His Hunger

He is watching me, but not actually seeing me. His eyes are hostile and dangerous, but I invite them in all the more, his melancholy expression kills me, I want to reach out and pull him in, whisper in his hair that I swear on my whole soul that everything will be okay. That would be lying, we have a hell of a lot of time to go before everything will be ok again. His arms are tensed and his veins bulge through his shirt, I can see him fighting the hunger. But still, I stand there. And watch. And wait. I know I should run, but it feels like a dream, I can't run, move, scream or talk...I'm not sure if I'm even breathing. Would it be weird if I told you we were stood fully clothed in a shower? Almost touching, but so far apart. The water spills down, a deadly liquid, slashing and tearing us further apart. His colourless eyes search me and i bring a hand protectively over my stomach, like it could stop him from killing me, taking my flesh, my blood, my bones, anything he pleased away from me. I feel his eyes watching me and I look up at him. Then I am scared. They are milky grey, shadowed, sad looking. I'm not sure if I can stand the silence that cakes us. So I do the stupidest thing, that in a hundred years time I will kick myself for. I step towards him, not delicately, gracefully. I stumble, towards him. "Tr-" I cry out in desperation. Yes, desperation. Desperation for his happiness, his love, his passion, the taste of his lips on mine, and desperation for him. Stupid, I agree. He's there, stood infront of me but he's not, he's crumbling away, crumbling away like sand on a beach on a windy day and I so desperately run after those pieces like leaves, floating down from a tree. Before I can complete his name a knock sounds from the door.

I snap out of my daydream.

"Yes?" I ask. "Hurry up" my brother gruffly replies. When I turn back, he's all gone. Every piece, every fragment of him, all gone. And instead, a teardrop lies in the palm of my hand. I curl my fingers around it and slowly step out of the shower. Into the grief of reality.