1 Rachel.

The only person who could hurt my brother more than anyone else was my brother himself. I'd known it ever since kindergarten, when he'd stabbed his own hand with a coloring pencil for no apparent reason. He was five. I was seven. Everyone was sure it had been just an accident. Except me.

As he grew up, it got worse. He started biting his fingernails until they bled, he often got himself into fights at school and always got away with a black eye—which was probably his goal. Not to mention all the fights he got in at home. Don't get me wrong, our parents were loving, caring and normal—to a certain extent… maybe a little too religious—but as any teenager, my brother got carried away. Maybe it was the drugs. Eventually I discovered the thin red lines right above his wrists that he tried so hard to cover up, and somehow I was not surprised. And it wasn't just that. He also constantly put himself down, insisting on how he wasn't worth anything, he had no talent, he was just ruining the lives of everyone around him. He hated himself, and that was why he loved the pain so much. He loved to punish himself. And despite the many times I tried to cheer him up, he always reached the same morbid conclusion. That he should just die.

Fortunately, that never happened. I never expected it to happen either, because I knew he wasn't stupid enough to do that to me, or mom and dad, or our two sisters and our little brother. He knew how much we all cared about him.

I was so different from him. I had an acceptable number of friends, a self-esteem mostly higher than average and mediocre grades that still made me look like a nerd next to my brother. And now I was going to college, following my sisters' footsteps. And he wasn't going anywhere.

That had been very clear since the "big fight", the one that had left him roaming the streets, homeless at sixteen year old. The cause of the fight had been meaningless, something about scratching the car, but the fight itself had reflected all the things my parents—and my other siblings, to be honest—hated about my brother. His self-destructive habits, his freakish friends, his tendency to break the rules just to piss off other people and that way he had of not giving a shit. He was a stain on our "perfect" family. So they kicked him out.

That night, so long ago, when the front door had slammed behind him, when the storm had swallowed every part of him as well as a big part of me… that night had truly split us up. It had broken the friendship between us, the trust between him and our whole family. He'd become an iceberg, floating away from the main land slowly but steadily. He left school too—not that he'd been very much around in the first place—so our encounters became more and more rare, until I barely saw him anymore—which sucked because among all my siblings, he was by far my favorite, maybe because he stood out so much.

In fact, I hadn't seen him in a while and wasn't expecting that to change when the doorbell rang that night. So of course I was very surprised to see, behind the door of my apartment, something like my brother. Except worse.

His long blond hair, soaked from the rain outside, covered most of his thin expressionless face. His black hoodie and his jeans were torn and dirty and almost made him look menacing. But when he leaned against the doorframe unsteadily and looked up at me with his light blue eyes—like diamonds in the middle of that wreck—slightly tinted red, I knew that he was no more dangerous than a lost puppy. And that he was stoned.

"Hey, Roach," he muttered, a dumb smile growing on his face. I hated that nickname. "You have a bathroom right?"

"Bert…" I wanted to say so many things at once, tell him every thought that crossed my mind since the last time I had seen him, share my life with him like I was used to, but all I could do was answer his stupid question. "Of course I have a bathroom, dumbass."

"Oh… that's great, you know…" He spoke slowly, as if he had trouble focusing on his words. "Because I think I'm gonna—" Suddenly, his eyes widened and he covered his mouth with a limp hand. It was clear enough. Only then did I notice he smelled like the inside of a glass of beer. Well, at least he had the decency to follow my pointed index and make his way to the kitchen sink before emptying the content of his stomach.

And then he just fell. Passed out right there in the middle of my tiny kitchen, right under my sad eyes. I let the water of the sink flow to clean it up and cupped my hands together to collect a handful of cold water that I threw on his face. Nothing happened. I slowly knelt next to him and wiped the water off his face with my sleeve.

A flow of emotions invaded me then, replacing my rather cold and apathetic approach. I felt so happy to see him again, realising just how much I'd missed him and feeling the loneliness I had successfully ignored until then weighing upon me with a sudden aggression. But at the same time, I felt so sad to see him that way, wondering what he'd been through, what kind of trouble he'd gotten himself into, what would happen to him now. At least he was still alive.

He was too heavy for me to carry, so I dragged him all the way to my small room—all the rooms in my apartment were small, obviously—and left him next to my bed, making sure to put a comfty pillow under his head, after what I went back to the kitchen to resume what I had been doing before the ring of the doorbell. Making a huge chocolate cake.

Alright, I wasn't really good, but I had a friend who could cook so well it made me jealous and I wanted to prove to her that I could do it too. Sure, it was silly, but I realised that cooking could be fun, especially when I got to eat half the dough before I even cooked it.

About half an hour later, everything was done. Spreading delicious icing all over my cake had almost made me forget my unexpected visitor, which is probably why I jumped when I saw him standing in the doorway silently, like a ghost, staring at me with apologetic eyes.

"Gosh, Bert, you could've knocked or something."

"Sorry." It was meant for much more than the scare he'd given me, I could tell. He didn't add anything, though I knew he had more than enough to say to fill in the next few hours.

"Um… you want some cake?" I asked to break the awkward silence.

A faint smile passed quickly over his lips before disappearing again. He seemed much more alert than before. Sober. "Yeah, sure," he said, "it's not like I get to eat cake every day."

"You know, normal people don't eat cake every day either," I pointed out before carefully sticking a knife into my cake as close to the middle as I could. I sucked at cutting cakes. I just hoped I didn't suck as much at making them. "Why don't you take a seat," I proposed.

He obeyed and, closely examining my unsteady hand holding the knife, he taunted, "Be careful before you cut your arm off!"

"Shut up and eat," I muttered, half throwing a plate with a piece of the cake—successfully detached!—in front of him. I smiled though, and so did he. Maybe we would be able to get along after all.

Of course we would. We had for a lifetime. Even after the… incident, we'd still kept in touch as much as possible. Even though… I couldn't lie about it; we had grown apart, despite my efforts to avoid it. And now I had to repair that. This was the perfect opportunity.

But I didn't say anything. Neither did he. We just ate our cake in silence, swallowing back our words. It was good, I wasn't such a bad cook. But that didn't matter anymore, it didn't preoccupy me as much as it had before. In fact, I stopped tasting it after a few bites and finished it mechanically.

Finally, I dropped my spoon in frustration. "What the fuck, Bert!" He looked up, startled. "I haven't seen you in months and all of a sudden you show up at my door, puke in my sink, pass out on my floor and eat my cake? And all you say is, careful before you cut your arm off?"

His expression saddened, and immediately I felt bad for snapping at him like that. "I'm sorry, Rachel. Really. I just… I had nowhere else to go." I remembered the faces of our parents the day he'd tried to come back home for the first time. It was only a few days after he'd been kicked out, but he'd hoped that it wasn't that bad, that he could be forgiven. But it was that bad. No words had been said. Just the expression on their faces. Cold, hard, almost cruel. But also disappointed, sad, ashamed. Just the sight of that had made my brother turn around and run away, far away from the ones that had once been everything to him and who now rejected him.

He'd never come back. I knew our parents regretted it, I knew how much they'd wished to take it back every single day, but it was too late. And now here he was.

"You are the only one who still lives close enough for me to reach you," he continued on a more neutral tone. Indeed, my two older sisters had both moved out of the state and my younger brother still lived with my parents. "And right now… you're my only friend."

That was really touching. Was he trying to win me back? Or was he honest, maybe? "Wow, that's, um…" I searched for the best thing to reply, and all I could find was, "That sucks."

He snickered. "True." Then he looked down hesitantly before muttering, "So… you won't like, kick me out or anything?"

He was so used to it. My heart sank as I realised that. My parents had not been the last ones to look down on him and reject him. He'd been pushed around so much, it was obvious. It was inevitable.

"No," I said firmly. "You're welcome to stay for as long as you like." And I smiled as warmly as possible.

He seemed relieved enough. I was scared the silence would come back, so I got up promptly and decided on doing the dishes. But as I reached for his plate he quickly pulled back on it and snatched the one I was already holding. "I'll do it," he said, walking past me to the sink. "You've done enough."

I gulped. "Okay then… if you need me I'll be in the shower." And I escaped. If you need me I'll be in the shower… I repeated in my head disapprovingly. And what was he supposed to do if he needed me? Join me in my shower? Stupid figure of speech.

I took my shower as quickly as possible, impatient to talk to my brother again, or more like talk to my brother for real. I didn't even wait for the water to warm up before throwing myself under it, which cost me a tiny yelp. I moved so quickly I almost slipped twice, and made it out in less than five minutes. I think.

I tiptoed my way to my room where I exchanged the towel wrapped around my body for my cozy pyjamas. Then I retraced my steps all the way to the entrance of the bathroom, from where I could easily spy on the living room and the kitchen. I didn't see anything at first. I waited a few seconds during which I heard nothing, and then suddenly… no, it couldn't be. It was not possible that my brother would show such vulnerability in front of anyone. But then again, I heard it well. I heard my brother's faint sobs.

My knees weakened as I walked slowly up to the couch he was sitting on, the one on the far end of the room, which could not be seen from the hallway. He was hugging his knees, his face buried between them, shaken by his silent sobbing. He didn't seem to acknowledge my presence until I sat beside him and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. As soon as he felt the touch, he froze. The sobs ceased.

"That was fast," he muttered in a muffled voice thick with tears.

"Yeah," I whispered, "that was my intention." I didn't add anything, and he started shaking again. I couldn't take it anymore. I wrapped my arms around him carefully and held him tightly until his breathing calmed. I don't know how long it took, but I held on to my own tears every second; he didn't need to see that. And strangely, I felt happy, somehow. Because finally, since he'd appeared behind my door, we connected. We understood each other, without words.

And then, he slowly lifted his head and let go of his knees, so I took back my arms and settled for just staring at him. His eyes and nose were red, which was in every way normal, and a poorly concealed expression of deep sadness covered his whole face. He looked so miserable I could've burst in tears right then and there, but of course I kept calm.

"I fucked up, Roach. I really fucked up," he whispered. I already knew that. And I knew what would follow: a long speech about how unworthy he was, how he should never have been born, etcetera, etcetera. Or so I thought. For a moment he just stared in front of him, seeming terrified by some ghost who wasn't there. And then he whispered, "He's after me. He's gonna kill me." I frowned, my interest flaring suddenly. I didn't expect the conversation to take such a turn. "Not if I do it first though," he added with a bitter smile.

"Wait," I started, ignoring his last suicidal comment, "who's after you?"

He sighed. "It's actually quite a long story…" He paused. "Alright, it's not really a long story. It's just that… I stole some stuff from this guy and now he and his band of mighty outlaws are pissed off. And they're looking for me, and… and Kate." He seemed to choke on the name.

I raised my eyebrows. Kate. Wow, I had forgotten her. He'd told me about her on one of the rare visits I'd gotten from him—back in the days when I actually got visits from him. More than a year had passed since then, and besides what he told me then was visibly superficial, brief and not too detailed, so I didn't know much more then than I did now. I knew though, that Kate was something like his girlfriend and that they'd even lived together for a while—where, I couldn't imagine, but by the looks of him it couldn't have been a luxurious mansion.

"Wait, wait, wait…" I waved my hands in front of me speedily. "You stole stuff from a guy? What stuff, and what guy?"

"Just… some dude from the streets, what does it matter?" He was avoiding my first question.

"What stuff, Bert?"

Suddenly, he seemed to get angry. "Well, what the fuck do you think? That I stole bubblegum from a fucking drug-dealer?"

"OK, I get it. Don't get angry now." I sighed. "Look, what makes you think he's gonna find you?"

He thought for a second. "You know, it's a pretty long story after all."

"Shoot."

He stared at his hands. "I guess it starts when I first met Kate, back in Orem. She was super-friendly and didn't run away from me like most people and we got to know each other and then… you know. Stuff happened. And she became my girlfriend." I had heard right. "But then I found out that she wasn't exactly single." I gasped. "No, no! It's not what you think. She was like, the whore of some famous drug-dealer, some middle-aged dude with a stupid beard. And I say "whore" because she had no pleasure being with him. He even beat her up and made her do stuff, you know… So when I found out about that, I walked right up to that guy and gave him a hell of a beating." The memory made him chuckle, but I must've looked quite freaked out because the sight of me turned his face serious again. "And then we stole some of his money and ran away. We drove all the way here, to Salt Lake City, and we rented an apartment. That's about when I started talking to you again. I'd missed that." He smiled, but my expression remained grave. I couldn't believe how much I didn't know. I had no idea he'd lived anywhere but the streets since the big fight. "But of course, nothing lasts forever, and eventually some other fat middle-aged dude with a stupid beard caught us, gave us a lecture about how irresponsible we were to have hurt his buddy and took all our fucking money—you know, the one we had, in our immaculate moderation, almost completely spent on drugs and booze. Yeah… I even received a few well-placed punches too," he remembered with a wince.

"How generous of him."

"Truly." I finally smiled, despite the sad turn of his story.

"And then…" I urged.

"And then me and Kate broke up. Sort of. I mean, we didn't mean it, we were just angry and we weren't thinking… but the thing is, we lost each other. Literally. I swear, I looked for her all over the city, but I just…" He bit his lip. "And the cocaine got the best of me again. I started losing my mind. I stole from the other drug-dealer, the same one who'd kicked us out of our apartment, who'd taken Kate away, if I can blame him. And he knows. He knows it's me. He's gonna go after her, Rachel, he's gonna use her to get to me…" He buried his face in his hands in despair, any trace of humor having vanished.

I tried to make sense of his story, but some parts seemed strangely unfortunate, and a little far-fetched, and I started wondering if he had all his mind.

I tried to reassure him, "Look, it can't be that bad, I mean I'm sure plenty of people steal from the guy all the time. And even if he really does want to get back at you, how would he even find you, or Kate?"

"Oh, he can find anyone. I doubt that's a problem for him." In the following silence, I could hear his heavy breathing. And then he whispered almost inaudibly, "I'm scared, Roach, I'm fuckin' scared." I rubbed my hands together. I really had no idea what to say, what to do. There was nothing I could do. "Sorry to put you in this position…" he muttered, looking up again.

I quickly looked for a solution, and the only one that came was, "Let's wait. If he wants to get you, he'll come to you. And if he wants to get Kate, he'll come to you with Kate… hopefully alive." I barely heard the last part myself. "And then you can find them both at the same time." I smiled encouragingly but the despair on his face only seemed to intensify.

"Shit, now if he finds me, he'll find you! I just threw you right into my fucking mess." And there he went again, hiding his face in his hands and self-accusing himself of exorbitant crimes.

"Aw c'mon! This guy's not an FBI agent! And he's not gonna kill every single person you've ever talked to because you stole a little cocaine." I put my hand on his shoulder and softened my voice. "Look, it'll be OK. Just… just go to bed, huh? Maybe take a shower too, I'm sure you need it."

He laughed. "No doubt."

"You're OK on the couch?"

"Yeah, totally. I've slept in much worse places, trust me."

I smiled sadly and got up. "I'll just go get you a pillow and a blanket, maybe some clothes too… damn, I only have girl clothes."

"Aw, that's OK. I can learn to walk in stilettos if I have to. Not sure about the G-strings though."

I laughed. "Shut the fuck up!"

As I walked away, I heard him shout, "I prefer a pink dress over a blue one for sleeping, if you don't mind!" but I ignored him. Still, I let a little smile grow on my lips. Because as much as the situation sucked, I still had something now than I hadn't had a few hours earlier.

I had gotten my little brother back.