TITLE: (NOT QUITE) THE SAME OLD SONG
GENRE: YA Contemporary
I was going to kill my brother.
Yep. Kill, as in maim brutally until he succumbed to death’s cold, dark embrace. Because a slow death wouldn't do. No, he deserved to suffer. I didn’t know much about Chinese water torture, but I could learn. And the leaky faucet in the bathroom, the one he’d promised to fix months ago, would do the trick. A couple of hours of that would surely drive him insane. His brain might even start to liquefy. Maybe dribble out of his ears a bit.
I wondered if that would be painful enough. Or painful at all, considering he'd killed most of his brain cells already, taking hit after hit of whatever his crackhead friends put in front of him.
I hoped wherever he was at that moment, whatever he was smoking was laced with some bad shit. I didn't even feel bad thinking it. This always happened. He'd disappear, lifting cash from mom's purse and leaving her sick with worry instead of anger. One day turned into two, three, eight at the most. He’d stumble in eventually, visibly worse for the wear, but with a sheepish "I'm sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry, Darcy. I promise I'll be better from now on" smile plastered on his face. And then he’d do it all over again a couple of months later.
Getting clean was part of Quinn's regimen. Staying clean was a different story.