age sixteen: where'd your brother go? did the mob take him? is it your fault?
{ it’s not fair. it’s not fair at all. where did joseph go? who took him? was this oscar’s doing? was it really his fault?
why did he leave him? all alone.
so —
a l o n e.
he’s sixteen and the wound is still fresh—joseph disappeared mere months ago, leaving oscar to pay the bills by himself (which he can barely handle) and to keep an ear out for the mobs alone. his ribs show through the thin fabric of his tattered shirt, malnourished and ridden with stress and worry. glasses finally sit atop the bridge of his nose, aiding his vision—but he doesn’t care to see anything anymore.
not without joseph.
not without his big brother.
oscar doesn’t know where he went. not a single note was left, nor a hint of any kind. the older hurn just disappeared into thin air, gone like a leaf floating in the wind. he doesn’t know if it was the old irish gangs that plucked him from his bed, the ones that shot his mother and father, point-blank in the street. he also doesn’t know if it was him that drove his brother to go—to pack his things and leave him standing in the dust. he doesn’t know anything.
it feels like it was his fault, though. it really does. }
Leave me alone.
