Trying to think of the most homosexual thing I can say to get your attention before I share this story. Unfortunately I'm straight so that's pretty difficult. (Who am I again? Not important)
I wrote (another) short (very short) story I want you to read. If you've already forgotten who I am that's probably totally warranted since I've only come on this site once every couple of months.
Anyways I'm gonna stop talking, here's the story:
Every street I look down looks the same. The same asphalt waiting to be pounded by tires, the same curbs building an arbitrary border around the road. The same lines, made of nothing but paint, keeping people in line by the power of their mere presence. It amazes me how something as simple as white paint can keep people in line. I wish everything was that simple.
Every street reminds me of the street where it all happened. A street not too far from where I grew up. A street where my brother and I would spend hours scaling fire escapes and getting yelled at by angry passersby. We would climb up the fire escapes on opposite sides of the alley and try to reach out to each other. We were never quite tall enough, but one of us occasionally fell and made a scene for the other, both of us laughing until we couldn’t breathe. We would spend hours on that street, imagining ourselves going on wild adventures. Imagining our futures, our dreams, hanging out together when we were old.
It was that same street where we spoke for the last time. I urged him to follow the law and not to fall into the gang life. He didn’t want to listen. He told me his friends were for life, and supported him more than I did. He said I didn’t know him anymore. I wanted nothing more than a calm resolution, but he made it difficult. One thing led to another, and we blocked each other. I never spoke to him again.
I still went to that street often to climb the fire escapes. Not that I ever saw him. Nobody lived in those buildings since they were condemned before I was even born; the street was closed off by chain link fences. But the fire escapes were as sturdy as ever. I grabbed them and I imagined him on the other side, reaching out his hand and trying to touch mine. I saw my little brother, the innocent child, looking at me with his beady black eyes. I stared at him until I couldn’t imagine him anymore. And then I left.
Every street is a safe street, unless you’re alone. That’s what I told him. Whenever you’re out in this world, you need someone with you. For him, I was that someone. Always close enough to help him fight if he ever caught trouble. But when he left, he was alone.
I walked up to same street one afternoon when the sun was high in the sky. I heard voices shouting. I decided to peer from around the corner. It was two men; they were both screaming about something I couldn’t quite catch. And then I recognized him. Those same beady black eyes—older, angrier, buried deeper in his skull. He looked different, but it was undeniably him. My legs were completely frozen. The moment felt unreal. His attacker screamed with rage as my brother threw up his hands and reached for his pocket. I told him to never reach for his pockets during a fight like this!
Every street in this town had been riddled with violence since we were young. The sound of a gunshot was not unfamiliar to the people. And when my brother took the fatal bullet, his scream of pain fell on deaf ears. Only I heard him, only I cared. The assailant quickly knelt down and reached into his victim’s pockets, taking his wallet and realizing my brother never had a weapon at all. He was shot over a misunderstanding.
Those beady black eyes were trying so hard to stay open as I ran up to him. The man was gone, and my brother was bleeding out. He barely whispered my name, choking for the strength to stay awake. I told him he would be okay. He didn’t answer. I ripped his shirt and stuffed it into the wound, but the blood didn’t stop pouring out. It spilled onto the ground, into the street, onto my hands—burning, agonizing, stinging me with the finality I could never learn to accept.
Help didn’t arrive fast enough. It hardly ever did. They tried to bring him back, but it wasn’t long before they realized he was far beyond saving. There was no undoing what had been done. It was too late for him to listen, too late for me to try and reach out to him again, too late to restore the connection we shared.
Every street I look down looks the same. The same asphalt where my brother had the life pounded out of him. The same curbs, a boundary set for him but one he could never follow. The same lines, made of nothing but paint, keeping people in line by the power of their mere presence. It amazes how something as simple as white paint can keep people in line, but the love of a brother can’t. I wish everything was that simple again.
