Always Gold
We were tight knit boys. Brothers in more than just our name. He'd kill for me, and knew that obviously I'd undoubtedly do the same. And it cut me short, when hearing he'd gone away. But eventually, everything goes away.
Yeah. Everything goes away.
Our whole lives, we'd lived as complete opposites, yet were never seen more than 10 feet apart. Myself, always having been the steady one, the secure, interllectual one. I thrived on giving logic and meaning to things, to objects and scenarios. Whereas my brother was continuously seen as the delinquent. Compared to me people viewed him as a boy of no worth. Crooked. Erratic. And I never understood why. Never saw him the way everyone else did, because, to me, he was gold. Pure, shining, priceless gold that if given the chance anyone should be indebted to have. Or even merely to hold for the split of a second, that ended hours sooner than you ever could have been satisfied with. He was perfect. But everyone's sight of him was clouded, everyone's but mine that is.
I was there when he grew restless. Packed up a bag full of his clothes and other various personal belongings. And left. Left me alone in that grim apartment, in the dead of the night. I witnessed the whole thing, my whole life, my support, comfort. Gone. I can remember not knowing what to do with myself. I didn't know where he had gone, or whether he was planning on returning. All I knew was that I needed him, more than ever, I longed for him to once again be by my side. Because how was I suppose to live and thrive without my hero.
He is a hero. I know for a fact that I am not... But I also know that he truly is.
But everything goes away.
My first week of loneliness consisted of me sat alone in the corner of my bedroom, huddled inside a river of blankets, pillows and about 2 litres of my own salty tears. I never ate much, never drank much, never slept much. The silently growing self-hatred was enough to cover for all of that. And evidently I let it take control, let it plauge my mind and my thoughts. I felt my life slowly begin to deteriorate. And I was fine with that.
Then, three dark and dismal months later, there was a knock at our. No, my apartment door. I was in the kitchen at the time, getting my self a much-needed glass of water. I chose to ignore it at first, just as I had done many times before. But it was more than persistent. Slightly angered I left my drink on the faded grey counter top and shuffled out through the hall to answer it.
He stood, quiet in the doorway, not confident to make any eye-contact and he only spoke one, meaningless word to me.
"Hey."
That was it. I looked at him, dead silent as I studied his face and stature. He seemed tired, most probably hadn't slept all that often, much like myself. Wrinkles strangled his once young eyes and creased over the skin on his forehead. His hair greased and lips ghostly pale. There were holes in him, deep scars that I knew I stood no chance in mending. These weren't the sort of holes that I'd spent my life learning to fix, the kind I used to be able to fill with memories and support. These were real holes. Bullet and knife wounds. 'Hey' was all I had gotten after 3 whole months of abandonment. And he thought I'd be okay with that, thought that I would forget completely about what he had just put me through.
I swallowed down the lump in my throat, and stepped aside.
"You can blame me when there's no one left to blame. No, I don't mind."