Ouroboros
Two
“Stupid,” he grumbles. His words started slurring halfway through his story and now they're a right mess. “I'm sorry for waking you up.”
I almost open my mouth and deny that it matters but I know it would fly in the face of everything I stand for if I lie and say it doesn't matter. It does matter. Just not in the way he thinks.
He continues in a rushed ramble, “Sorry you got a shitty ass older brother who can't even fucking let you sleep at night or hold a job or pay rent or any number of basic things I should be able to do.”
The bottle sits off to the side, neglected, as he buries his face in his hands. I put it back in its rightful position, trying to stall before I have to respond.
"You did all that you could do," I tell him. "You said so yourself. The only people at fault are those bastards that imprisoned you."
My voice stumbles over the swear and even I'm shocked at the venom to my voice. I knew I hated them for taking my brother away and leaving me this broken man, but I never realized how much I hated them.
He, however, says nothing.
“Alix would hate to see you like this. So would Cara and Gregory and Margot and Adam and Beau. Like it or not, whether you asked for it or not, your life was bought with theirs. Doesn't that make it precious?”
“I know,” he says, and the words are a horrible wail. “I know! But that doesn't-- I can't--” He devolves more, unravelling. “It's too precious, too much responsibility. I can't do it, Catherine.”
I think this is the first time since he's returned that he's called me by my name.
“I can't. I can't keep waking up knowing that they died for me to wake up here today. I can't keep hearing their names and voices rolling around in my head--” Here he starts shouting-- “and I damn well can't handle seeing their blank vacant stares in my dreams. I can't do it anymore! I don't care if it's selfish!”
The anger passes and on its heels is a ragged sob. He drops his head into the tabletop. His shoulders shake with sorrow and he whispers apologies into the oaken table.
Very acutely, I realize I am way out of my depth. Frustration mounts in my chest, even if I know it isn't his fault.
“You piece of garbage,” I growl without meaning to, opening the floodgates. “It was horrible, I know! You spent six months fighting for your life alongside six others who weren't as lucky as you were. I get it! You spent six months in the custody of sick monsters who used the Geneva Conventions as toilet paper.”
He stares, mouth open and eyes wide.
“You're allowed to feel the pain of it,” I say, feeling less sure of myself as the fury leaves my system.
He stares at me, not quite blankly but a little confusedly, like he can't place this woman who's taken over his little sister. But then he opens his mouth and something like a laugh escapes, if laughter is disgustingly bitter and inches away from madness. It's the laugh of a man who's realized that the universe's greatest joke is him and that he is nothing more than a cosmic plaything.
I almost open my mouth and deny that it matters but I know it would fly in the face of everything I stand for if I lie and say it doesn't matter. It does matter. Just not in the way he thinks.
He continues in a rushed ramble, “Sorry you got a shitty ass older brother who can't even fucking let you sleep at night or hold a job or pay rent or any number of basic things I should be able to do.”
The bottle sits off to the side, neglected, as he buries his face in his hands. I put it back in its rightful position, trying to stall before I have to respond.
"You did all that you could do," I tell him. "You said so yourself. The only people at fault are those bastards that imprisoned you."
My voice stumbles over the swear and even I'm shocked at the venom to my voice. I knew I hated them for taking my brother away and leaving me this broken man, but I never realized how much I hated them.
He, however, says nothing.
“Alix would hate to see you like this. So would Cara and Gregory and Margot and Adam and Beau. Like it or not, whether you asked for it or not, your life was bought with theirs. Doesn't that make it precious?”
“I know,” he says, and the words are a horrible wail. “I know! But that doesn't-- I can't--” He devolves more, unravelling. “It's too precious, too much responsibility. I can't do it, Catherine.”
I think this is the first time since he's returned that he's called me by my name.
“I can't. I can't keep waking up knowing that they died for me to wake up here today. I can't keep hearing their names and voices rolling around in my head--” Here he starts shouting-- “and I damn well can't handle seeing their blank vacant stares in my dreams. I can't do it anymore! I don't care if it's selfish!”
The anger passes and on its heels is a ragged sob. He drops his head into the tabletop. His shoulders shake with sorrow and he whispers apologies into the oaken table.
Very acutely, I realize I am way out of my depth. Frustration mounts in my chest, even if I know it isn't his fault.
“You piece of garbage,” I growl without meaning to, opening the floodgates. “It was horrible, I know! You spent six months fighting for your life alongside six others who weren't as lucky as you were. I get it! You spent six months in the custody of sick monsters who used the Geneva Conventions as toilet paper.”
He stares, mouth open and eyes wide.
“You're allowed to feel the pain of it,” I say, feeling less sure of myself as the fury leaves my system.
He stares at me, not quite blankly but a little confusedly, like he can't place this woman who's taken over his little sister. But then he opens his mouth and something like a laugh escapes, if laughter is disgustingly bitter and inches away from madness. It's the laugh of a man who's realized that the universe's greatest joke is him and that he is nothing more than a cosmic plaything.