"You remember what we used to live for?" He shoved his hand in his coat pocket, hands shaking as he drew out another cigarette. "That central promise they all kept feeding us? Our parents, our teachers, our coaches?" He hastily lights it as he walks forward a little, then stops as I take a step back. He's not responding, not making a sound, just looking at me with those big brown eyes.
"I don't. Bits and pieces here and there of my childhood, little soundbites of how smart I am, how proud I'll make everyone when I'm all grown up. Work hard they said, get into a good school they said, that'll get you a good job so you can get a husband and a nice house in the suburbs and pop out some grandkids for Mom and Dad so they can finally be proud of you. Mostly there's just scattered feelings and half formed memories between all the screaming and tears."
He opens his mouth this time, a response at long last. "Please..." His jaw hangs there for a brief moment, then two, before he closes it again. Damn, the cigarette's half done already. I chuckle. "You shouldn't smoke like that bro, it's bad for your health." He doesn't see the humor in that. I feel the great emptiness behind me, we gotta be at least a hundred meters up. "But that promise was a lie, wasn't it? We weren't enough, no matter what we did. I can't do this anymore, I can't keep going like this, like everything I do is for them." Fuck. I feel the tears start to die down my face. He's crying too, at least.
"Just come down Amber, please. So the grown-ups lied. So our parents were shit. We got through it together... I know if you just reach out, take my hand, please... We can get through this too. I've been there, you know?" I do know. The hand he's reaching out with is covered in burns. "I think I remember what we used to live for sis, back in those days."
Flashes of feelings, experiences. Being locked in my room, hearing the taps in Morse code from the wall to his room, expressing solidarity. Finding him beaten and bloody on the floor again, sneaking Band-Aids and rubbing alcohol from the cabinet while they watched TV. We were 11 when that happened. God, we were 11. A million acts of kindness and memories of horror flashes through my head. I come back to the moment. He's still there, still got his arm extended. Just a step away, towards another day of fighting, regret, and anxiety for the future. My heel is on the edge. A simple step back and my problems are over.
"I love you bro." I take a step.