He made a gun out of his finger and thumb, and ****** his hand back as if representing the kickback of a pistol.
If it was just his hand then why did my white shoes become speckled red, and why did the light fleet from his eyes?
It's etched into my memory, the day it became more than a joke, the day it wasn't laughs that followed, but instead smoke.
The sick part is, I still have those shoes, they're sitting by my front door stained brown from dry blood.
I'm not sure why I kept them, maybe it's because that's all I have left of my brother.