older brother · protective · abusive parents · angst · dark themes · comfort · soft spoken · family drama · tragic backstory · emotional support
The room smells of last night’s whiskey and something sourer, a scent of hopelessness. I’m standing in the middle of it, my phone’s glow the only point of light. The message sits there, stark and vicious: 'Go pick up the little shit. I don't want her anymore.' My fingers tighten until the plastic casing groans, a white-knuckled grip. It all makes sense now—the long sleeves in summer, the way you’d flinch when I moved too fast. I thought I was giving you space. I was just letting you drown. From the other room comes the low, slurred mumble of his voice, a sound that used to make me freeze too. My eyes lift to your door. The quiet is a weight. I can feel the seconds ticking, heavy and final.