My Brother, My Hero.
 

I remember the moment I had to be afraid. I looked into his eyes, eyes that looked like fog and manifestation of lostness. The remnants of a broken high lingered in his eyes and offered a delirious focal point, something I learned to recognize on sight. I knew the need to fear. I might loose this boy playing dress up as a man. I might loose my bubble brother, who made it so hard for me to look at him, and remember he was a child. Knowing he was robbed a childhood does not satisfy the lack of child presence. I knew then, as I scolded myself for not knowing sooner, I might loose this boy who said he’d always protect me. And right then, I couldn’t protect him. And he didn’t want my protection of makeshift sanctuary because it felt like a lie. And I wanted to. I wanted to hide in our little make believe where hard words could get twisted to build a fortress. I really, really, wanted him to hide till we were safe. I wanted him to come home and find his brilliant, beautiful self just waiting, just ready enough for a wonderful flight out of this town to a better life. And, you know, he would come home. Or make a traveling attraction out of it. We could find a home. Somewhere safe where the people cared about us. Because we were alone right then. He was really alone in a desolate world I wasn’t allowed to enter.
We were little kids handed razors like they were candy. He got tough. But tough wasn’t enough to support us. He fell, and I couldn’t help him. I fell, and he wasn’t around to see it. I watched while he exploded and even then, only he could make a temporal tragedy so pretty. I liked the flashing lights. There's a satirical appeal to destruction and mis-function. It got old pretty quick. He says I just have to suck it up while my insides had already breathed in my heart to the point of oblivion.
He says he’s sorry, and I’ll get out, and then gets scared and tells me to slow down. But why? I need a running start to make it. He knows that better than anyone. He hurts himself because they hurt him, and I think he's sad it hurts so much.
We’re all begrudgingly apart of this show, but the ringmaster is double cast as the phantom. But my brother, the strongman, is not doing this for fun or satisfaction, he lives the way he does because the pain of the alternative is so fast and scary. But as I watch him hold more than is healthy and pretend the weight is nonexistent. I fear for myself, and my choices. So as the tight rope walker I’ve tried to tiptoe across the chasm to relief and escape. I couldn’t. I fell. I’m not exactly sure the chasm has an end. We both learned soon net was made of obligations and stinging nettle.
My brothers so much smarter that me, and so he hurts more. He’s been aware of our life in the long term. Dying young, tortured, and aware around here almost seems better than dying old in prolonged pain. He still carries reason and logic, cold comforts for a cheerfully cold world. But I want so badly for him to get out, love, live, and be everything he absolutely can be. I miss him, I miss the spunk that the phantom ringmaster sneakily stole. But still, having him hurt and here is infinitely better than not having him at all.
I feel like I rode in the bumpy ambulance with him, carrying his hope in a bag of ice and yelling for the doctor to sew it back on. The doctor didn’t care. Well he says he did care, but he closed his eyes to perform the procedure. I don’t know why I keep thinking that these people could change, or that they were not responsible, just pawns in a game of confusing chess. But I keep believing that, because I don’t want to loose hope and live spiteful.
I think the life that he lives scares me because he didn’t succeed in getting over what haunts our lives. I constantly live in fear of unspoken and sticky, shameful, failure. My hero of a brother used to hold my hand when I was little. He was the first to hold me in the hospital. I love him, forever and ever, and I can’t think about losing him. I can’t even think he's lost. I guess its ok thats he's lost, but I’m worried that he can’t get back. I’m worried the wandering will continue perpetually. But I don’t think so. I think he is brave and sweet and that he can be that way. I’ve seen it. I still see it in him. I believe in him. I’m standing on the sidelines rooting him on while he ignores the play that I’m trying so hard to make him live.
So I stood there, looking into the eyes of my hero, his pupils begging for a savior that I could not provide. His eyes asked me what was next. His eyes loved and lived, and were scared to live on. His eyes asked for assistance that was rewarded with desperate acts. My hero’s eyes are one’s that am painfully privileged to love forever.

The Children’s Crusade.
 

              Little boys grow up. But if he could be frozen, right then, in his little self, I would freeze him. Because the grown up boy doesn't believe in magic, the grown up boy believes he never did. He did, though. My brother, the little knight in shining armour, believed he could fight dragons with swords and save damsels in distress. He believed in something bigger than pain. But he did grow up. And I think being grown up scared him away from magic. At the crossroads he met pain. He thought he had two options. He thought that the absolute of pain was one, and escape the other. He chose escape and believed he left magic in the dust. Although the pursuit of magic dwelled in his subconscious, and screamed and shouted for him to let it help him, Bubba thought his was a path of no return. He can’t follow the breadcrumb trail back to magic, even though magic is waiting for the little boy that believed. And Gretel is waiting in the woods to, for her brother to come home. Or give in and make due with sweetly sinister candy shapes as a so called shelter. I know needing to be grown up didn’t shape him right, and left him without the pixie dust to help him fly. When he gave up pursuing Pan’s way of flying high, he sought out his own. The rip off of pixie dust leaves him weak at the knees and less himself. He never left his shell when he grew out of childhood, and the cramed hard exterior left him claustrophobic and breathless.
It looks awkward. A grown man in a child's armour. And it's almost like he’s walking around pretending he doesn't notice it. Interacting without mentioning a potentially scary conversation topic. He ran when they tried to talk. He ran when he thought they knew. This man in a child's armour fights the battle without belief or proper protection.
Many do worse is his mantra of choice when I tell him I’m afraid. It seems like wine infused with just enough disillusionment to make it real for him. And I’m scared on days he says he's fine, because then I know the attempt Neverland was more painful and longer than usual. The fight with dragons didn’t let him win. And I wonder how he can go. Maybe I can go too?  Maybe. he says, not now, but maybe soon when you grow up. But Bubba veers in flight and always lands where he doesn't want to. I think he’s ashamed, really. Of not being able to get there. Neverland is just a paradox in this new foggy dimension, magic and wonder cannot be simulated to fill the void of belief and happiness. And so the worse it gets, the more I’m fine I hear out of his scorched mouth. And maybe many do worse, but many do not do worse to him. The antagonist is captivating, but his weapon of choice for us enigmas is self destruction. Bubba has his spite as cold company, and all I’m left with to wake up to is the un-real and painful waiting. Second star on the right and straight on till morning.

Before and After.

Once, there was a path. None to walk it. A solace path that to the neighboring villagers became a symbol of wandering obsolete ghosts. To the villagers, there were none to walk the path. For theirs was a good gtown, with good hearted people and ambitious minds. This village would be put on map for its… unusual population. The never-off putting, always sharp, always adaptable population of Before.
Before was an escape to reality. A portal to real life that outsiders considered a dream. Reality was beautiful there, elsewhere hovering darkness. And the town called Before was gorgeous. Perfectly portrayed, imperfectly modest. Before was a land for the brilliant, the beautiful, and the passionate.
The Pastor in Before was worshiped almost as much as the God’s house he spoke in. Pastor spoke of the great town of Before, never hesitating to point out others as reference. Pastor was trusted. His lips of ivory, like a corpse, appeared lively but singularly held the horrors of After, a town unbeknownst to Before, a threat gone unnoticed in bliss.
In this town of Before, there lived a young lad. He fit the general characteristics of the people in Before, and all were shining stars. This little boy knew of Magic, and Magic loved the little boy. This little boy had the power to be a hero, be brave in ways most mortals could not imagine. This little boy was a fierce whim of a child. Little boy found things worth fighting for in Before, a seemingly impossible task. This task done was shocking and amazing, but unsettling to the prophetic lips of Pastor.
He was a hero, loved by all for it. And he lit a fire in the hearts of Before for his kind revolution, and many like his mother, loved him for it. His mother was kind, lovely, and cultivated something in people that made the world better. One day, she stopped the little boy on his way out the door, “Little boy, I love you. You are the flame in my life that continues me on. Never loses that light, little boy. It is yours to keep, not others to take.”
LISSSTTEN!
The little boy stopped in his tracks.
LISSSTTEN!
Little boys dark eyebrows crinkled and questioned. The inquisitive voice that adorned his vocal chords demanded, “Yes?”
Wrong way. Wrong way, wrong way. hide.Hide.HIde.HIDe.HIDE!
Pastor suddenly appeared, swooping the little boy up. “Thank goodness I got here when I did. That voice is not something that belongs in Before.” the Pastor seemed angry and confused. Mumbles started pouring out, “What do I pay them for? Someone needs to answer for this, he’s just a boy, just a boy, not quite mortal though... A little boy hero.” The voice cooed to Pastor, A little boy threat. Suddenly something clicked.
“Little boy,” said the Pastor turning to face him, “you trust your Pastor, as it is a sin to not trust your Pastor.” With Pastors new tone the little boy grew wary of inquisitiveness and replaced his question face with the brave one. “I need something from you little boy.”
“There is a path, a path in the woods. It’s a scenic path, but requires bravery for those that walk it, bravery like yours.” The little boy toughened up his little face growing ready for the challenge. The little boy is inconsolable in After, but he was brave for Pastor. Gearing up the little boy was innocent and capable, but not ready. Magic in his heart was as unknowing as the brave little boy. 
“Of course, I would go down the path myself, but I am banished from that corrupt land. But you little boy are a hero, and because of my banishment, you are the hero destined to save Before.” The little boy faithfully assented to help Pastor, no matter the task, and squared his shoulders to ask the details of the erand. “You are to carry these glass slabs to the end of the path in the woods. You are not to look at these glass slabs, understand? If you do as I say, you will save the innocence of Before.” The boy heard the slimy voice in his innocent ear, Yesss. Right Deccccision. This time it was less sinister to the boy and more or less, inviting.
The Pastor stopped little boy and said, “Oh, and little boy, be carefull. I love you so.”
And little boy believed it.
And off little boy went to accomplish dear Pastors grave errand. Little boy did not stop to tell his mother, for this was an urgent matter, and the glass slabs were heavy.
Little boy stopped at the beginning of the path and looked forward. There was something about the steep windy path and dark nature of the trees deflated him a little bit. But he went on, and something told Magic, the faithful friend, that this path is hard to navigate.
The little boy walked and walked on this path, which proved to be poorly lit and designated. It soon became clear that the little boy's body could not carry the Magic within him, as magic was already half his size and weight. So Magic vacated his body and took the form of another little boy to walk beside him. The company was welcome, and the two boys treated the path as their own personal adventure.
Meanwhile, Mother was frantic and desperate. She could not find her spitfire child anywhere. She looked all around Before and in other town realities. She believed her son would be safe given his gifts, but she still feared for his life.  Search parties were formed, and Pastor headed the rescue team. He continually rallied the men by saying they would find the boy, and that the innocent child needed to be saved. Secretly, he began spreading rumors that the wonderful Mother was the reason for the boys disappearance, slowly degrading her reputation in Before. As he did this to Mother, the cold man lead the search parties deliberately astray.
The little boys walked through the dense forest, speaking of magic things, making believe things were other than what they were.Then one day, Pastor appeared hovering above the ground. “Boy, what have you done?’ The boy was perplexed to find Pastor there. “Oh Pastor! Did you use Magic to get here? I missed you so much, how is mother?” “QUITE!!” Boomed Pastor. Pastor turned towards Magic. “What are you doing here, demon? Why do you try to hurt this boy, whom I love dearly? If you believe I will let you stay, you are mistaken.” Pastor turned towards little boy. “Your companion is an imposter, sent from the end of the forest to kill you and destroy Before.” The little boy was confused. “I don’t understand… Magic is my friend… He helps me… What are you talking about Pastor?” Pastor looked down upon little boy. “What you should have known all along! Magic is poor companion for a hero.” With a swish of Pastor’s hand, Magic began turning into stone, solidifying before the boy’s eyes. Magic turned and looked in shock towards his companion who was screaming as a part of him was acidically removed. The little boy screamed, “Please, don’t! It’s killing me!” The Pastor cooley said, “A sensible half is better than a whimsical whole.” The little boy, in agonizing pain cried, “But you preach magic and belief in magic, how could you do this to me, you stole my whole being!” His cries were interrupted by the gentle voice of Magic, “Stop, little boy.” Little Boy looked down upon the face of his magic companion that was supposed to remain forever as a part of little boy. The stone curse by that time had almost spread to Magics soft lips, that were alive unlike the Pastors. “Stop. I lay dying but not dead.” The little boy did not know what this ment, and only his tears could beg an answer from his stone friend. And no amount of pretending could bring back the same little boy.
“He was an imposter.” The Pastor said with mock sincerity. “I saved your life. There is nothing you can do.” The Little Boy could  not breathe, and color was fleeting in his eyes as magic left his soul. “Open our bag of glass slabs.” The little boy didn’t move. The Pastor reached down and opened the bag himself. Pastors unfeeling eyes looked across the glass slabs and found the one labeled, ‘The Little Hero and Magic.” The little boy halfheartedly looked through the glass and rewatched his travel with Magic. But this time, Magic was scheming. Magic was dangerous. An assassin coming to kill the little Boy. This was a filter from the Pastor's view, but was regarded by both the Little boy and the Pastor as reality. All the glass slabs took reality and distorted it with a sick man’s bias.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSINCCCCERE
The wicked voice was back in the mind of the little boy, and had no intention of leaving. Pastor didn’t want it to. Pastor said, as if sad, “You’re Mother isn’t looking for you.Your sisters don’t mind your absence. I’m the only one that loves you. The only thing that matters in your life are keeping these reality records. So I change my mind. I will let you go home to After as long as you hold these slides with you at all times. As for the gap that used to hold Magic, I have a substitute. You won’t be able to tell the difference.” The little boy, empty inside, whose once squared shoulders now slumped said, “But I live in Before.” The Pastor just laughed. “You’ve seen my reality. You dwell in After.”

THE supposed END.

I hold on to the little boy that confused his pronouns as a child. Hims is sick. Hims is sick now. I’m ok, I’ll always be ok. Are you ok? You’ve lived through this with us. I figure the scarring on you must be pretty bad. You better believe this wasn’t easy for me. I don’t want to write about my brother anymore. But I will, because his is a story that deserves to be told. Hang on. We’re nearing the end.

Now.

“I can fly.” he looked at me honestly.
”I can fly, bella!” he looked at me scared, shaken.
“I can fly. But you don’t believe me.” he looked angry at me.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to deal with his hallucinations and raging outbursts.
I sit cross legged in my brothers nursery, playthings lying around, as discarded as we are.  Discarded in After, our new roles have taken everything that used to be true in Before.
I’m the new hero, and I’m not good at it. If I was, Pastor wouldn’t be in After, corrupting the ones I love.
My brother?
Well, as I said, he’s sick. He’s forever shifting between a boy, a, man, a knight, and the dragon he used to fight. I can’t keep up. I visit him all the time in the nursery, but they make me have my own room. “Bubba, I  believe you can fly!” I say like it’s a silly question. But he’s smarter than that. And besides he’s shifting and flickering again, and I know that’s my cue to leave.
I walk onto the cold street and attempt to wrap myself up in escape. But really, I can’t forget seeing my brother like that, especially not in After. I can’t forget the fact I can’t save my baby sister from the childhood we had. I can’t forget how I’m small and treated like I’m big. I want to forget this version of my big brother, but I can’t.  It’s harder every day to remember the little boy I used to know, but I try. I try to remember the little boy that would hold me as a baby, and tell me I was special. Now he looks at me like a mirror, the same as him, and the projected self loathing hits me between the eyes. For his sake I pretend I’m not him. But that's not true. My brother and I are uncannily alike. Hero’s, even ones who aren’t meant to be, share the same fate. What if I had been the one Pastor asked to enter the forest? I would be the one in the nursery playing with toys I should’ve outgrown. Maybe he’s better down there than I am up here. But then I remember the odd grass that grows outside of the bunker where Bubba lives. Scientific grass to make him forget about Magic. I’ve tried to cut it at the root, but it keeps festering through the dirt and through my Brothers brain. It’s like watching someone in your family learn they have a genetic disease and then watching them meet an end you know you’ll meet. Destiny is ugly up close.
I hear a voice penetrate my hard heart. “Where are you going?” I don't have an answer for the bodiless voice. It sounds like a little whisper that is powerful enough to shift my being. I look down a path into the woods and see something. I see sprinkle of something, almost like gold. Pixie dust. I think back to Before. The stuff of Dreams I lived off of in another life. I heard a voice, unmistakably guiding me to the forest. I walked into the forest that began to come alive as if to welcome me. The tree branches leaned in to whisper the secrets that they hold. I listened as fairies began to lighten me, to deepen the soul I had left shallow and stunted. My hair falls over my shoulders and my eyes changed back to their bright color. For the first time since Before, I feel beautiful, and my heart is beating in my chest. I feel a river of dreams cascading through my cerebrum and come out my mouth in sweet laughter. I’m not the hero. I’m never going to be. The mental bruises separate from my mind like water and oil. The forest held me up and reminded me I am small, not big. And my lungs begin to work. And then I see a boy from my childhood. A boy I thought was dead. He takes my hand so gently it reminds me how amazing my brothers companion used to be. Magic, in the shape of a little boy again, looked at me and said, “I’m  alive and well. And I’m waiting.”

Does There have to be an End?