This chapter has a warning for suicide.

Carlos dreamed about bloody rivers with banks made of white sand. It wasn't sand though, not once he got close. It was coke that stretched on for miles. Coke was framing that mighty river of blood. Carlos thought the blood was his, but it was only a dream, so he couldn't really tell.

A hand pet his hair gently. Carlos jerked awake, scared and ready to cry out in pain. Sometimes when Dad thought he was hurt too much he'd leave him alone. Dad would just take Juan instead. Carlos felt bad those times, but Juan always told him that he was okay with it, really. He was used to it and he was happy to take it for Carlos, each and every time.

"Don't!" He yelled, then relaxed when he saw it was just Juan. "What are you doing, Juan?"

"Shhh," Juan said, very softly. Too softly. Soft like something dead. "I'm sorry, Carlos. I'm so sorry I didn't protect you."

I know he wanted to say, but Juan's hand stroking his hair felt nice, and he was sleepy and hurting, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes. It wasn't Juan's fault. Juan had tried to protect him. Juan had told Dad to take him. Juan always asked Dad to take him, even when they knew it was going to be really bad. When Carlos broke Dad's autographed Dodgers plate once, Juan said he did it, and Carlos couldn't look when Juan said it, and afterwards he cried as he listened to the sounds coming from his parents' room. Juan couldn't walk right for a week after that and for a month every time he had to go to the bathroom he would scream and cry and bleed. But he always smiled, always told Carlos it was worth it. And maybe, to big brothers, that kind of thing was worth it. As much as Carlos loved Juan, he knew he could never do that, no matter how much he wanted to. He wasn't strong enough.

When Carlos woke up that morning, the sun was filtering through cracks in the blinds and the sky was cold and gray. The apartment was quiet, so his Dad was either gone or sleeping off his high in the bedroom. No matter which he was doing, he wouldn't be around for the rest of the day. That meant Carlos and Juan could watch cartoons and be safe for a little while.

"Juan," Carlos said, hissing in pain because walking made his asshole feel like it was on fire. He knew he was hurt really bad inside, but it would go away eventually. He would just have to not think about it until then. "Juan wake up."

Juan didn't wake up.

Juan didn't wake up because his bed was covered in blood. It was soaked, so soaked it hadn't even started to dry. Juan's throat was cut deep enough for Carlos to see a pink tube in his throat. Juan's face was cut up too, from one cheek all the way to the other. It looked like he'd made one giant, bloody smile with all of his face. "Juan!" He screamed, placing his hands on his brother's chest.

Juan was cold as ice and his heart wasn't beating. He was all stiff and cool, so stiff Carlos couldn't even peel the kitchen knife out of his hand. His muscles were frozen like he was made out of snow and stone. "Juan!" He screamed again, this time so loud that his Dad woke up and came running into the room with his belt, thinking that he and Juan were playing.

"Oh shit." Dad dropped the belt onto the floor. "Oh fuck, what the fuck are we going to tell your mother?"

Carlos wanted to hit his Dad. He wanted to punch him right in the face and then in the dick. He wanted to beat his Dad until he cared. Juan was dead. Strong and beautiful and invincible and amazing Juan was dead. Juan who had always taken care of him. Carlos' best friend in the whole entire world was gone.

Carlos crawled onto Juan's bloody bed and put his brother's head in his lap. He pet Juan's hair like Juan had done for him earlier. Juan had done it because that was his way of saying goodbye.

"You did a good job." Carlos sobbed and it felt like his heart was shattering to pieces inside his chest. "You protected me when no one else even tried." Juan's hair was crunchy and gross with dried blood but Carlos kept petting it anyways. It felt weird underneath his hand.

Carlos fell asleep with Juan's head in his lap while he waited for Dad to call the police. He dreamed of the river again, of the cocaine, but this time he knew that the blood wasn't his.

It was Juan's.