to be kind to myself. To not throw myself into the same self-destructive fate my father did. I refuse to have the same fate as his. Dying so selflessly, yet so unbearably selfishly. He had a family to take care of, but he disposed of it. I wanted to avoid that for myself. 

Even when I was little, I’d take precautionary care of myself whenever I got hurt. I’d clean my wounds meticulously, dabbing away the blood, carefully disinfecting them, even if it was just a small cut. But then, later, I began making wounds of my own. Even then, I never neglected them. I’d watch the crimson bead along my skin, and still, I’d reach for the saline. I’d press a rag against the cut, wincing at the sting, then wrap it up tightly, stealing the pain away, the same way I always had.

Maybe that was my way of holding on—of reminding myself that even in my lowest moments, I still had the instinct to heal.

I’m still learning how to be independent. I’m in college now, and I’m going to be a detective just like Dad. Dean passed down a warpath to me, but I won’t have the same ending as him.

The question remains. Do I truly admire my father? For what it’s worth, yes. But reflecting on what happened, I realized how utterly careless he was. And now I wonder if he was really a protector or not. It made my blood boil, bitter and frustrated.

It’s like he dared death to end him.

And maybe that’s what made him so capable.

That’s what gifted him a legacy. It shaped into the man he was, the man we remember, the man who got what he wanted in the end.

Chapter Text

Steve always found a way to make things harder than they needed to be.

The mentality I deal with is undisturbed. I’m calm, relaxed, unlike my brother. Which, on my terms, I’ve always been grateful for—honestly. Grateful that Steve’s still alive.

I’ve always had faith in him. But moments—fleeting, passing—where I almost lost it.

Funny, considering I’m the most normal one in our family—or that’s at least what I tell myself.

I think about moments in our household during childhood. I don’t want to make any false assumptions, but I have a right to presume that Mom adored me as I was growing up. I might’ve even been her favorite, but I can’t just say that. Though I had a feeling that she loved me because of how easy-going I was.

Steve, on the other hand, was a handful. Still is—kinda.

And when he got the attention he didn’t regularly receive—the attention he didn’t deserve —it became an issue. So, the tables turned, well, sort of. Mom was still unsure about Steve, but soon enough, I was the transparent child. Clear like glass, except you can’t see me.

That was aggravating. But I had to press those feelings down. I was supposed to be the glue that kept Steve together. Meanwhile, it was a challenge to prevent myself from losing my sanity, and I was dealing with it all on my own.

C’mon, Joe, you’re better than this.

When I entered my early teenage years, I got a better sense of the real world, and I’d think of some . . . not very kind things. I’d press the tips of my fingers to my temples, trying to block out these thoughts, but it was no use. I just couldn’t stop them. And I couldn’t help but think: Just do it already, man. Just die already.

That’s what my mind kept repeating, whether I truly wanted it to happen or not, I’m still not clear on that. There have been close calls—way too many, in fact. But up until this point, somehow, Steve survived. He made it through these challenges he faced and got to college. Twenty-three now, still a virgin, I bet, but he doesn’t know that I know that.

Anyhow, Steve has the chance—a real chance—at pursuing his dream career. He majored in criminology, it’s his biggest interest, and something he dreamed of every since he was little. Even after Dad passed away. Hell, maybe Dad dying just made Steve more eager to carry on his legacy. Steve was always thinking, looking for clues, even in a state of delusion. Hallucinating in his house for days upon days straight, I still don’t know how it got that bad. I thought that had been cleared up, steered free from his ally, but nope.

When he told me, I felt my heart sink, but I tried not to show it.

I think I do a good job of hiding my emotions. Not even someone as intelligent as Steve can detect my true feelings. It is something I’ve mastered, but that’s my secret.

It must’ve been something of a miracle for Steve to come across the path of self-awareness. I had no clue how it worked.

No clue how long it went on for. One thing I know for sure. 

I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything.

Chapter Text

I scribble over the word Schizophrenia with a Sharpie, but I took the pills I was prescribed. The word—the term for my so-called illness —makes me feel dizzy whenever I read it. I didn’t just take the pills for my sake to get better. I wanted to get better for my career, my brother, my mom, and my dad.

Oh, if only you could see me right now, Dad.

It’s been quite a while since I started the medication, quite the journey, too. I know I’ve made a major improvement; I don’t even have to say it. I can feel it.

I haven’t had an episode in months. That’s not the only upside, I’m also getting stronger—physically and psychologically. I was a rookie to begin with when it came to prepping for an internship for being a fill-in officer, but I pushed myself into the deep end. I trained to be a part of the team, like how Dad was. Now, I’m a key factor in helping society, and my future is only what I’ll decide it will be.

A MONTH AND A HALF LATER . . .

“What? You serious? How—huh?!” Joe was dumbfounded when I told him I got my first job on the team. I told him over the phone, hearing his voice squeak over the line was incredibly amusing. Hell, I can even hear him rolling his eyes.

“I mean, do you even know how to use a gun?” he asks before immediately returning his question. “Ah, wait—never mind.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, after all of those years I spent being an edgy teen, I figured,” I said, rolling my own eyes at the absurdity. “Not to brag, but people talk about me, they think I’d be a valuable asset,” I say slyly. Joe scoffs. “Yeah, not bad for a rookie,” he retorted sarcastically. I click my tongue. “Why are you being so bitter?” I ask. Joe let out a disbelieving huff at that. “Because you’ve known this for how long? Probably weeks, yet you’re just telling me!” he whines.

“Right, makes sense.” I nod in thought. “But I know I can aim decently. The only thing now is when I pull the trigger, I have to mean it.”

“Well, no shit, Sherlock!” exclaimed Joe. I laugh hard at this. The Joe I knew a while ago would never swear. But after the shit we’ve been through together, it makes sense—even if it still catches me off guard. However, he’ll always be my little brother, no matter what .

The air shifted when Joe uttered the next few words. “Just . . . don’t be as careless as Dad was.”

I stiffened for half a second. “Uh-huh.” I tried not to let the words get under my skin. Instead, I tease, “Are you trying to piss me off? It would’ve worked if I weren’t on my meds. But still, don’t test my limits, lil bro! The amount of self-control I have is astonishing.” Sometimes I just have to admire my capabilities now.

“I thought it’d hurt, considering how obsessive you are.”

Oh, Joseph Chapman, I can see that dumbass smirk right now.

“OK, fuck you.” I hung up nonchalantly, there was no real heat behind my words—just a simple statement.

I know that Joe is a nice person—one of the nicest guys I know—just not when he’s intoxicated. Yeah, I know he has been drinking. I’m still wondering where the hell he gets alcohol from. 

Maybe people don’t ask him for an ID because he looks grown enough. Or maybe one of his dumbass friends buy it for him. 

Beats me.

Honestly, I can only hope he’s drinking because he wants to now—it’d be better than having an addiction to it. Don’t get it mixed up, drinking for fun and drinking because you feel like you cannot live without alcohol are two completely different things. And anyway, if that’s the case, then Joe can quit anytime he wants. But that’s a case to be solved for another time.

Because tonight, I have bigger things going on.

My leather jacket drapes on my shoulders as I grab my keys. “Out again?” asks Josh, who’s sitting on the couch watching another documentary channel on the TV while studying. Now that’s multitasking. “Yes, it may be a while before I get back,” I say.

Scribbling some notes down, Josh exhales dreamily. “As usual,” he said with a playful smirk. I grin. “Try not to miss me too much.” This made Josh cackle. “Get outta here, officer.” We lock eyes for a fleeting moment, exchanging pleasant smiles before I head out.

The air is cool and crisp, wind brushes my dark, burnt mahogany-colored bangs away from my face. It’s late January. My ankle-length, matte black boots crunch the snow beneath with every step I take. I glance up at some tall buildings in the city, and some rooms in them have their lights on. A tall gray building glowed a light baby blue from the windows. I saw fellow officers inside, discussing noteworthy topics.

I step inside the building and immediately feel the stark contrast between the corporate air and the outside atmosphere. The next thing I notice is how busy everyone looks. We’ve all got a job here. I was called in, that is to say, a case took action. I wasn’t informed of the depth or anything; I was just told to get over here, so here I am.

It’s not like I was trying to eavesdrop on nearby conversations or anything, but I picked up on keywords like “highway” and “harm.” More chatter filled the room. Followed by more words.

More discussions. More important matters.

Yeah, this had to be something interesting.

. . .

It was a quick drive to the scene. The striking contrast of red and blue lights creates an otherworldly atmosphere. Cars were strewn on the road: some flipped, some pulled over. There are a few bodies on the road: some injured, some probably dead, some most definitely dead.

I take a close look at a wound. It’s circle-shaped, not too big but certainly deep. My keen eyes caught something metal-like on the road. When I stepped closer, I knew immediately what it was.

A hollow-point bullet—evidence of a weapon.

I stoop down to pick it up with my leather gloves. This bullet could be used for any firearm, likewise. A pistol, revolver, rifle, maybe a 9mm for self-defense. I store the bullet in a small plastic pouch.

Cops are armed on the scene. There was some type of attack— that’s for sure. The shooter was unidentified. I wonder if this could be a possible product of road rage. Something that could’ve led to a wreck. We have the position, but not the story.

Only one possibility is certain: it’s not completely safe out here.

This scene feels freakishly familiar—the scattered cars, the lights, and—gross—the blood. Not even a pill could vanish the way my head began to swim in circles, running laps around this case.

I took off my jacket although it was snowing, and I wore a white long-sleeved shirt beneath. The sensation of being further exposed to the fresh, cool air brought me back a little.

My eyes dart around until they fix on a spot behind a dark Honda. I can see a shadow shifting—a silhouette is moving. I blink, trying to clear up my vision, maybe I’m just imagining it. I’m not sure until I take a few steps closer, and the figure becomes clearer.

It’s a moving, breathing body.

Lean and sickeningly pale. The moonlight pours onto their face—it’s a male, I think. Can’t be much older than me. He’s wounded in the arm, and his face is streaked with blood—dunno whether it’s his or not. Something else trickles down his face: sweat and tears.

He’s slightly shuddering the dark liquid contrasts with his paleness—blood is the only color he has—he could be losing it. But right now, he’s still alive. 

He can be saved.

With as much caution as I could muster, I take his non-wounded arm and sit him up. He groans in pain, not wanting to be moved at all with the soreness. I get it. Every micromovement will send a jolt of pain through his body. It’s not an easy sight to bear.

“I know it hurts, but you’ve gotta be a bit mobile if you want to live,” I tell him, no room to sugarcoat things. With the use of his legs, he attempts to sit up straighter against the Honda, not daring to move his arm or the upper left side of his torso. I held him in place as he adjusted. “Thanks,” he huffed.

Although the lighting isn’t reliable, the moonlight casts a glow on him just enough for me to notice his auburn-tinted hair and electric blue eyes. The type of blue that spills from the windows of buildings late at night.

“You’re going to be okay,” I tried to console him as the paramedics were on their way. He only sniffled with the look of alarm you only see in prey. “No, no, I won’t,” he softly gasped. Every breath was sharp, sometimes erratic, as if he were desperate for oxygen, which would be the case with how pale he was, even paler than he was a few seconds before.

Shit, he’s losing blood.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

It took a moment to receive a response. “Morgan,” he swallowed, trying to prevent himself from choking on tears.

“Morgan, stay with me here,” I tell him. He nods unsteadily. I take another look at his wound, wondering how deep it is. It can’t be fatal. From the looks of it, it can’t be more than a foot deep.

“How old are you, Morgan?” I ask him.

“T-Twenty-four,” he stammered. Only a year older than me. “Right.” I nod. “Got any family?” I ask. “Not much, just a deadbeat mother and pathetically absent father, always getting on my last damn nerve.” His jaw clenched as if picturing his family, then he exhaled through his nose, and his expression only softened momentarily. 

“What’s your name, officer?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Officer Chapman—well, I’m more of an intern, but I can be considered as such. Steve Chapman, at your service.” I flashed a soft smile. Morgan might’ve smiled as well, but he seemed too lost. I don’t know why, but it broke my heart.

If he dies, it’ll be on my account.

I can’t have him dead. I’m supposed to help people, but I’d be useless if his life went to waste.

But there’s not much to do but assure Morgan that help is on the way. Though this doesn’t help. I can only try to preserve hope.

Morgan’s gaze just grew weary, his breath shortening. I latch onto hope like it’s a lifeline. But before I can reach out to take his hand in mine, he says, “You’re a good man, Officer Steve.”

He reaches behind and pulls out something, finishing with, “Far better than I could ever be.” With that, he pulled out a pistol.

My expression darkened. I knew where this was going the second he reached back. My mind raced with emergency thoughts.

I have three options here: I can either pull out my own pistol, even if I don’t have enough time to do so, and attempt to hold him at gunpoint in a stalemate. Or I could try to take the gun away from him, which I wasn’t thoroughly trained to do, which would increase the risk of something going wrong. And third, I could just get shot and die.

What can I do here?

Morgan is quick on his feet. No clue how the hell he did it when he acted like a wounded deer just a moment ago. Oh, wait. His agony was an act.

He fires at another officer, and I turn around just in time. With luck, her vest is strong—the bullet doesn’t bite through. He shoots again, but this time, he misses badly. 

The bullet ricochets off the edge of a nearby car, its angle perfect for the deflection, and it loses velocity on impact. While it’s no longer traveling with the same force, it still manages to graze Morgan’s thigh, cutting through the skin and drawing a thin, bleeding wound. He yelped and swore beneath his breath.

He shot me a heated glare from a fair distance. With a shaky hand, Morgan levels his pistol at my neck, to which I act before I think and pull out mine. My finger is itching to pull the trigger, but I’m reluctant.

Earlier, I was fighting to save his life. Not the other way around.

“Drop the gun,” I demand. “I don’t want to do this, and you sure as hell don’t want to do this either.”

“But I do.” A menacing gleam danced in his electric blue eyes. His voice is low and rough, a complete switch from the whimpering mess he was earlier. “I have enough bullets in this thing to do exactly what I want. And I won’t miss.”

BANG!

A bullet tears through the fabric of my white shirt, and my blood pools at the wound, staining it. If I had moved a centimeter or two beforehand, I would’ve avoided it—barely anything.

I have a feeling I’ve heard this song before.

Like before, Morgan is too damn quick. Before my finger could slip on the trigger of my pistol, Morgan positioned the muzzle on the roof of the inside of his mouth and fired, blasting his brains out onto the road, painting them red.

I want to pass out. But there’s one problem: if I do, I might never wake up. The pain takes effect like an endless burn.

I can get through this, I can get through this, I can get through this—as long as I’m not dismembered by a terrorist organization, I can survive—

I want to slap the thought out of my mind. I shuddered violently at the repulsive image.

I saw so much, so many organs I hadn’t even known of—splattered. The vital pieces belonging to the puzzle of my father’s body were destroyed, and the thought makes me sick.

The sight of Morgan and the scent of blood and death doesn’t help.

There’s an immediate call for backup. The blue and red police lights lit up the atmosphere, reflecting onto my eyes. I’m practically living the night of the accident all over again. My pistol drops to the ground by my side, blood drips down my sleeve.

I wish Dad had survived so I could’ve gotten a heads up on how badly a bullet to the shoulder hurts. I shut my eyes and try to take my mind off the pain.

Storybook world . . . where’s my storybook world?

I felt myself teetering on the brink of falling unconscious, so I kept my eyes open for as long as possible. I can see the light. I can see him. Father, look at me now. Tell me I won’t suffer the same fate.

That disgusting, pathetic excuse of a human being named Morgan is dead. He’s dead now, and I’m going to live. I’m going to live because I refuse to die a death like yours—or his.

Joseph Chapman . . . what would you think of this mess?

Mommy . . . where are you? Still at the bar, chatting about me?

Yeah, I know what you told your friends, Mom. I saw it in a fucking email I didn’t mean to read not long ago. Fuck you, by the way. Fuck you and everything you’ve done to me. I didn’t deserve that shit.

Joe couldn’t have remembered Dad’s death too vividly because he was a toddler at the scene. It couldn’t have had as much of an impact as it had on me. But that doesn’t even matter right now because there are so many things I haven’t done—things I need to live for. Listing out new goals and accomplishing them, maybe writing an autobiography, setting out a good example for people like me, helping people . . .

I could go on and on. Those are just a few of the things I have to live for. There are many reasons and factors apart from it, there is always a reason to live. One of the most important ones is life is just too damn precious to throw away.

There’s a first-aid kit nearby. I don’t think, I just move. My legs feel unsteady, but I push through, stumbling forward like I’m wading through thick mud. The clock is ticking in my head, louder than the chaos around me. It feels like forever until the paramedics get here. I take a small cotton ball, dab saline on it, and press it against my wound.

It stung—the worst sting I’ve ever endured in my entire life.

Like ice on fire. I swear I stopped breathing for a second. It’s worse than any of the cuts I’d previously taken care of. I felt my vessels throb, so I placed more pressure on them. My pulse hammers against my skin, and I push harder, desperate to stop the blood, to feel something other than the pain. And then it hits me.

I’m still alive.

I didn’t plan on this—hell, I never thought I’d make it this far. I’ve spent years too tangled in my mind, thinking I’d never see the end of this life, wishing I wouldn’t. But here I am, barely holding it together, and I’m not ready to die. Not now.

I kept telling myself one thing.

I am not content with dying.

I am not content with dying, no matter how many previous years I’ve spent wasting my life away, as I was suicidal, I will not die right now. For once, my life is worth something. That is enough to keep me alive and awake for every excruciating moment passing by. I press harder into the gash. I focus on the sting, and my chest tightens with every pulse.

Even when every ounce of my being is screaming for relief, I don’t let go of the pain. It reminds me I’m alive.

Josh was the first to know about what was happening. He heard through a reporter he knew on campus. Well, he was given a brief idea, but he had no clue just how bad it was going. With this information, he called Joe, asking if he knew about this. Safe to say, the answer was no.

Joe drove as quickly as he could down to the premises. He checked the news, the reports, and anything beforehand. The safety was ambiguous, but Joe came anyway. Not only do I have a strong little brother, but a brave one, too.

A wave of déjà vu slammed into me, crashing over my mind like a tide pulling me under. I bet it did for him, too. The scenery brought up the repressed memories, memories his mind fought to remain under the surface, underneath the flood of it all. Another flood was about to come pouring in.

By the time Joe got here, the paramedics had arrived. The amount of flashing lights was outrageous. They were cutting through the night, flashing across my eyelids even when I couldn’t open them wide enough to see. The chaos was unbearable.

Sirens wailing, lights bouncing off every surface in a blinding pulse—but it didn’t matter. Joe came running, his car screeching to a stop, but the real movement came when he slammed the door open, bolting toward me.

And that look.

I saw the shift when his deep brown eyes locked with mine. I saw the way his heart sprang out of his chest. It crushed mine.

“STEVE!” he yelled my name, his voice breaking through the chaos, bolting over to me, not giving a damn about authoritized restrictions. My vision was getting blurry, but everything cleared up when I saw my brother. If anything was distorted, everything was brought back into place the moment I heard Joe’s voice. 

The greatest feeling of euphoric well-being washed over me, so strong it could fade out everything else. It was something I’d gladly let myself drown in, as well as my blood.

Joe hasn’t seen anything like this in a long time—he shouldn’t have to witness it, and I feel selfish for loving his presence. He looked around, and his eyes went wide, taking in the scene, seeing bags being filled with corpses, bodies being wheeled on a gurney. The sight—the realization—could make anyone sick.

And the thought that I could’ve been any one of those bodies?

Might as well vomit.

Despite everything surrounding us, the tears of agony Joe was choking on, I couldn’t help but smile. It’s dazed, loopy, but it’s real.

The fact that Joe rushed here without hesitation, without a second thought—no calculation, no time wasted—it's better than any high I’ve ever known. Honest.

And despite all the shit we’ve been through, the snarky remarks from earlier, the fights that cut deep, the cruel jabs, and the last thing I told Joe being “ Fuck you ,” here he is.

He is here.

Tangible. Everlasting.

It’s the most bittersweet feeling anyone could ever imagine. Like a knife to the chest and a balm to the soul, all at once. I clung onto the worry etched on Joe’s terrified face. It’s the same fear I know I’ve worn on my face before, the fear of losing someone who means everything. He reaches out, as if to grab onto the life within me and ensure it never leaves.

My loyal brother won’t let go—he can’t. I can’t either.

Our relationship is built on shared history—one laced with cruelty, resentment, and sharp words that cut deeper than either one of us will ever admit. Joe knows exactly where to strike, he knows which points will hurt me the most. My version of love was twisted into something that stung rather than healed.

Both metaphorically and literally.

It’s messy, broken, but it’s mine. I will never let go of it—of who I am. It’s the greatest thing I’ll ever have—what makes me myself. And I will be unapologetic about it.

Between Joe and me, an unspoken tether binds us through every fight, every moment of silence, every apology that never comes, a key source of our pain—our connected trauma, our blood bond. Push and pull. Tying knots and then unraveling.

“Joe,” I softly spoke. His eyes had an endless sadness to them, the type you see in old paintings; it was cinematic. “I’m not going to die tonight, but now I know my life purpose,” I told him.

Tears stopped spilling from his eyes, like his system suddenly shut down.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered. He apologized, not just because of what had happened to me the night of Dad’s accident, but because of all those years of using escapism as a way to cope, spiraling the trauma that’d constantly loop around my mind throughout the years, shaping me as a person.

I’ve evolved as a person.

But this new wreck made Joe realize how I felt during my lowest. And Joe wasn’t just sad or anything, it was like his neurotransmitters broke. Something snapped.

Something far beyond psychological comprehension.

One wire is all it takes to dictate behavior and personality, and when that wire snaps, everything warps around itself, becoming distorted and unrecognizable. 

In an instant, Joe understood everything I’ve been through.

Since Dad died, I convinced myself that day would never come—the day where I’d find someone who truly understood me, someone who didn’t just see the surface but saw the chaos inside, the part of me that was broken, lost, and terrified. How could I have been so foolish? All this time, the person who understood me wasn’t a stranger or someone new I’d meet along the way. He’d been right in front of me. Right there. 

It was always my brother, always Joe. 

Everything that’s happened between us made me forget the truth—that no one could ever understand me the way he does. No one could ever see my darkness, my pain, my contradictions, and still stand by me. It’s him. It always has been, even when we were at our worst. It will always be him, whether I like it or not.

That’s the one thing I’ll be able to count on.

Tragedy is built into our DNA, and it doesn’t miss a single generation. It’s why we carry our family name. Madness is bound to lash out at some point.

The bloodline is in no way functional. The generational traumatic cycle repeats, one way or another.

And nothing could make me any happier than I am because of it.