Brothers
You go downstairs to see what the drunken lunatic was screaming about this time, descending the stairs as quietly as possible so that you can make a quiet escape if the old man looked like he was going to take his alcoholic frenzy out on you.
Once you reached the bottom of the stairs, you look to your right and see a puddle of clear and foamy liquid. Great, you think, he spilled his beer. You wonder if the spilt beer was what all the fuss was about when there's a whole case in the fridge when you find him kneeling on the ground with tears streaming down his face, Kenny in his arms.
You see blood all over your father's shirt and see that Kenny's eyes are glazed over and distant. At first you think that he's made a really bad alcoholic mistake and killed your younger brother. Then you realize that Kenny has slit his wrists. The knife falls to the floor to splash in the forming puddle of blood as your brother's head lolls to the side limply.
Your father looks up at you imploringly, the first look from him which contained no hate that you have received in a long time. He looks frightened, you think, terrified.
You are in shock. Your eyes dart from the gaping wounds on your brother's wrists, and your father's imploring eyes.
You snap out of this state of shock when your mother enters the room behind you and collapses to her knees into an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
You have to do something. You can't just stand there in shock.
Once you reached the bottom of the stairs, you look to your right and see a puddle of clear and foamy liquid. Great, you think, he spilled his beer. You wonder if the spilt beer was what all the fuss was about when there's a whole case in the fridge when you find him kneeling on the ground with tears streaming down his face, Kenny in his arms.
You see blood all over your father's shirt and see that Kenny's eyes are glazed over and distant. At first you think that he's made a really bad alcoholic mistake and killed your younger brother. Then you realize that Kenny has slit his wrists. The knife falls to the floor to splash in the forming puddle of blood as your brother's head lolls to the side limply.
Your father looks up at you imploringly, the first look from him which contained no hate that you have received in a long time. He looks frightened, you think, terrified.
You are in shock. Your eyes dart from the gaping wounds on your brother's wrists, and your father's imploring eyes.
You snap out of this state of shock when your mother enters the room behind you and collapses to her knees into an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
You have to do something. You can't just stand there in shock.