you shouldn't be alone
Title: I'm Here For You
Word count: 1,268
Author's Notes: Before cities fall apart, people fall apart.
This is how you know the world has finally ended:
When your older brother calls you on the phone and he's whispering desperately, "I wish I was good to you." Damn right, you think sleepily. You grew up with him punching you in the face for no real reason, for affixing insults to the tail end of perfectly civil sentences. You used to joke around that your brother wasn't mean, he just never learned what it was like to function like a proper member of society. That was his disability, turn thine pitying eyes away from him.
So when he's calling you now, voice so low that you think he's trying to mask a clogged nose, you realize that his words do have an effect on you. Just like they've always had. Your chest hurts, definitely, like your heart is being twisted in place and someone wants to wrench it away from all the veins and arteries.
You sit up slowly, feeling drowsiness slipping from you like water. It leaves you cold. "Peter," you manage, pausing to moisten at your chapped lips, "Peter. What's going on?"
But Peter isn't listening. He's still whispering things like, "I wish I could take it all back. Do it right." You hear a sharp click on the line, but no, Peter's still talking. Maybe it's your imagination.
You take a deep breath and put on your best stern voice. It's never really worked in scaring Peter off, nor has it really merited you much but mockery, but it's still an effective means of saying, I want to talk. "Peter, you listen to me. What is happening?" Are you high again, you want to ask but the words never make it past your lips. They get stuck behind that lump in your throat.
"They're coming, Brad." Peter swallows audibly and you hear that click again. Sharp, whole. Your mind's already working on the possibilities and none of them are looking very good.
"You tell me who's coming, Peter." You catch yourself thinking, oh god, oh god, not the mafia. Peter's been in a lot of trouble before, not like this is the first time. He called you up once, saying the same thing but he didn't sound this tired. This defeated. Always had that sneer in his voice. You swore once you could even hear his bared teeth in his tone. There's none of that here.
"Listen, I don't have a lot of time." There's a heavy pause as Peter takes a long deep breath. "What you do, you get those guns out of storage. The ones from when dad went hunting. You remember those."
Your mind is racing with the images; they should be in the attic, shoved up against the farthest wall. "What am I supposed to do with them?"
"You load one bullet, Brad. And you shoot yourself."
The words hit you like a punch in the gut, harder than Peter's fist, and you're saying, "What the fuck, Pete, you're fucking nuts."
But Peter's continuing in the same tone that leaves no room for jokes. "Bradley." He sounds so tired. "Bradley, please. You do that for me." Peter's voice cracks a little, hairline thin, but you can tell the difference. "Come on, Brad. I know, we never got along. But listen to your older brother. Just this once."
You're struggling to breathe, to calm yourself. You surprise yourself with how you've managed to reign your voice. As if you didn't have that outburst earlier. "Why should I do this, Peter?"
Peter's voice quivers a little but you can tell he's trying to keep it together. "I wish I could be there right now." And this time, his voice just melts into a sob. A real one. "You shouldn't be alone."
"What's-what's going on?"
It's a long moment before Peter answers and when he does his voice is muddy with emotion. "God's not picking us up, Braddy. There's no Rapture and no huge sweeping hands of God to lift us to Heaven." A shuddering sigh. "We gotta get there on our own." That sharp click punctuates his sentence and you know, oh you know, what that is on the other end of the phone.
Stern and cool voice be damned, you're screaming into the phone, "Peter, Peter, what's going on? You're not answering my question."
Peter's not listening. He's whispering again, and you can hear a smile on his words. "Gonna get ahead of you, Braddy. Gonna welcome you with open arms so you won't be alone."
"WAIT-" but Peter didn't wait. He's saying, "I'll see you, Braddy! I'll be there for you." You hear the gunshot crisp and clear through the phone and you feel like the whole world stops. Just stops. If Peter's body falls off anything, you don't hear it. The ear that you've pressed against the phone is ringing, deaf for the next few minutes, and the only sound your other ear picks up is the gut-deep sobs that are falling from your mouth. You swore a long time ago that you'd never cry if it involved Peter; he's punched you and made fun of you way too many times after all. Those would be wasted tears. But now, they don't stop. They keep flowing, raining down on your lap and soaking the week old denim.
You don't stop crying for a long time, not even until the ringing stops in your ear. But the tears do come to a slow and steady hault, when your body is warm from too much crying, and you can practically feel your eyes are swollen. You realize slowly that you've been stuck in that position for, what, hours now. Still got that phone pressed to your ear, as if you're waiting for Peter to say something again. Anything. Wishing desperately this was a sick joke.
But no. There's nothing there. Just silence.
It hurts to move. It's more than the pins and needles in your feet; it's the weight of your heart and it's heavier than anything you've ever known. You're standing now, phone still held to your ear and you're thinking numbly, Someone's gonna find him right? That gunshot was loud as fuck.
I'm gonna stay with him until that someone comes. So he doesn't need to be alone.
I'll be here for you.
*
It's quiet for hours. You can't even tell how long it's been but you haven't stopped listening. The realization comes slowly but you finally grasp that Peter's end of the phone is utterly silent. When you live in a populated area, you eventually get used to the tiny every day sounds. But there wasn't any of that on the line. No rumble of a car passing by, no distant strains of talking. Not even the TV blaring nonsense.
You start to wonder if the call is still even there. The possibility hurts your heart but it's a real one. Your fingers unclench awkwardly around the phone handle but you somehow manage to shift the grip to your fingertips. It'll make putting the phone down easier.
You swallow to ease your throat but it still remains dry. You lick your lips instead and open your mouth slowly. The words come out surprisingly easy, "Good bye, Peter."
To your horror, to your disgust, something does answer. It sounds low and hollow and mindless.
"I'm coming for you, Peter," you whisper into the phone and that thing on the other end moans louder. Sounds almost angry. Sounds hungry.
You don't bother hanging up the phone; you climb the steps to the attic where your dad's guns are.
Word count: 1,268
Author's Notes: Before cities fall apart, people fall apart.
This is how you know the world has finally ended:
When your older brother calls you on the phone and he's whispering desperately, "I wish I was good to you." Damn right, you think sleepily. You grew up with him punching you in the face for no real reason, for affixing insults to the tail end of perfectly civil sentences. You used to joke around that your brother wasn't mean, he just never learned what it was like to function like a proper member of society. That was his disability, turn thine pitying eyes away from him.
So when he's calling you now, voice so low that you think he's trying to mask a clogged nose, you realize that his words do have an effect on you. Just like they've always had. Your chest hurts, definitely, like your heart is being twisted in place and someone wants to wrench it away from all the veins and arteries.
You sit up slowly, feeling drowsiness slipping from you like water. It leaves you cold. "Peter," you manage, pausing to moisten at your chapped lips, "Peter. What's going on?"
But Peter isn't listening. He's still whispering things like, "I wish I could take it all back. Do it right." You hear a sharp click on the line, but no, Peter's still talking. Maybe it's your imagination.
You take a deep breath and put on your best stern voice. It's never really worked in scaring Peter off, nor has it really merited you much but mockery, but it's still an effective means of saying, I want to talk. "Peter, you listen to me. What is happening?" Are you high again, you want to ask but the words never make it past your lips. They get stuck behind that lump in your throat.
"They're coming, Brad." Peter swallows audibly and you hear that click again. Sharp, whole. Your mind's already working on the possibilities and none of them are looking very good.
"You tell me who's coming, Peter." You catch yourself thinking, oh god, oh god, not the mafia. Peter's been in a lot of trouble before, not like this is the first time. He called you up once, saying the same thing but he didn't sound this tired. This defeated. Always had that sneer in his voice. You swore once you could even hear his bared teeth in his tone. There's none of that here.
"Listen, I don't have a lot of time." There's a heavy pause as Peter takes a long deep breath. "What you do, you get those guns out of storage. The ones from when dad went hunting. You remember those."
Your mind is racing with the images; they should be in the attic, shoved up against the farthest wall. "What am I supposed to do with them?"
"You load one bullet, Brad. And you shoot yourself."
The words hit you like a punch in the gut, harder than Peter's fist, and you're saying, "What the fuck, Pete, you're fucking nuts."
But Peter's continuing in the same tone that leaves no room for jokes. "Bradley." He sounds so tired. "Bradley, please. You do that for me." Peter's voice cracks a little, hairline thin, but you can tell the difference. "Come on, Brad. I know, we never got along. But listen to your older brother. Just this once."
You're struggling to breathe, to calm yourself. You surprise yourself with how you've managed to reign your voice. As if you didn't have that outburst earlier. "Why should I do this, Peter?"
Peter's voice quivers a little but you can tell he's trying to keep it together. "I wish I could be there right now." And this time, his voice just melts into a sob. A real one. "You shouldn't be alone."
"What's-what's going on?"
It's a long moment before Peter answers and when he does his voice is muddy with emotion. "God's not picking us up, Braddy. There's no Rapture and no huge sweeping hands of God to lift us to Heaven." A shuddering sigh. "We gotta get there on our own." That sharp click punctuates his sentence and you know, oh you know, what that is on the other end of the phone.
Stern and cool voice be damned, you're screaming into the phone, "Peter, Peter, what's going on? You're not answering my question."
Peter's not listening. He's whispering again, and you can hear a smile on his words. "Gonna get ahead of you, Braddy. Gonna welcome you with open arms so you won't be alone."
"WAIT-" but Peter didn't wait. He's saying, "I'll see you, Braddy! I'll be there for you." You hear the gunshot crisp and clear through the phone and you feel like the whole world stops. Just stops. If Peter's body falls off anything, you don't hear it. The ear that you've pressed against the phone is ringing, deaf for the next few minutes, and the only sound your other ear picks up is the gut-deep sobs that are falling from your mouth. You swore a long time ago that you'd never cry if it involved Peter; he's punched you and made fun of you way too many times after all. Those would be wasted tears. But now, they don't stop. They keep flowing, raining down on your lap and soaking the week old denim.
You don't stop crying for a long time, not even until the ringing stops in your ear. But the tears do come to a slow and steady hault, when your body is warm from too much crying, and you can practically feel your eyes are swollen. You realize slowly that you've been stuck in that position for, what, hours now. Still got that phone pressed to your ear, as if you're waiting for Peter to say something again. Anything. Wishing desperately this was a sick joke.
But no. There's nothing there. Just silence.
It hurts to move. It's more than the pins and needles in your feet; it's the weight of your heart and it's heavier than anything you've ever known. You're standing now, phone still held to your ear and you're thinking numbly, Someone's gonna find him right? That gunshot was loud as fuck.
I'm gonna stay with him until that someone comes. So he doesn't need to be alone.
I'll be here for you.
*
It's quiet for hours. You can't even tell how long it's been but you haven't stopped listening. The realization comes slowly but you finally grasp that Peter's end of the phone is utterly silent. When you live in a populated area, you eventually get used to the tiny every day sounds. But there wasn't any of that on the line. No rumble of a car passing by, no distant strains of talking. Not even the TV blaring nonsense.
You start to wonder if the call is still even there. The possibility hurts your heart but it's a real one. Your fingers unclench awkwardly around the phone handle but you somehow manage to shift the grip to your fingertips. It'll make putting the phone down easier.
You swallow to ease your throat but it still remains dry. You lick your lips instead and open your mouth slowly. The words come out surprisingly easy, "Good bye, Peter."
To your horror, to your disgust, something does answer. It sounds low and hollow and mindless.
"I'm coming for you, Peter," you whisper into the phone and that thing on the other end moans louder. Sounds almost angry. Sounds hungry.
You don't bother hanging up the phone; you climb the steps to the attic where your dad's guns are.