Written in about an hour or just under it. This is connected to my Youtube Sketch Story 'Open Your Eyes', but it can be read on its own.

This is an event that took place, in that scenario, a little bit before the events of 'Open Your Eyes', and is also from the other point of view. (Once again, seeing the video is not neccessary)

I hope you enjoy this rather random little drabble either way.

I never realized how small he was until then.

Always, always, he'd appeared to be big. Be it in any sense, whether age, wisdom, maturity in some cases...

Despite the fact that we were born on the very same day, were the very same age and pretty much the same height...He was always bigger than me.

But now, looking at him as he lay on that hard bed, with wires connected to so many parts of him and more bandages than one could feel comfortable wearing wrapped around him, he looked incredibly small.

I was seated in the hard, plastic chair provided. My backside had gone completely numb a long time ago, but I didn't move an inch. My elbows rested on the side of the bed, my left hand loosely clutching onto his right where it lay immobile. They'd taken his hair out of the usual tie, and now it was strewn over the white pillow. It bothered me, because not only was I not used to seeing him with his hair down like this, but the vivid red against the white reminded me of the accident.

There had been so much blood.

On quiet days like this, where there was no ruckus and the only sounds were the faint beeping of the heart monitor and the twitters of small birds outside, I would think back to that horrible moment in time. Our friends told me I shouldn't think about it, because nothing I did could change it. It was true, I couldn't change it...but that didn't mean I couldn't regret it.

It was my fault after all.

He'd been looking out for me, as he always did. I had been seeing someone in secret, something that I was now immensely ashamed of doing. Why had I hid it from him? Why hadn't I told him from the start?

My feeble excuses from before, of how it was my life and my choice and didn't concern him...they felt like physical blows against me now. What madness was I drinking that time? Of course it concerned him, because everything in my life concerned him...because to him, I was everything. He may be stronger than me, and may be the 'big brother', but we were both aware, right from the start, that he only considered himself having one real purpose...to watch over and protect me, to be my pillar and to help me reach whatever goals I chose.

Psychiatrists would call it unhealthy, and perhaps it was, for him. Maybe for me to. This dependency we have on each other, surely it's going to be what cripples us in future. Because there is no guarantee for anything.

Especially not life. What would happen if, next time, he was taken to a different bed; one that would then be thrown into a fire and his ashes scattered over the ocean? Or what if it were me in that fire? What would he do after losing his true purpose? I hope that, should that misfortune ever befall us, he would be able to find another one. He is dependable, but only because he needs to be depended on. If everyone around him were to leave him to his own devices, he would be lost and helpless. He doesn't know how to live for himself; only for others.

I sighed, bringing his hand up and fiddling with his fingers. I did this often, a type of distraction from how inanimate he was right now.

The accident was my fault. That person that I was seeing secretly, a girl who didn't approve of the close relationship I had with him...she wanted me to go with her somewhere without telling him. I tried, and I am ashamed that I listened to her. She was proven to be a lying, disloyal bitch when I followed through with her request only to catch her doing something unspeakable. And then she blamed me for it. Blamed me for her own mistake. She blamed me for the fact that she willingly, actively, dragged another guy into her bed.

I left and didn't even feel the slightest inclination to look back, even when she started crying after me.

I had walked halfway to home when he caught up with me. And somehow, without me saying a word, he just knew. He just looked at me, and I could tell that he had known for a long time what I was doing, and where I was going. He had known, and it had made me so angry.

Especially when, as I stared at him on that crowded sidewalk, he just blinked a tear out of his own eye and said 'Sorry'.

I was so angry, I shoved him. How could he do that? How could he feel the betrayal that not only I felt, but that I also caused him, and still ask me for forgiveness? I hit him, right in the face. I punched his tears away, like a coward, because I didn't want to think that they were all for my sake, and not for his.

He let me. The bastard just turned back and let me hit him, as if he actually deserved it.

I know that I started crying, and I know that I drew so much attention to us as we fought in the street.

But can it be called a fight if all he did was stand there, let me hit him and tell me how sorry he was.

When I'd lost all energy to hit him anymore, I tried to run away as the rain began to fall. I tried to escape from the overwhelming feeling of guilt that was eating at me, because I had already know that it was all my own fault and my own stupidity that led me to that point. He had always been there for me, offering any word of advice and providing any solution that was possible to help me. And then, I decided that I would listen to the sweetly spoken words of a person who knew nothing about us, and I would hide it from him. I would act on my own.

And this was where it got us.

The car had been moving so fast, I never noticed it until I was begging someone to call an ambulance, watching its license plate speed away from the mangled scene on the road.

The whole thing had happened so fast. I was running, and then I felt him behind him, moving with a speed that I still didn't know where he got it from. Both of his hands had pushed him, his body becoming a rock to add more force to his shove.

He never even tried to move out of the way himself; his only focus was pushing me out of the way.

I'd never forget the sound of his body being shattered.

My eyes were closed as I pressed his hand to my forehead, and I didn't bother wiping at the small trail of salty tears sliding down the side of my cheek. I had many things to say to him, ranging from and not limited to a few choice insults for being such a reckless bastard. But above all...

I wanted to tell him that I was sorry.

I heard the click of the door as a nurse came in. She only glanced at me once before doing her duty. They had all come to know me, and they all knew that in moments like these, silence was best. I didn't want anyone else's consolations, or anyone else's words of good will.

All I wanted was for him to wake up, look me in the eye, and allow me to apologise for everything.

I pulled his hand down a bit, resting the back of his palm against my lips like he did for me when I was bedridden for any reason. A gesture he learned from our mother; a gesture that may seem odd to others, but had a significant meaning for our family. A gesture to show that no matter how stained our hands became in life, no matter what sins we committed, or what hardships we faced...we would be there to love those hands and the people that wielded them unconditionally, in a way that only your family and your closest friend ever could. That singular, non-judgemental love that is withheld by family alone. It was a love that not everyone could have, but we were lucky because we did. And no matter what others said, we understood it, we knew how it worked, and we were happy with it.

I placed his hand down, smiling slightly when I noticed that his eyelids were fluttering. A good sign.

Perhaps soon, he would be able to look at me...and I would be able to be the big brother just for him.

Yes...I have no idea. Listening to sad piano music breeds this kind of idea it would seem. :/

Feedback would be very appreciated!