I own nothing, obviously, otherwise Murphy would be giving me a foot rub as we speak. Please review, said she.

I hate hospitals, always have. I don't know why, but they make my stomach clench and my brain crawl…it's so quiet, so sterile, and you can smell death on the air, feel it on your skin. It just feels like endings.

I sit in a tattered armchair in the corner of Connor's room, my eyelids drooping with fatigue and the inevitable crash that follows a huge adrenaline dump. But there's no way I could sleep, even if I wanted to. Not until I know for sure. Not until I can look my brother in the eye and know that he's okay.

I've never seen him like this before, so pale and vulnerable. Silent and still, so different from the Connor I know, who never stops moving, and never stops yawping away about every little thing. He's so pallid he could be translucent, charcoal circles ring his eyes, and an ugly cut just above his temple has been stitched neatly closed, the dark thread marching train tracks over his white skin. A tube snakes down his throat, though the doctor assures me that it will come out shortly, and Connor's arm is well trussed up with IV tubes and sensors and the like. He does look a mite better, now that the blood has been cleaned from his face. But all in all, he looks like a corpse and it makes my skin crawl.

My own head is throbbing dully, like a giant is stamping bruises in my brain, so I cadge a couple of aspirin from a tray while the nurses aren't looking. One of them had offered to stitch up the gash in my forehead, my battle prize from the bar fight, but I settled for a Band-Aid. Wish they'd have offered me a pair of fuckin' pants, mind you, but I wasn't about to leave Connor alone, not even for a minute, even if it meant flapping in the breeze in this old bloodstained robe. Who knows if some Russian comrades of those two mobsters may come looking for a bit of payback? No, my place is here, standing watch over my brother.

God, I don't think I'll ever forget the sight. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer as I knelt on the rough pavement before that fat, ugly Russian douche bag, staring up the unwavering barrel of his 50cal. The concrete was tearing at the skin of my knees, and a cold wind screamed down the alley, but I was too scared to even notice. I knew I couldn't hide the fear in my eyes and I didn't want to give that bastard the satisfaction, so I raised my gaze toward heaven to offer up a last prayer to the Blessed Mother. And I remember thinking, Say novenas for me, Connor…

And then I saw it. A flash of white, a falling toilet, for fuck sake, and my brother, airborne, legs pinwheeling in a frantic midair sprint. Falling. My heart jumped up into my throat and I wanted to scream his name, but everything happened so bloody fast, I couldn't even make a sound.

The rest seems a blur…I only remember Connor's weight was dead over my shoulder, and I was praying desperately to whoever may be listening that he would stay with me. Com'on, Connor, don't you dare do this to me…don't you dare…

I can't lose you.

A nurse pokes her head in, gently suggesting that I take a walk and get a cup of coffee, but I ignore her. I shift in my chair, stamping a foot to jostle out the pins and needles of immobility, and lean closer to the still form of my brother. I touch his hand.

I don't know how he did it…flying down like fuckin' Superman to the rescue. It gives me a perverse sense of pride, to be honest. That man is my brother. And I'll stand here at his side, come what may. He's my brother.