His body is still warm by the time they take him off of me. I look up for their hands to see where they have taken him but there’s no one there. Only a puddle where my brother used to be, only his blood lapping up against my knees and creasing into the fabric of my clothes. I want to yell that they need to bring him back but no one will listen. 

What does it mean to have my brother’s blood on my hands? Nothing at all really. It means nothing. 

He would have done the same to me, I would have done the same to him a thousand times over. We could repeat the scenario until the world ends and we would still be here in this room, teeth barred and nails out, blood dripping from someone’s head. If he walked back into the room right now I would grasp him tight and tell him to never let someone hurt him like that, to always tell me, to always let me take care of it. And then we would take our positions and do it again and he would collapse to the floor and I would have him on my chest, like he was a baby again. And he would be a baby again. My baby brother. 

I shushed him and applied pressure, I did what they said to do. Everything is alright because he’s my baby brother and I’m his big sister, and nothing can ever factor into that equation. Everything will reset like it always does and he will be mad for a day or two but then he will curl up in my lap like a mistreated puppy and beg for me again. 

I stand at the ready, I sit, I stand, I wait. 

I wait for him to come back. He always comes back. 

He will always come back. 

And his blood is on my hands and his brain is on the floor and a tooth is curled under my toe but they don’t know like I know. Sometimes you need to open each other up to check you’re still inside. 

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Mackenzie Denofio is an author based in Boston. Some of her previous publications can be found in Bright Wall/Dark Room, Blind Corner Literary Magazine, and Gauge Literary Magazine.