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There is blood on your hands and you can’t wash it off. Or maybe it’s that you don’t want to wash it off. Maybe it’s that you want to keep the last proof of your brother etched into the lines and calluses of your palm.
There is rage catching in the back of your throat. Fear settling in your chest. The first tendrils of mourning stealing onto your face.
There is a body on the table which should be breathing, should be laughing, should be shooting you familiar smiles. Should be your brother. Shouldn’t be another corpse. Shouldn’t be another casualty.
There is a plan that you are grasping at, a hope that you are clinging to, a promise that you are willing to give up your life for. A soul for a Sammy. It’s nothing compared to what you’d be willing to pay.