"Quentin"
My feet slammed across the floor, my hands shaking as I violently flung open the door to our shared room.
He lay there. Still.
"Quentin" I barely breathed his name this time, I froze, watching my baby brother's unmoving body.
I just stood there, taking in the only person who had ever listened to me. The only one who had ever spoken to me. The only one who had always been there.
My friend. The only one I had.
I froze, as motionless as him. Then—a twitch. A tiny, almost imperceptible movement in the sheets. Barely a millimetre. Just the faintest rise in his chest.
I took a cautious step closer, eyes locked on him. His breaths were short, shallow, completely inadequate for a living being that needs air.
He was curled tighter than usual, knees pulled up higher than necessary to keep his feet from poking over the end of the bed. Not only his own blanket covered him — mine lay over him as well.
I tilted my head over to see the lack of cloth covering my bed, then back at the sickly child. I imagined the amount of effort he must have had to go through in this state to get up and take my blanket from my bed. A sense of guilt washed over me. Why had I not been here to give him my blanket when he needed it? Why was I not here when he needed me most? I was quite possibly the worst brother anyone could ask for. Even in his moment of weakness, all I could think about was myself.
My body didn't even react when my knees slammed into the ground. I doubled over, sobbing into the edge of his bed mattress.
"f.. a... u~~ "
The sudden whisper from Quentin shocked me but only momentarily. I looked up. His eyes were open, glassy, and too tired to stay focused.
"Quentin! Oh, you're awake. Are you okay? How are you feeling? Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need…?"
As I saw his eyes slightly rolling back as I overwhelmed him with words, I stopped. Instead, I focused on his gaze and gently took his hand, simply letting him know I was there. I kept wondering if there was anything else I could do for him. I would do anything else in the world for him.
But as I watched him slowly relax back into the bed, I realised my presence might simply be enough. It might have seemed odd to anyone peering into this moment of my life, two small children, one crying, one bundled in thin sheets that barely kept the cold out — but to me, it was everything.
The sun's last rays had dipped too low to come through the window of our shared room, and even though I could barely see Quentin anymore, I didn't look anywhere else. That was when I heard the squeaking from our front door, followed shortly by my father's bellowing voice.
"How is everyone this fine evening?"
I always found his upper-class, mocking tone amusing in the evening when I got to see him. But tonight, no smile dawned on my face as I clung to my brother's hand; too tired, too angry, too defeated to speak to him.
"Darlings? Are you home?"
My Mother's voice drifted toward our room. I still could not speak. Eventually, I composed myself enough to let out a small squeak from inside the bed. I heard the scraping of my parents' heavy farmer boots still damp with soil, hurriedly getting closer and faster, until they stopped in the door frame frozen, just like me.
In contrast to me, however, they sprang into action instead of just observing the situation. My Mother knelt down quickly, checking Quentin's temperature and giving reassuring smiles. My Father was already tearing small pieces from the already tiny bread loaf they had brought home.
I immediately felt even more guilty. I had already eaten lunch, and Quentin probably hadn't eaten anything all day.
I raised my hands in front of me, clenching my fists, trying to stop the violent shaking that had taken over them.
Then I remembered the soup I had saved in its small ceramic container — meant for Quentin.
I hurriedly reached inside my school uniform robes and eagerly grabbed the ceramic container, quickly bringing it out. I had always intended to bring it home for Quentin; he never had enough to eat, and I was fed too much at the church. It was then that my stomach chose to let out an internal, blood-curdling scream, seemingly designed to alert me to my lie.
Watching Quentin take my soup and eat it reminded me that being slightly hungry was fine, as long as Quentin had enough to eat. Seeing his weak frame struggle through the small amount of nourishment I could offer the anger in my chest grew.
Why would anyone leave him like this? Why did my parents not care?
It was then that my mother and father pulled him into a hug. Warm droplets suddenly soaked into my blanket, the same blanket Quentin had pulled over himself earlier. I just stood there motionless.
I had never seen my father cry before.