âđ your older brother, dallas
you and dallas never really talked about feelings, but that didnât mean you didnât feel. especially not when it came to him.
you never asked where he was going, and he never asked where you were coming from. that was the unspoken rule in the house, orâwell, whatever counted as a house.
the floorboards creaked like screams and the walls were covered in ash, thousands of cigarettes butts scattered on the floor. most likely a combination of dallas' and your father's habit. the house reeked of alcohol and hatred. something you never really got used to. even after years, something else lingered apart from the stench.
dallas was the kind of brother who didnât hold your hand, didnât pat your head, didnât say âi love you.â but he'd steal your favorite snacks from the gas station and chuck it at your face like it pissed him off. heâd throw his jacket over your shoulders when you were cold, grumbling like it inconvenienced him.
he never said it, but he did. he really did, and even if they were never words, they were something.
you were younger than him by a handful of years, just enough for him to think you were soft but not dumb.
âdonât hang around those kinda guys,â heâd mutter when he saw you talking to some greaser punk with too much hair gel and too little sense. âtheyâll get you in trouble.â
and youâd raise a brow, all sarcasm and spit. âlike you?â
âdonât get smart with me,â heâd snap, flicking your forehead. you always hit him back harder.
sometimes heâd disappear for days and come back with knuckles split open and a hollow look in his eyes.
âdid you.. get in a fight with someone?" you'd ask. worried half to death.
heâd light a smoke, never answer.
dallas wasnât the protective kind that hovered. he didnât do curfews or check-ins. but if someone looked at you wrong, if someone touched you like you were less than a storm, heâd find them. and theyâd wish theyâd never been born.
word got around fast. you were untouchable. not because you were delicateânah, but you just.. had that same wild look in your eye that he didâbut because you were his. his kid sister. his last shred of reason. or, you were.
you remembered when he got out of jail.
youâd only been fourteen. or maybe thirteen. or twelve, or eleven. or maybe ten, the first time it actually happened.
he looked older, meaner. that prison lookâthe one that makes you harder just from surviving, but when he saw you, you swear he looked younger for just a second. you could see that soft glint in his eyes. the one he had way before he got involved with all those gangs and.. stuff.
âyou got taller,â he said.
âand you got uglier,â you replied.
he didn't say he missed you, but you knew. you knew he did.
then, there were those moments when it felt like the world might leave you both alone. there were those rare nights when he let his guard down and youâd find him half-passed out on the couch, cigarette burning low, muttering to himself.
âdonât you ever go soft,â he once said, voice thick with whiskey and something heavier. something you were never able to decipher. âthe world eats people like us.â
and you didnât say anything. just covered him with the ratty blanket and turned off the light. you werenât soft and neither was he.
the night johnny died, you knew before anyone told you. dallas came in a frenzyâshaking, eyes red. he looked like a bomb had gone off in his chest. breathing all erratically, teeth clattering together.
âdonât talk to me,â he warned.
but you did anyway. âdalââ you started, and you were cut off with a sharp,
so you didnât. just sat next to him while he stared at the wall like itâd done something to him. you could feel it crack in him. the boy who once told you not to cry when you broke your wrist now couldnât even look at you.
and you knew, johnny wasnât just some kid. he was the last good thing dal believed in.
so you stayed up all night, waiting. he left before dawn, and you told yourself youâd see him again. but you knew better.
the shot echoed through your bones before the news even reached you.
âdallas winston, seventeen year old, dead by police. a gun in his hand. a scream in his throat.â
you heard about the robbery. the chase. how he pointed the gun. how the cops opened fire like he wasnât even humanâand, the fact that his gun was never loaded.
you wanted to scream. wanted to punch something until your fists looked like his used to. but you didn't.
so you sat on the curb outside your busted house and smoked one of his last cigarettes, legs shaking too hard to stand. and your father? nowhere to be found.
dallas always said he didnât care about anything but you knew the truth. he cared too much. and again, nobody noticed.
but, you keep his lighter in your coat pocket.
you wear his old leather jacket, even though itâs too big.
you flinch when you hear sirens.
you mouth the words to that song he always hated just to feel like heâs yelling at you again.
and you donât talk about it. ever. 'cause he never did.
and you loved him more than you could ever say. even if he never said it back.
so, you carry that now. all of it.
for him. because you care.
© ccorinthians | donât plagiarize, copy or translate any of my works
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