6
Dryas
I drink a lot, so much that I don’t dream often. It’s not by accident that I pass out with a whiskey bottle clutched to my chest, not even a little. But still, I get a dream here and there, in the early morning hours just before I wake.
Mostly I dream about having killed my brother Arsen.
His blood on my hands.
How my hands shook as they held the knife.
The sound he made when I slid the knife between his ribs. How sickening it was that the blade went in so smoothly, almost like I was pushing it into butter instead of my brother.
The startled look on his face when blood began to spread out across his dark shirt, a wet spot that will stick with me forever. In my dreams, I often pull away from him at that moment to find that I have the exact same wound. It’s bleeding and hurtin
