Amber Eyes

Spiky, black hair.

It resembled a hedgehog, sticking up from his head in a tangled, unique way.

Amber eyes, piercing like two arrows, freshly sharpened.

I had often seen them, wandering around our house, our garden... Our home. Those pitch-like tufts of hair, peeping out of a floral-patterned blanket, whenever my mum had told me to "wake the boys up". His squeaking laugh at the breakfast table, that would make both me and my siblings roll our eyes in amusement. "The guest comes first", we would hear every single time.

But is a guest not meant to be welcome? Is a guest not meant to be caring? Is a guest not meant to help?

He had changed, though remained the same. His chin well-chiselled, not round and soft. Taller now than he had been then, not a boy anymore who has only seen twelve winters. The earth must have rounded the sun ten times, maybe more. Keeping track of time was not one of my strengths.

Counting days would make me realise. Counting months would make me mourn. Counting years, though, was me trying to forget. "Keep trying" equals "keep failing", and failing was another thing that filled - still fills me with shuddered breaths and restless nights.

I could hear him fighting, hear him begging. Hear him giving up. And I could see a spinuous, nocturnal animal turning away, not because of shock, but its lack of care.

Green irises kept analysing the glimpse of the past. No doubt. No fear. Only the dull, craving need for vengeance. Those shining two amber stones, I wanted them to stop. Stop shining. Stop reminding.

Their possessor sent me a dazzled grin. The amber stones showed slight confusion. No recognition. "Blood is thicker than water", they say. But what except for him was thinner than water? Fermented juice, my barbiturate? The liquid of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks? He was blood. And blood had been spilled.

I have not liked showers for a decade, rejected bathtubs and swimming pools. It is easier when the surface is not stirring. Not resembling a stream. A stream equal to how my blood was rushing in my ears while I approched him. He had not shot his arrows at me yet. They remained taking aim. Confusion transformed into concern. Still no recognition. No widening eyes, no open mouth, no shallow breathing. He was unaware and he stayed gone.

Going through fire and... water for someone. Spoken or silent - it was a promise, an oath to those one cares about. But how could it be sincere, how called a pledge, if it is broken so easily? A feeling of safety was often a lie. You were often not safe around those you knew,not even safe around your closest friends. The latter was something he would come to regret.

My soul started boiling, shooting jolts of inner pain and pressure for action through my veins. The hedgehog did not realise what I thought, but I did. At least I think I did. What I remember now is how he moved aside, as though trying to let me get past. "But why", I thought, "when he's my target?"

There are curses one mumbles when being deeply hurt. One of them "I wish you were dead". But I did not want to see him die, releasing him from the pain of life, the pain of guilt if he still possessed a heart, giving him an easy escape... I did not want sweet, tempting darkness enrolling him, who would float through a world where time, where feelings did not matter. Where nothing mattered.

No.

I wanted him to suffer.

"Reoccurring insomnia", our family doctor had once said, "can be caused by traumatic events."Disbelief, shock, regret he even asked. All of them feelings I had discovered when my dearest mother, with watering eyes, had told him what had happened. What both of us had lost. Whom both of us had lost.

The two amber stones had never entered our house again. Never entered our home again. Never entered our hearts again. Our neighbours' house abandoned, not more than four days after. The lonely nameplate reading "Family Black" left behind, the familiar piece of metal which had always hung a bit lopsided. So many years, they had taken their decendant away for good, giving him the opportunity of starting a new life; until the power of chance had brought us together again. In this moment, in this place.

I heard his puff of surprise, saw his floppy movements... As if he was too perplexed to process what was going on when both of us went to the ground, my clenched fist meeting his jaw. I did not feel the pain. I did not hear the screams and startled murmurs around us. The only thing I noticed was how he seemed to understand. How he started to remember, when he looked into my eyes. Into the same emerald green eyes, his eyes, he once had watched sinking down, vanishing in the surges of the cold, greenish water of the river.

Turning away can be a single movement to continue one's way. It can be a gesture, meaning to convey one's wish to stay alone. And it can be a decision. A decision not to do anything, even though help is needed. Desperately needed. Where help is vital.

My fist went down again and blood started streaming from the hedgehog's nose. I did not care. The floor did not belong to me, nor did the light blue carpet. Nothing would have changed if they had belonged to me, either. Vengeance. Revenge. Both being so powerful that they could wipe out every kind of guilt I felt about seriously harming someone, even if that someone was as worthless as him. Another hit, another scream that went through the rows of watchers. Right and wrong did not matter anymore. Then, a break. I paused.

I could hear him whisper. Telling me everything was alright. Telling me I had to let go. I had to let him go. And I would let him go. I would let him go once Travis Black got what he deserved. Once he was punished for letting my baby brother drown.