Page 11 - HEF Pen & Ink 2023
P. 11

 By Lynae Leeper
I’d Do Anthing
By Aiden Weber
I picked it up to have a better look and immediately froze with fear. This was the murder weapon we were looking for. When they said my brother was their prime suspect, I never believed them. He was always so quiet, always the first one to help mom when she was doing the dishes, and always the perfect sibling. He was the kindest person I’ve ever known. He’d always spend time with me, even when he was busy. Always taking me to the park, to get ice cream, or to just drive around town. But he always told me the same thing every time we’d spend time together. I’d do anything to protect my little sister.
As I stood there in his room, I felt like I was on the set of a movie. His bed was perfectly made, tight blue sheets flat against the mattress. There was not a single crease in the fabric. His band posters were displayed in black frames around his wall,
perfectly aligned. His floor was clean, and the carpet was vacuumed. His books were organized by color in the bookcases, dusted, and cleaned as
if it was a brand-new bookcase and not one he bought for $15 off Facebook Marketplace. The room looked nothing like the room of a murderer.
His closet had his shirts neatly hung up and his shoes were organized. And yet, a bloody hunting knife was sitting in my hand, and it came from a shoe box at the bottom of his closet.
I didn’t mean to knock the box on the floor. I was just here to grab a photo album from the top shelf
of his closet. An album that contained all the pictures my mom wanted to use for a display at his graduation. My brother was graduating high school as a valedictorian and was going to medical school. He was going to be a doc- tor. He spent years learning about the human body. Every vein and artery’s location was seared in his brain.
My ex-boyfriend’s body was found a week ago, but the blood on the knife looked dried and it had to have been there for over a month. Just when he went missing.
“I’m going out,” my brother said. A month ago, when he left to go on a jog.
The worst thing is that I don’t feel anything.
I’m not saying my boyfriend didn’t deserve it. But standing in my perfect brother’s room, holding a murder weapon, I don’t feel particularly inclined to hand the knife over to the police.
Standing here I remember all the times I was told to stay quiet. All the time I was told that my ex’s behavior was normal for a boy his age. That boys will be boys. That it meant he liked me, that I should be flattered. That bruises from abuse were nothing to worry about.
I was always told that I could go to my parents when I needed something, but when I did, I was told that I was a liar and that it didn’t happen. That I lead him on, that I probably asked for it. That he probably got tired of me holding out on him.
My brother believed me though.
I put the knife back in the box and back on the shelf where it fell, my brother’s words ringing in my head. I’d do anything to protect my little sister.
 By Bridger Sullivan

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