Gritted Teeth and Hollow Victories
There are times when Bro thinks twice about the shit he’s done and he honestly, completely second-guesses himself.
Ten times out of two he’ll brush it off, he’ll forget it, he’ll move onto better prospects like the Food Network or dying his jeans pink or even reading the newspaper upside down, because he can, because it keeps things interesting, because he knows behind those mirrored aviators that Dave’s got that grin in his eyes and it’s a self-satisfying kind of feeling to know someone so incredibly well that he can tell that, even when there’s absolutely no evidence of such. He doesn’t have to be incorrect if he’s fucking up on purpose, and that’s the beauty of his precious irony, because then he’s never wrong and he’s never quite the fuck-up that he tries so incredibly hard not to be.
There are times.
Fingers slick and crusted all at once, pushing helplessly at the katana that’s embedded brusquely into the earth, that terrible and uncomfortable sting of his insides slurping up against the blade, that way that he can feel something awful and ridged and plump pooling up out of the gaping wound in his stomach that’s not his intestines that’s a rather large centipede instead because he’s Bro fucking Strider so it can’t be his intestines not really, that’s one of those other times, he guesses, the fraction out of the rest that hurts and he can’t scribble over it with thick black Sharpie, not this time, though he can try, but it’ll turn out more like highlighter so what’s the point, what’s really the point, when there’s no one left to fool but himself?
There’s a thick and unfamiliar sound trapped behind his teeth, coiling around his tongue and slipping deep and lumpy back into his throat where it raises and rolls and dies, a wounded animal’s croon caught far back in his trachea, and his eyes hurt, his chest aches, his ribs are all wrong. His fingers are wrong. His nails are wrong, they’re chipped and desperate. This is wrong, this is all wrong. He’s wrong. He’s actually wrong.
This wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was just trying to be a good dad. He was just trying to buy some time. And something fucked up, somebody fucked up and he has this horrible, roiling, niggling feeling that it’s him but that’s impossible but he does.
It’s hard. It’s hard when you’re trapped on the ground by your own sword, when your battle visor’s down and there’s nothing left to anything but the harsh, pumping feeling of your own blood in your veins and you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re still alive, somehow, despite everything. Bro’s still alive, despite everything, and there’s nobody left to impress. This is scary. This must be what dying feels like and he’s afraid, he’s really afraid, for the first time that he can remember in a long, LONG long time.
The corners of his eyes sting, and the salt and the water cut through the grime and the blood smeared up his cheeks. His palms press thick and clumsy against the katana and try in vain to force it out of the ground, out of his torso. There’s that sound again, thick like a sob in his throat but he doesn’t want it to be a sob, cool guys don’t sob. Maybe he can lose the privilege. He’s lost the shades and he’s lost everything else.
His chest hurts. His chest really hurts and there’s a bright orange feather stuck to his knuckles, caked in with the blood, his own blood and tiny spatters of this sickly neon orange. That stinging in his eyes wells, thicker than before. This was supposed to feel honorable. This was supposed to feel like he’d accomplished everything and he’d lived something real and full and long and worthwhile. This wasn’t supposed to feel harsh like a slap across the face, like barbed wire caught flush around his leg and snagging hard into his skin. He was supposed to feel like an adult, like a big brother, like a martyr, like a god.
This is hollow. This is him, fucking up, with his own blade cutting deep into his knuckles, with his index finger and his pinkies sticking off at odd angles. This is so much blood crackling around his eyes that he can barely keep them open, this is the jagged edge of a bone sticking harshly out of his thigh and his jeans, this is cracked ribs and gritted teeth and that thick thick awful feeling of failure coiling angry and red in his stomach and it’s not just the sword and it’s not just the dying, it’s the failing, it’s the bits that he has too much time to think about that it is, and he is, that is, thinking, too much, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, that he had one job, he had one little job, and he can’t do it, he can’t get up, he can’t - get UP.
Dave is only thirteen years old when his sorry excuse for a big bad brother dies of shock, stuck to the ground with his own weapon and his blood.
This is an empty death. This is not the death of a hero, Bro thinks in his dying moments. And that’s what’s worst.
Ten times out of two he’ll brush it off, he’ll forget it, he’ll move onto better prospects like the Food Network or dying his jeans pink or even reading the newspaper upside down, because he can, because it keeps things interesting, because he knows behind those mirrored aviators that Dave’s got that grin in his eyes and it’s a self-satisfying kind of feeling to know someone so incredibly well that he can tell that, even when there’s absolutely no evidence of such. He doesn’t have to be incorrect if he’s fucking up on purpose, and that’s the beauty of his precious irony, because then he’s never wrong and he’s never quite the fuck-up that he tries so incredibly hard not to be.
There are times.
Fingers slick and crusted all at once, pushing helplessly at the katana that’s embedded brusquely into the earth, that terrible and uncomfortable sting of his insides slurping up against the blade, that way that he can feel something awful and ridged and plump pooling up out of the gaping wound in his stomach that’s not his intestines that’s a rather large centipede instead because he’s Bro fucking Strider so it can’t be his intestines not really, that’s one of those other times, he guesses, the fraction out of the rest that hurts and he can’t scribble over it with thick black Sharpie, not this time, though he can try, but it’ll turn out more like highlighter so what’s the point, what’s really the point, when there’s no one left to fool but himself?
There’s a thick and unfamiliar sound trapped behind his teeth, coiling around his tongue and slipping deep and lumpy back into his throat where it raises and rolls and dies, a wounded animal’s croon caught far back in his trachea, and his eyes hurt, his chest aches, his ribs are all wrong. His fingers are wrong. His nails are wrong, they’re chipped and desperate. This is wrong, this is all wrong. He’s wrong. He’s actually wrong.
This wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was just trying to be a good dad. He was just trying to buy some time. And something fucked up, somebody fucked up and he has this horrible, roiling, niggling feeling that it’s him but that’s impossible but he does.
It’s hard. It’s hard when you’re trapped on the ground by your own sword, when your battle visor’s down and there’s nothing left to anything but the harsh, pumping feeling of your own blood in your veins and you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re still alive, somehow, despite everything. Bro’s still alive, despite everything, and there’s nobody left to impress. This is scary. This must be what dying feels like and he’s afraid, he’s really afraid, for the first time that he can remember in a long, LONG long time.
The corners of his eyes sting, and the salt and the water cut through the grime and the blood smeared up his cheeks. His palms press thick and clumsy against the katana and try in vain to force it out of the ground, out of his torso. There’s that sound again, thick like a sob in his throat but he doesn’t want it to be a sob, cool guys don’t sob. Maybe he can lose the privilege. He’s lost the shades and he’s lost everything else.
His chest hurts. His chest really hurts and there’s a bright orange feather stuck to his knuckles, caked in with the blood, his own blood and tiny spatters of this sickly neon orange. That stinging in his eyes wells, thicker than before. This was supposed to feel honorable. This was supposed to feel like he’d accomplished everything and he’d lived something real and full and long and worthwhile. This wasn’t supposed to feel harsh like a slap across the face, like barbed wire caught flush around his leg and snagging hard into his skin. He was supposed to feel like an adult, like a big brother, like a martyr, like a god.
This is hollow. This is him, fucking up, with his own blade cutting deep into his knuckles, with his index finger and his pinkies sticking off at odd angles. This is so much blood crackling around his eyes that he can barely keep them open, this is the jagged edge of a bone sticking harshly out of his thigh and his jeans, this is cracked ribs and gritted teeth and that thick thick awful feeling of failure coiling angry and red in his stomach and it’s not just the sword and it’s not just the dying, it’s the failing, it’s the bits that he has too much time to think about that it is, and he is, that is, thinking, too much, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, that he had one job, he had one little job, and he can’t do it, he can’t get up, he can’t - get UP.
Dave is only thirteen years old when his sorry excuse for a big bad brother dies of shock, stuck to the ground with his own weapon and his blood.
This is an empty death. This is not the death of a hero, Bro thinks in his dying moments. And that’s what’s worst.