My brother says to me, "Why would he kill his sister?"
"He's not going to," I tell him, watching blankly as the girl in the movie hides in the attic.
"He has a knife," he says. "And he's jabbing at the ceiling."
I stare at my brother.
"He's going to kill her," he declares.
I nod. "Whatever."
My brother stuffs his nose back into his book, reading intently.
"I'd never kill you," I hear him whisper.
So I smile.
"Ro? Let's go get something to eat. Come on, I'll make it for you."
Sometimes, my brother's a saint.
Bless his sad heart, and his undying spirit.
I swear to god, if the world tries to bite him at all, I'll tear it's entire being apart with my finger nails and tack the remains up against five hundred crocodiles' teeth.
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