4ftermath
He could hear the sounds of his father fiddling around in the kitchen, probably trying to find something to whip up for his younger brother, who was still bed ridden. He could feel a gnawing pain deep inside his own stomach but he made no move to get up. He didn't deserve to eat. Cold air blew through the open window in his room, but he made no move to close it. And though he clutched his arms in a desperate attempt to draw some sort of body heat from them, he made no move to grab a blanket. He'd been like this for a little over five days now. He was so tired. His eyes closed on their own occasionally but he tried his best to keep them open. He didn't deserve to sleep. Not that he got much of it when his body did succumb to it against his will anyway. His dreams were plagued by the screams of his younger brother, the feeling of blood on his hands, and an overwhelming sense of guilt that consumed every fiber of his being. He wasn't the only one who was scarred that day. Sometimes he woke up from hearing his brother's screams in his dreams to hearing them in the waking world. Then he'd hear the sound of his father rushing to his brother's room to calm him down. Sometimes it took a while, and every time he couldn't stop the cascade of tears that flooded his cheeks and stained his bedsheets. That was his fault. That was his doing. Once again, he brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them in a feeble position. He was pretty sure he looked awful. Well, awful looks matched an awful person, he supposed. His body felt stiff, for he rarely rolled off his bed. His father never came in to check on him. And he didn't blame him. He'd always wait until the middle of the night, until his brother and father were sleeping, before he trudged blearily into the kitchen for a glass of water. He was careful never to let any of it drip onto his hands, because the feeling reminded him far too much of the sticky mess that was on them that day. He'd tell himself he was only going to take a few sips but once his tongue touched that cool liquid it was like he lost all self control and downed the entire thing in one go. Sometimes he'd refill it and down another one. And another. And then he'd feel even more guilty. He didn't know what he was trying to do? Perhaps punish himself. At least he had enough control to avoid touching any food, despite how often he found himself dry heaving in agony from the lack of it. He knew he wasn't mentally stable, but then again, who would be? He could easily just die. But he thought that was a weak and easy move. No, he'd do what he had to survive so that he could hold the memories of that day in his heart and head. He wouldn't ever let himself forget. And when his brother got better, he'd find a way to make it up to him. Only then could he consider himself a real person again. A few buzzes on his phone indicated someone somewhere was trying to reach him. Maybe his old friends. Maybe someone special. Either way, he rolled over and ignored them. He didn't deserve friends. He didn't deserve anyone. Not anymore. His eyes grew so heavy that he could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness once more. He had nodded off for all of a few seconds before another blood curdling scream woke him up. The sounds of his brother having another fit and the bang of the pans his father had been cooking with hitting the floor. He buried his head into his knees and closed his eyes, even though he knew he wouldn't be sleeping any time soon now. He tried not to cry, because he knew he didn't deserve to be the one crying. But he soon found himself sobbing again, pathetically trying to stifle it as his brother's sounds echoed through his head. It was going to be another long night.
