My Severe Brother

ch 31: He is your surviving card

Marco's pov

A few hours later, I retreated to my room, contemplating how audaciously he prevented me from indulging in a drink. How dare he? He even confiscated the scotch.

The irony struck me, and I couldn't help but chuckle. Stripping down to just my boxers, I heard a knock on my door. Glancing at the clock, it indicated 1 AM. Is he still awake?

"Come in," I called out, facing the door.

"Ohh, God," he gasped upon seeing my semi-undressed form.

"You haven't slept yet?" I inquired.

"I couldn't sleep," he confessed.

"I won't invite you to join me, you know that. Just stay in your bed; I don't care if you sleep or not." I attempted to usher him away.

"I know, I came for something else," he stated, his gaze fixed on his hands this time.

Lifting his chin, I made him meet my eyes. "I'm all ears," I said softly.

"The drugs that Miles took were from the Blackstone. It's my fault! They said they would hurt him if I didn't do what they wanted. I couldn't protect him. I might lose my friend because of my stupidity. It's my fault! I didn't tell Miles the truth about me. I've lost many friends, and now I'm losing a new one. I'm a curse."

"Stop it! Calm down. It's not your fault, okay?" I firmly gripped his chin and wiped away his tears.

"No, it is. Like I killed my mother."

"It's so irrational. You know it was an accident. Many women die while delivering," I reasoned.

"No, it's not. I'm a curse, and that's real!" His tears continued to flow.

"Shhh, hold on. He'll be okay. I promise, I'll do everything in my power to help him, and we'll talk to him about everything. But you can't berate yourself like this, especially not in front of me," I comforted, trying to soothe him.

"No, it's the truth. You know it. Don't be nice to me. You've already labeled me as trash and a loser, and now here I am, a crying baby. How pathetic. I might as well be the devil," he uttered with a heavy heart.

I felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness as I struggled to find the right words or actions to comfort him. The weight of his pain seemed insurmountable, and my inability to alleviate it left me with a deep sense of frustration and empathy. 

He pushed my hand away with a force that was similar his emotional tornado. "I deserve to die!"

In that heart-wrenching moment, a surge of anguish overcame me. I couldn't bear to witness the depth of his despair. Reacting impulsively, I backhanded him across his face. "Ow," he winced, instinctively reaching to touch his stinging cheek in an attempt to muffle his impending cry.

"I said you can't say that. Look at me," I implored, my own eyes stinging with unshed tears. He turned to meet my gaze, and in a moment of brutal desperation, I slapped him again, as if attempting to erase his bad thoughts. 

"Say good things about yourself," I demanded.

He remained silent.

"Now," I slapped him once more.

"I'm smart," he uttered, the words sounding both reluctant and strained, as if forced out against his will. 

I slapped him, commanding coldly, "Another one."

"I'm precious."

Another slap echoed through the room. "Keep saying good things."

"I'm handsome."