When he is asleep he is my brother, only my brother. There is no madness in his eyes because they are closed, and when I cannot see them I can pretend She never left us. In my letters I have tamed my kitchen utensil sibling; I am a storybook hero but cannot leave him for a second, cannot bring him to the insurance girls. I am certain when he wakes he will resume the hatred, the torture. As I watch him the petals of my red geranium wilt into insignificance; determination bled from them, they are all white now.