I knew he was in too deep. I clutched the picture of my brother and I, that he had given me one short day ago. We were on a family trip to the Galapagos. It truly was paradise. The rest of us looked straight at the camera, smiles plastered on our faces, but my brother was distracted, his face intent on something in the distance. His eyes glowed with curiosity as the waves curled around his toes.
I missed that face, the face of my energetic seventeen-year-old brother who could convince anyone of anything. And it wasn’t that he was manipulative or sly, but he wholly and truly believed in the power of belief itself, that if you told yourself something, it could be true. I wish I had that gift now, as I think of our last moment together, his tired face worn with stress. My brother, my warm mysterious brother was lost.
My feet pound against the gravel path, dust rising in the darkness behind me. Where am I? I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. It is like the trees are looking down on me. My hands are covered in blood. Am I hurt? I hear tires crackle over the gravel and my heart races. Why am I running? I feel my hands over my chest. The blood is not mine…