[ WP ] Do n't leave me , you 're my best friend .

His body lay limp on the floor. An old hunting shotgun fell at his side. Behind where he once was the wall was peppered with lead and spattered with tangible memories. The brother could see into each warm lump on the wall. The dad had to rig a curved end on the right handlebar of his bike so he could rest his amputated arm on it when he learned how to ride. When his little league team won their division he took the game-ending ball and had each team member autograph it and then he had the father put it in a case. It was dirty and tearing with the half-scrawled signatures of twelve-year olds who were the heroes of their own minds. When he and the brother walked through the county fair and its muddy field looking at scratched CDs and cheap knives. They fought later that day and the brother always remembered it because he never tried to yell for the mother or father. He had finally grown up. 
 
 The brother pumped his arms and his hands into his chest because that was how you were supposed to revive the dead right that was how you were supposed to do it and mouth was gritting at his stupidity and his eyes welling at the futility. The brother could only push the soul out faster. His soul was a heavy weight and it flowed from his body like syrup onto the floor and the brother hoped that it was flowing up and up too. His arms stopped because his shoulders felt as if a hulking responsibility had suddenly been realized and he could feel the shock beginning to subside and so the brother curled over his chest and began watering his body with saline and kept whispering to the spilling soul in-between spit-sobbing. Please don ’ t go, you ’ re my best friend.
