Your brother lays a comforting hand on your forehead, and you crack an eye open against the pain. Lines of worry and helplessness cross his face. These migraines have plagued you since you were seven, and eight years later this is the best anyone can do. With his other hand, he holds yours, as if he could siphon away some of the pain himself.

You dig your nails into the back of his hand as your head threatens to split in two. The very best doctors your parents could find were unable to find a cure, medicinal or otherwise. They've taken you to see priests, holy men, specialists, neurologists; every kind of healing money could buy. Eventually your parents gave up on you (but then, you always knew they would).

Brother never left. He's the only one who can make you feel a bit better, as you soon find out, but it takes a little longer to find out exactly why. It becomes clear to you one day, as your brother holds your head in his lap, absently stroking your hair. You laugh bitterly as the pieces fall into place inside your head, what a joke, no wonder nothing else worked. Well, fuck it. Fuck everyone. You voice your thoughts, and your brother simply shakes his head. He's gotten used your eccentricities already. You're still too young to figure out whether or not this is a good thing.