“Heads up, asshole!”

You have just enough time to turn your head towards his voice before ridges of the 20 mph curveball collide with cheekbone. The impact sends you sprawling, palms scrape concrete as fingers grasp instinctively for support, finding empty space. You’ve never been shot in the face before, but this must be how it felt. Your jaw feels like a jigsaw of teeth fragments and shattered bone. Your body lets out a small gurgle of agony as eyes scan the sky for any sign of Heaven and the annoyingly small pebbles that always get into the soles of your red converse press into the base of your surely fractured skull.

“I told you to duck, idiot”

Your older brother Harry peers down at you, dull green eyes squinting with humor and concern. His curly mop of dirty blonde hanging across his forehead in unkempt clumps. Severe acne, pulsing scarlet and sweat slicked from the afternoon sun, is scattered across every inch of available skin, congregating on the large crooked nose resembling a gourd.

“You okay, little brother?”

“I’m fine.” you slur, holding back tears. You gingerly move your jaw, back and forth, testing. Nothing badly broken; fractured maybe.

“Hopefully I didn’t knock a screw loose. Lose one more and you’re in the nuthouse for sure.” Harry laughs.

You feel blood rush to the impact zone on your left cheek, now pulsing.

“Well if you get rid of me you’ll have no then won’t cha” you spit.

Harry’s face hardens. He stands. You watch him turn, your eyes focusing on the plaid of his dark blue flannel. You know you struck a nerve.

Palms press into rocky soil as muscles synchronize and you’re suddenly upright staring at your brother’s back.

“Harry, I’m sorry.” Your voice is small.

He’s tense. You know why.

“We’re all each other has now. Mom’s not here anymore. She’s gone, and we both know Dad lost it after she died.” His head turns slightly as teeth clench. “So, I’d prefer if you don’t find any more ways to piss me off.”

You’re ten again, crouched behind the cigarette worn leather couch of the small apartment living room, watching Dad stare at the family picture on the living room wall for the seventh straight hour. Mom had died in the car accident the day before. Harry told you Dad was in shock. You said Dad was hoping Mom would come home from Heaven.

The following days, Dad stopped eating, drinking, and talking. You remembered you were so scared he was going to die. Harry caught you crying and told you he was going to take care of Dad. The police came the next day.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” You feel the words spill from your mouth. Your mind is numb.

Harry’s shoulders went slack, his head dipping low. You watch him rake his right hand though his mop of dirty blonde, fingers catching on the knots.

“I know, Travis. I know you say things when you’re heated. You’re just like Mom.”

Harry laughs, fake. He turns towards you, his expression unreadable. You focus on his mouth, watching the words form, avoiding his eyes.

“Things have been hard without Mom or Dad, really hard. Hell, I’m only 22 and I’m basically a father!”

You feel your cheeks flush acne scarlett and your stomach knot. The bruised space on your splintered cheekbone pulses with your quickening heart rate.

“I can take care of myself.”

Even as the response slips past your teeth you know the falseness of it.

Harry raises an eyebrow, grinning. Smile yellow from chewing dip.

“Oh really? You’re even dumber than you look if you actually believe that.”

Harry crosses his arms, cocking his head and widening his stance, peering down at you. His 6’5” frame blocking your view of most of the city landscape.

“Who fed you after Mom died and Dad stopped making dinner? Who took you to school every day? Who convinced the court to let you live with me after Dad lost it, since I was 18, so you didn’t have to go into foster care, huh? Oh yeah that’s right, I did.”

Harry’s voice is sarcastic, stern and controlled as he jabbs the end of his pointer finger into the center of your chest, leaving an indent in the gray cotton t-shirt. Your cheek pulses rapidly.

Choking down your pride, you force yourself to inhale deeply. You close your eyes, taking in the smell of the broken concrete sidewalk, dry earth, and intoxicating summer air. Your pulse slows in your bones. This is what Mom used to do when her anger would get the best of her. You’re not pissed at Harry for being wrong, you’re pissed because he’s right. You know you would be worse off without your brother, and that sort of dependency is infuriating. Your teeth clench, molars grinding.

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I get it. But, I’m 14 now. I can take care of myself.”

“You little shit. You wouldn’t last a week.”

A flash of vivid memory. She wouldn’t last the week, that’s what Dr. Wentz said. Mom was dying. Her injuries from the accident were too much, and her breathing was heavy, labored, ragged. Dad refused to leave her hospital bedside. He was waiting for her to die.

The edges of your mouth curl into a sneer, defiance filling your chest where regret once sat.

“I could last longer than you think. I know I could. Watch me.” Without any substantial thought you spin dramatically on your heels, walking away from Harry. You hear him call, your back towards him,

“See you at seven for dinner, asshole!”

The bruise pulses.