Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see my brother's car skidding off the road in silence, slamming into a tree. The tree seems unharmed, almost laughing at the thought of it all as his blood runs down the windshield. Cellphones do no good here; only the cold shadow of death that lingers over him, alone.
I keep having dreams where he murders me; tortures me. Pins me to the wall with knives in my hands, blood running to my elbows until he silences me with a slap, stinging and blinding me with salty sweat and tears. I dream of retribution and revenge for what I've done in my life; the things I've done that would cause them all to leave me, that caused so many to.
Will you?
it'snotallabouthim...sometimes,it'saboutme,too