Chapter 22 (cry for help)

TW: bodily harm

Clinton

"Help me," his brother pleaded.

Mitchel laid, sprawled out on the cement floor. He barely recognized him at first; his hair was long and unbraided, matted and tangled strands falling to caress the rest of his body. His arms were thin and bruised; his body was small and weak in front of him.

His youngest brother's frame looked rough, but it was nothing compared to his face. Tear tracks and puffy eyes indicated that he'd been crying for ages. His lips were pale and cracked, dry blood trailing down from his nose to his chin.

His voice was as frail as his body as he reached out for him, begging him to come closer. Clinton watched with horror and didn't move an inch- he was frozen in both fear, shock, and pity. His younger brother's savvy clothing style was swapped out for an old rag that appeared to be a long and thin towel that barely covered his hips and lower half.

"Please, Clinton, it hurts," Mitchel mewled between choked sobs.

Seeing his brother in such an unfortunate position sparked the question: What happened? He was about to ask him just that, but Mitchel already spoke.

"Come," He begged. "I'm sorry, Clinton, I messed up and- ow, it hurts," Mitchel reached down towards his stomach.

Clinton dared to step forward as he watched his brother paw at his abdomen with care, light fingers barely grazing his skin. He winced when he applied pressure.

"Who did this to you?" Clinton asked, his voice echoing in the dimly lit room. Mitchel bit his lip and looked away. "I said, who!" He yelled.

He flinched in shame when he saw the weak man recoil at his words. Still, he stepped forward and lowered himself to his knees, his eyes never leaving the man on the floor.

The cement was cold on his hands. It was so cold that it nipped at his fingers and he pulled them away as soon as they met the surface. He looked at his brother, contemplating how the cold didn't seem to affect him, though his skin was nearly entirely bare. His brother's sniffles and sobs slowly brought him out of his trance, and Clinton would have reached forward, would have demanded him to reveal who had beaten his body so badly, but then Mitchel looked up at him.

He lifted his hand and almost placed it at his brother's face. It stopped midway when Mitchel looked into his eyes as a tear fell from each one and said, "I'm going to die."

Clinton jerked his hand back and held it to his chest as he watched fresh blood start to drip from his brother's nose. He let out a small cry as he appeared to resist an invisible force.

"What do you mean by that?" Clinton searched the man's eyes, his heart wrenching a little more as he watched his brother's face twist in pain.

"I'm gonna die," Mitchel repeated, and let out another gasp, his hand flying to his shoulder. When his hand fell, a bruise had formed.

Clinton furrowed his brows and looked around, searching for the source of Mitchel's pain. He couldn't even be sure that the person in front of him was Mitchel. Sure, Mitchel Cave looked a little rough lately, but the man in front of him had no life in his eyes. His body was like an empty shell that sounded and cried like him. Somehow, something was off, yet he couldn't place his finger on it.

Mitchel brought his fingers to his mouth and bit at his nails. His eyes searched the room but his head stayed bowed. His shoulders twitched and shuddered.

"What is this place, Mitchel? Can you leave? Can I take you somewhere safe?" He asked. Mitchel shook his head and spat out a piece of his fingernail. Clinton watched with pursed lips as the strands of spit that clung to his nail hung from his lips for a few seconds before hitting the floor and solidifying from the cold.

Mitchel let out a shaky breath before replying, "This place is Hell."

"What?"

"I can't leave!" Mitchel yelled before the sound of skin connecting with skin echoed through the room and his head jerked to one side. Almost immediately, a fat handprint had formed on the younger man's cheek, bright red and splotchy on his skin. Mitchel let out a sob and dragged himself forward.

Before Clinton had realized it, he was crying too and scrambling to his brother's side, pulling him to his body and bracing his head.

His brother was as cold as ice but he didn't care. He held his frail body close, rocking back and forward with him in his arms as they cried.

"I'm sorry, Clinton, I killed her and I can't live with myself, Christian, you've gotta believe me, I'm sorry," He sobbed, squeezing his arms around his torso.

Clinton did the same, running his hands through the younger man's hair. No matter what, he wouldn't let him go.

"Stop it, Mitchel, don't talk," He told him, searching the ill-lit room for the invisible person. Whenever his brother spoke, it acted on him and hurt him a little more than before. Fat tears swelled in his eyes before overflowing and he couldn't seem to calm his breathing. His chest heaved as he held his brother, wishing that his pain would end.

"Kill me, Clinton, please, I can't take it anymore, I wanna go, I wanna leave-" His begs were interrupted by his own cries as cuts appeared on his back, leaking red blood. He sobbed harder until Clinton couldn't take it anymore and the sobbing stopped.

"Where's Christian?" Clinton asked, tucking his brother's hair behind his ear. When there was no reply, Clinton set Mitchel down and studied his face. His eyes were closed and for a minute, he thought that he'd passed out from the pain.

He felt the skin on his face, furrowing his brows as the color had flowed to his cheeks and his skin warmed. Slowly, the room began to get brighter as Clinton felt the skin on his chest and arms.

His heart sunk as the wheels turned in his brain and he reached with shaky fingers to press on the skin of the man's neck.

He felt just under his jaw, his blood smearing on his skin. His heart skipped a beat. Mitchel had no pulse. He leaned down as he struggled to breathe, his ear hovering just over the man's open mouth. With swollen eyes, he peered at his brother's chest which didn't move.

He was dead.

"Mitchel?" Clinton asked. His voice was barely a whisper. He called to his brother again and by then, the room was fully lit.

The sound of bare feet slapping on the concrete drew closer as Clinton slowly looked up to see pale feet, then dark pants. He recognized the shade of the skin of the person, his eyes trailing upwards to see a familiar boat tattoo on the person's arm. Their chest was bare but their long hair was all that Clinton needed to know that the person that loomed over him was Christian Anthony.

"Kras?" Clinton tried, wiping his nose. Christian said nothing, he only regarded him with an expression filled with disgust.

"Kras, do you know what happened?" He asked, glancing down at his brother's body.

To his surprise, Christian pulled back and spat on the man, his lip pulled back in disgust.

"Killers deserve to die," was all that he said. And then he was gone.

A wave of dizziness overcame Clinton and before he could stop it, he leaned over and threw up, spit and liquid vomit clinging to his chin. He passed out as the world went black.