Alan couldn't believe it. He had marched to his room and slammed the door, before screaming. Falling back against it, he slid down it until sitting on the floor, pulling his legs close.
How could John do this to them?
How could they do this to John?
How had this even happened?
His mind spun a million miles an hour, firing questions he couldn't possibly have answers to. Instead, he was left hurting.
Their grandmother had cut John from the family—she had decided for them what the answer was.
How could she? What right did she have to do that for them?
It was them he had wounded, tried to kill and rip apart. Them.
She hadn't walked into their lives until later, much later. His earliest memories were of turning to his brothers. Not her.
Turning to John or Scott or Virgil.
She had walked in when he was too old for her to be a mother like she wanted to. Scott and Virgil were teens, they had been dealing with their father for too long for her to treat them like she had tried to. They respected her because they had been taught to, she was their elder and family, but she had failed to save them when they needed it, and that was always there. They would listen and take into account her thoughts and feelings, but ultimately it was their choice, not hers, and this was one of those occasions.
His choice.
And his choice was to save his brother. Brothers.
Whatever had happened, whoever this was, it wasn't his brother. It wasn't John.