Mama was in a bad mood that day, you could tell. She'd begun slamming doors and yelling much earlier than she usually did. You were lucky she hadn't yelled at you yet, simply ordering you to go clean the cellar. Though you knew the dust would have you coughing for days, you knew better than to question Mama's judgment (you were sure you had a bruise from when she smacked you the other day), and set to work without a word. You simply made sure to hold a towel over your face to prevent you from breathing in too much dust, though it didn't help much. Of course, Tom hadn't been allowed to join you. According to Mama, cleaning was a one-man job, and your twin had more important things to be doing than standing around or doing your work for you (as if you would do that; you'd always split work evenly). Instead, she had him organizing the pantry.
Trying to help pass the time through your boring task, you let your mind wander, eventually coming to reminisce on the past few months. Things had been better before Papa died; Mama didn't yell as much or hit you over your mistakes back then. The funeral had barely passed when she'd really buckled down on you all, but you and your twin got the brunt of it. Now it was always "Tim, do this" or "Tom, do that", you had no time to yourselves. She didn't trust either of you to cook, though, so you were mostly relegated to cleaning, as if you were her maids rather than her children. She certainly didn't treat you like her kids. This treatment wasn't new at this point, though; in fact, one could say you were used to it. It's not like it came out of the blue. She'd always been colder with the two of you than your other siblings, and you were always the punching bags, the go-tos if she didn't feel like doing chores. She'd never speak a word against her dear daughter or beloved track star, but you two were "changelings" and "monsters", never her sons. Just mouths to feed and bodies to do her work for her, nothing to care for. Honestly, you had no idea how you got this reputation with her; Tom was gentle and eager to please, and you were quiet and diligent. You'd always done anything she'd asked with little protest, and you were always polite, even in the face of her anger and ridicule. In your mind, she just had a personal vendetta against you both that only got worse when Papa died. It made your blood boil.
Suddenly, a piercing crash from upstairs scared you out of your skin. Even from the back of the cellar, you instantly recognized it as the shattering of glass, and your breath hitched as you guessed the source. The air was filled with a horribly tense silence afterward, and you froze, knowing what would come next but hoping it wouldn't. Of course, your wish went unanswered as doors slammed overhead and stomping shook the house, the sound coming closer and closer to the kitchen. Not even a minute after it happened, Mama announced her presence with a familiar shrill scream.
"Tomothy Evan Weaver, look what you've done!"
As the yelling began, all you could do was hold your hands over your ears and try your best to ignore it. It killed you to be unable to help your twin, but you knew it would only be worse if you interfered. Best to wait and pick up the pieces after. Still, you had to quell your temper, your need to protect the boy getting screamed at. No matter how much you logically knew you couldn't get involved, it still felt like you were abandoning him. He was soft, sensitive, and terribly afraid of things like loud sounds and getting in trouble (a perfectionist, just like you). He always hoped she'd be nicer to them one day, and he was always crushed when Mama yelled at him. You reasoned you'd make it up to him later, when he cried in your arms like he always did when he got yelled at. It was upsetting, yes, but you'd get through it, everything would be fine and it'd be back to normal in no time. You just needed to wait for her to be done with her tirade.
However, the sound changed, drawing your attention. Suddenly, Mama wasn't the one yelling anymore. Tom was. His shaky, terrified voice rang through the house as he tried to defend himself, voice cracking as he rambled apologies. What? He never did that, what was he thinking?! Normally you'd be proud of his confidence, but talking back was the worst thing you could do, Mama was going to‒
Smack!
The sound of a startled cry, then a series of heavy thuds, made your blood run cold. Completely disregarding your plan to stay out of it, you rushed around the corner in a panic and nearly cried out yourself at what you found. At the bottom of the concrete steps, crumpled in an unconscious heap, was your brother. It was obvious what had happened, and your heart dropped at the realization that you're the one who left the cellar door open. Whipping your head around, you saw Mama at the top of the stairs, staring down at you both with a look of contempt. All you could do was stare back, stunned and suddenly feeling quite small. After a moment, she simply turned and walked off without a word, as if she didn't feel anything about what she'd just done. You heard her stomp back up to her room, leaving you two to your own devices. And she called you the monsters.
You were brought back to reality by a soft groan of pain, and you dropped to your knees beside Tom, who was conscious again, but disoriented. For a moment, he was more looking through you than at you, though he seemed to come back to his senses with a bit of prompting. It was only when he groggily tried to sit up that you saw the blood on the floor, slowly caking in his dark brown hair from a wound hidden under it and…oh God.
At first you hadn't seen it, but now all you could focus on was the sharp, jagged bone that had ripped through your brother's left leg, leaving torn flesh in its wake. One side jutted out from just below his knee at a painful looking angle, white surface painted a horrible red, and blood slowly dripped from the ghastly wound, pooling on the floor. The sight of it made you nauseous. Tom noticed it the same moment you did, just staring at the wound in shock and breathing shakily as tears pricked in his eyes, already pale skin growing paler and breathing picking up. "Is-is that…?"
"You're gonna be okay. I've got you. Everything's...it's gonna be alright." You didn't believe a word you said, just trying to soothe his pain as the tears began to fall and he began to sob.
Though he cried relatively often, being the most sensitive out of your siblings, it hurt every time you saw it. It was always the worst when it was due to injury. He was your brother, after all, and you two were closer than most. Seeing him hurt was as if you'd been hurt yourself, and you knew it would be the same if it were you. Something caught in your throat, but you pushed it down. Now was not the time to get emotional, you had things to attend to.
Trying to forget your worry for the time being, you immediately set to trying to stop some of the bleeding, holding the towel you'd been using as a mask against the back of his head and ignoring his wince of discomfort. Crimson stood out starkly against the white-ish fabric, and you absently thought that it would stain. For once, you couldn't care less. You were afraid to even touch his leg, not wanting to aggravate it further or cause him more pain. There was no way you could handle an injury of that caliber yourself. This was no simple bruise or splinter, you couldn't just put a bandaid on it; his leg was very broken, and he probably had a concussion, judging by the wound on his head. It was the worst injury you'd ever seen. The growing puddle of blood and pained cries only solidified your resolve. You had to call for help. Of course, this meant leaving Tom there so you could get to the phone. You wouldn't be able to carry him up the steps, and even if you could, you wouldn't want to risk hurting him more.
"Tom, I need to go upstairs for‒" He didn't even let you finish your sentence, crying in protest and burying his face in your sweater. He was breathing faster now, shallower, and had begun scratching at his arms, which he would do on occasion when incredibly upset. You had a feeling this would happen, and your heart ached, but this wasn't the moment to falter. He needed medical help more than he needed your comfort. You kept your voice low, not wanting to further overwhelm him when you didn't have to. "I know, I'm sorry. I'll be right back, I promise. I'm gonna get help. You're gonna be okay."
You knew there'd be no easy way out of this, trying not to listen as he sobbed harder. For being in intense pain, your brother had a strong grip. Or maybe you just didn't want to leave. Finally prying yourself from him, you hurried up the stairs that had caused this whole mess, scanned the room to make sure no one would see you, and rushed to grab the phone off the stand. With no reason to stay there, you went back downstairs while dialing 911, not objecting at all when Tom grabbed onto you again. By now he was in a full meltdown, chest heaving as he sobbed into your shoulder. You hugged onto him tightly, which seemed to help a bit. It always comforted him to know you were there, that he wasn't alone.
"911, what is your emergency?"
You couldn't keep your voice from faltering, emotions finally forcing their way through your resolve at the thought of what had happened. You were fighting the urge to break down as you quickly explained to the person on the phone, giving your address and warning that Mama might not let them in without a fight. They said that an ambulance and police would be there as quickly as possible (you just had to live in the middle of nowhere), you just had to wait. While you were normally a somewhat patient person, the situation and stress were wearing on you, and you nearly yelled in frustration when you were allowed to hang up. It was just so much. Your chest hurt from breathing the stagnant, dusty air in the cellar, and you nearly fell into a coughing fit when a sob forced its way out of your throat. You pulled Tom closer, trying to keep him still and distract him from the pain, as well as distracting yourself from your own tears. All you could do was provide gentle comfort, hold the towel to his head, and try to keep him awake whenever he seemed on the verge of fainting.
It felt like it took forever for anything to happen, though it couldn't have been more than 20 minutes. You both flinched hard when you heard Mama's steps again, followed swiftly by the sound of sirens reaching your ears. Though the sound was shrill and uncomfortable, you were ecstatic to hear it. When the people responsible for those sirens knocked on the door, she refused to let them in and said nothing was wrong, but you were too determined to lose your chance at getting help. You didn't know if you'd ever get a shot like this again, and there was no way you would let them leave when Tom needed their help. Thus, when you heard their voices, you threw caution to the wind and called up to them.
"Don't listen to her! We're down here!"
From there, everything happened very quickly. Your twin screamed at the sudden noise, shuddering and attempting to shrink down into himself, despite your hold. You apologized profusely, switching back into comfort mode immediately. Mama screamed at you for calling them, surely coming to scold you, but she never made it to the top of the stairs and it sounded as if she was fighting with an officer or two trying to hold her. Finally, a pair of EMTs appeared, hurrying down to meet you, stretcher in hand. With much protest on Tom's part, they were able to look at his wounds.
A few minutes later, you were sitting in an ambulance beside your brother, finally out of that house and en route to the hospital.