Okay, I just couldn't resist whipping this up. I hope it's okay:
**********
It's Cold. I taste blood. I duck as another fist swings at me, this time barely grazing my hair. "Jerry," I choke, trying to get the words past the red pool dripping from my mouth, "Jerry, it doesn't have to be this way!"
My brother doesn't listen---hasn't been listening for the past hour.
The snow has covered up spilled blood.
Fresh blood has fallen on the snow.
It's not his fault; I try to remember that, but it's difficult when he's trying to crush my windpipe. I search his eyes, trying to find any sign of the boy who taught me dirty jokes; the man who gave me advice on love. I see nothing. His eyes stare back at me, empty. Dead.
"Jerry!" I mouth his name, unable to use my voice at this point. The "please" doesn't even make it to my lips. My vision is getting blurry.
All at once, his grip loosens. The air rushes into my lungs, and I gasp just as he collapses at my feet. In a split second, it registers that I feel like I'm burning.
Dad is standing there now, something sharp and green in his hand. He looks ill---worse than ill. I look down. Jerry---Jerry isn't moving. There's blood running from the wound in his back. I gape at my father, sickened, dizzy, and numb.
"Is---is he---?" I can't even finish the question.
"Dead." Dad closes his eyes. A mist forms around his mouth as he exhales. "He's been dead for quite some time. That---that *creature* was not your brother, and he certainly wasn't my son."
The green thing falls from his hand and lands beside an unmoving, outstretched arm. I can't look at it. I turn away.
The tears are hot against my skin. In the arctic chill, it feels like my eyes are boiling.
It's cold.
I taste blood.
