He rubbed at his head, a stinging kind of numbness,
bloodied pieces of his own skin were stuck there now, he wiped it on his sweater
(that used to be blue, now it was mostly this muddy brown-purple color from the blood and dirt)
he thought for sure that he was dying, he was abandoned there,
out in some alleyway.
someone had taken him out to the garbage, he had no idea who, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
he leaned against the building, bleeding and thinking.
he wondered if he’d get a gravestone.
his mom was dead now, why would he?
he didn’t die that day
he got to live another year,
but he never did get a gravestone.

he was buried in his childhood home’s backyard,
a few steps away from where his sister was buried alive, he wondered where she was now that he knew she hadn’t died. he hoped she somehow found him. he hoped the tragedy of her little brother lying ****** in an unmarked grave was enough for her to forgive all he’d done.
he didn’t regret it,
it was always going to end this way.
he’d carry no guilt to his hole in the ground.