Althea

|𝟭𝟲| 𝗪𝗵𝘆

It was like my fist had a mind of its own, pulling back and colliding with my brothers cheek over and over again. I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop. I didn't want to stop.

I had all this built up rage inside of me for years, masked by therapist my old foster parents sent me to over the years, sex, beer.

Oh don't forget about the beer.

All I saw was red. My fist were hurting but my adrenaline helped with the pain.

My brother was on his back, barely moving but still somehow trying to cover his face from my ruthless punches. Keyword; trying.

His nose. Definitely broken. His face. Definitely bloody. My hand. Maybe broken.

I stopped punching him even though I didn't want to, and fell back on to my ass, clutching my fist to my chest and squeezing my eyes shut as if that would help with the pain. It probably wasn't broken but it most definitely hurt like a bitch.

The room was only filled with my heavy breathing and Declan's choppy breaths. His nose was whistling and every now  and then he would cough. I opened my eyes, ready to go at him again with my other fist when he rolled over on to his side and pulled himself up so he was resting back against his couch. It was like he used all of his strength to do that simple task.

He was breathing heavy by the time he leaned his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, wincing as he pressed his hand to his stomach. His nose was bleeding and his face was bloody. His nose was cricket and his eyes sorta puffy.

I'm not a psychopath, I promise. But seeing him hurt just like he hurt me all of those years ago, even if his wounds were just physical and not both physical and mental, I refrained from smiling at his pain. Because he hurt me just as much as I hurt him now and oh was it a good feeling.

I watched Declan closely, the room filled with our heavy breathing. I pulled my legs up and rested my arms over them. Declan's eyes were still closed shut when he started chuckling. This motherfucker was laughing.

I dug my nails into the palm of my hand, my jaw tightening. "What the fuck are you laughing at Declan," I wanted to get up and punch him in his fucking face but if I started up again I wouldn't be able to stop. And lord knows I don't want "Killed his brother" on my permanent record.

He lifted his head, his mouth slightly open showing his blood stained teeth. His eyes were unfocused so he just closed them again. I got a good look at his face before he rested his head back up against the couch. By his face, I mean that birthmark. The one he hated so much. The one that made him rememberable.

I didn't think he would speak but then his voice filled my ears. "It's weird, really," his voice was cracked and unsteady.

I didn't say anything so he continued. "Well, a coincidence,"

I was starting to get annoyed with his stalling. I remember him always doing this when we were younger, not saying what he actually wanted to say, just waiting for the person he was talking to to ask what's weird? Or what's a coincidence? because he loved knowing that people were actually interested in what he had to say.