My breath catches as my gaze locks onto an open mouth. The corpse’s eyes are gone. Hollowed out, nothing but black voids remain. A red tongue protrudes grotesquely from the cavity where a nose should be. My stomach lurches. I retch. Nothing comes. I gag again. My hands press against the corpse. Against its insides. My fingers sink into flesh, into organs, into warm, viscous blood.
I breathe rapidly. My heart pounds. My hands tremble.
His hair is like mine. Blonde. The only thing left of him.
He is mutilated. His legs—gone. His torso—slit open, his innards scooped out, strewn across his chest like a grotesque display.
No matter how disfigured, I recognize him.
His full red lips, once like mine, are now pale, dry, cracked.
It is my little brother. And he lies here exactly as I had imagined—dismembered, tortured, violated.
Each one carved into these wounds.
No tears leave my eyes—only blood. I stare down at him, motionless, as the weight of the world bears down on my shoulders.
I knew he was dead. I knew he would be tortured.
I exhale sharply, unable to process what lies before me. And yet, I had hoped he would die quickly. No—I had even clung to the foolish hope that he might survive.
I glance at the limp red mass in my hands.
He was only eighteen.
A whole life ahead of him—one he will never have. A wife, children—now impossible.
The weight of the world crushes me. I had held onto a shred of hope amidst this ruined world, but it has now been utterly obliterated.
The pain eclipses everything—more than my dangling jaw, more than the bones protruding from my hands.
More than my torn vocal cords, my split knees.
More than the weeks of starvation, of dehydration.
If it meant bringing my brother back, I would endure it all for years. But it is too late.
And that is what breaks me.
My world collapses. I fall forward, barely able to keep my feeble body upright.
I hover over my brother’s corpse. My red eyes locked onto his hollow sockets. My crooked nose inches from his tongue-stuffed one. My trembling lips—silent—over his lifeless ones.
I shatter at the surreal sight of him.
Months ago, I picked him up from his high school graduation. He had been so proud. So certain he’d find a good job. That he could help me.
He landed an office job, handling paperwork. That’s what he told me.
I didn’t care whether he worked or not. I would have paid for everything. But he insisted. Got his own apartment. Worked, even sent me money. Worked more, proud to finally repay me for what I had done for him all those years.
A month ago, we were at the movies, watching the latest installment of a series he loved. I still don’t remember the name.
The night before my vision, we ate pizza at his apartment. Then I left.
I should have told him. Told him the world was ending. Told him about my visions.
He would have believed me.
Even if it wouldn’t have changed anything.
I stare into his empty sockets. They pull me in, like black holes. My forehead presses against his. My blood seeps into the void where his eyes once were.
Next week, he would have turned nineteen.
My dry lips press against his blood-smeared forehead. My fingers tangle in his greasy, matted hair—so much like mine.
I hold him. I don’t want to let go.
I don’t know how many.
But the weight of the world crushes me more with each one.
I clutch his head tighter. My jaw gives way, shifting further inward, twisting to the side. The pain is distant.
I only hold him tighter.
My eyes are closed. I wonder why he feels so light.
My long lashes, soaked in blood, darken my vision.
Blood drips down his severed neck, vertebrae protruding from the ragged flesh.
My pupils dart wildly, squeezing more blood from my eyes, tears of crimson trailing down my cheeks. My hands tremble, holding my brother’s head, wobbling, unstable—until a hand lands on my shoulder.
I stare into the emptiness of Rens sockets.
A playful voice echoes in my mind.
A face moves into my periphery. Chestnut-brown hair. Eyes of the same color—yet shimmering like emeralds.
A grin stretches across his lips.
“Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.”
His green gums reveal an inhuman grin. He speaks again, saliva dripping from his verdant tongue.
My brother’s head slips from my trembling grasp.
My world slips from my fingers.
Blood splatters my legs as his head lands with a sickening thud.
The brown-haired thing caresses my trembling lips.
A finger glides over my uneven skin, collecting my bloody tears.
Then, with his tongue, he licks them away.
“...incredibly delicious.”
My mouth hangs open. My gaze is empty.
And I see my brother. His head nestled within his own mutilated entrails.
It should have been me.