[ WP ] Write a truly heartbreaking story that has a character speaking aloud the phrase `` My butt itches . ''

My butt. Itches. A lot right now. A whole lot. 
 In fact. It moves, and it moves, and moves, and it slides up into my colon. And now periodically it shivers in pain. My butt itches and my colon shivers in pain. 
 
 
 And also my brother. My butt itches and my colon shivers and also my brother. He was narrowly missing handsome. Almost. But almost does n't count unless its horseshoes, hand grenades, or hitting the curb. 
 
 And it's true. The car did n't reach the curb. 
 
 And thinking. About it. Frequently, almost daily. 
 
 I feel the itch. In my stomach where the itch does n't itch like you'd like an itch to itch; at that point your insides itch so much that the fat and flesh and muscle are all trying to itch the itch in your stomach. And it folds your stomach so nothing sits right. Nothing goes in, but sometimes things go out. My butt itches, my colon shivers, and my stomach is folded. 
 
 And also my brother. He was kind. He was hap- Wait. He was joyful. He did n't know any better. And he did n't need to. The world that disappeared for him, was still aglow with rosy glasses. Everyone was still beautiful. 
 
 And it's true. It was instant. 
 
 And memories. They pool. And saturate the brain. 
 
 I feel the itch. My heart is soaked in the itch and my heart, it itches so much, it slams itself against the walls. And then it tires and then it drops and strangles somewhere by my stomach. And this repeats itself. My butt itches, my colon shivers, my stomach is folded, and my heart repeats itself. 
 
 
 And also my brother. I hate repeating. My brother needed many repeats; he could n't always understand. And I hated him for that. I hated him. For needing. And he was always needing. But he does n't need to need anymore. 
 
 And it's true. Everyone felt relief. 
 
 And feeling. The shame. The albatross to bear. 
 
 I feel the itch. The itch coats my mouth and there is no saliva. The itch paralyzes my tongue and it's in the back of my throat. And it slowly gags. My butt itches, my colon shivers, my stomach is folded, my heart repeats itself, and my tongue is gagging me. 
 
 
 And also my brother. He could throw a ball better when he was four. He was proud. And then his head spasmed. And then then he started stumbling every living day. And he stayed proud. 
 
 And it's true. He was sixteen. 
 
 The solicitude. It lingers. And it phases like the moon. 
 
 I feel the itch. It descends into my lungs. It rinses the inside of my lungs. My lungs squeeze to reach the itch, to rub itch to itch. But they ca n't quite reach. And it tightens me. My butt itches, my colon shivers, my stomach is folded, my heart repeats itself, my tongue is gagging me, and my lungs are squeezing. 
 
 
 And also my brother. He enjoyed spending time. And nobody wanted to spend that time. He was a badge for everything that was wrong. Everyone wore him. With ironic pride. All the time, while avoiding the time. But he loved the time that he got. 
 
 And it's true. It was an accident. 
 
 And hurt. It moves. It pulses through the body. 
 
 I feel the itch. It ivy crawls up my throat and my nose constricts, choking on the itch. The itch swallows up my eyes. They burrow into my skull to retreat from their distress. And everything seems far. My butt itches, my colon shivers, my stomach is folded, my heart repeats itself, my tongue is gagging me, my lungs are squeezing, and my eyes are burrowing. 
 
 
 And also my brother. He admired, adulated, and adored. He just wanted to be another human, so he worshiped the humans. But the humans rebuked, resented, and regretted. They were nothing short of perfect to my brother. 
 
 And it's true. I manned the improvised weapon. 
 
 The brakes. That are in your brain. They do n't stop either. 
 
 I feel the itch. It ripples around my skull and causes it to stick to my brain. And with my brain stuck. There's only one thing to think. Of him. Of his smile. Of his laugh. Of him smiling and laughing. Of the way he danced life. Of his body's limp marionette drift through the air. Of his corpse caroming on the ground. Of the surprise in his eyes it the lights, and the lights in his eyes going out. My brain is blustering. And I'm exhausted. My butt itches, my colon shivers, my stomach is folded, my heart is repeating, my tongue is gagging me, my lungs are squeezing, my eyes are burrowing, and my brain is blustering. 
 
 And again. The next morning. It starts. Announced by a murmur to myself. 
 
 `` My butt itches.''
