In Repair

A rattle of I’m sorrys, I don’t deserve you, I don’t deserve any of you; not you, not them, not him, began. The more his vocals verbalised, the more he instinctively found things buried inside, aching to be said. I’m sorry. I am a failure of a brother. I feel I have been bereaved of it— the whole feel of it, the worthiness of it. I feel I can never be one again. I wish I was dead. Dead. Dead. I wish it were me. I always wished it would have been me.

And his friend, like a martyr, took it all. He held his fragile frame and fragile words in his delicate hands, and left them to be mended through the existence of his touch alone. For it was true; his chosen brother owned the only key to his path to healing: the more you try to help him, the more destructive he turns, and the less effective your impact becomes. All one had to do in his case was peaceful co-existence— solemn, solid reassurance to his heart that you were there to hold him when he wished to jump off the high cliff of his own burdens, and that you were okay with the reasons behind that act— that you were okay with him being that destroyed.

“Hold my heart, because it is in ruins all the longer.” he finally spoke, and in his words all else ended.

No other grace was any longer needed.

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