In the movies there are rules about brothers.

Rule #1: Brothers always love each other deep down, even if they don't show it.

Rule #2: The weakest brother always dies in order to motivate the stronger brothers to achieve some ultimate goal.

There are other rules, but those are the only two I give a shit about right now. My baby brother died the other day, and unlike in the movies where that sort of thing is used as a plot device, it was completely and utterly pointless in my case. I am Bobby-fucking-Mercer and I don't need any fucking motivation to succeed. What I need is my mind, my anger, and my brothers.

Within the last few days I've accused one brother of the unthinkable and listened to another helplessly scream my name while he bled out into the snow right in front of Ma's house. Instead of calling an ambulance I laid behind a brick wall, worried about my own ass getting shot up and listening to Jack scream. He died in my arms moments later. The worst part of it was he looked strangely happy just before he went, like wherever he was going, it sure beat the hell out of any life I could give him. I think if he'd wanted to stay, he could've. Jerry says I'm crazy, but I think maybe he gave up because when he called for me I didn't come save him.

So yeah. Real bang up job I'm doing of being in charge. Just spectacular.

I've got one of Jack's cigarettes hanging from my lip and I take a slow draw from it every now and then. I'm sitting on his bed with my back against the wall, playing with his guitar. I don't know a single fucking note, but I'm screwing around with it anyway.

It's harder than it looks.

Angel's dealing with grief his own way. He and La Vida Loca are locked in the next room, going at it soft and slow. Jerry's off doing—whatever the fuck it is Jerry does these days.

Jack dies and we all do the same thing we always do when the shit seriously hits the fan; we 'deal' with it.

I'm getting awfully sick of dealing with shit this thick with blood.

Ang and Jerry both have girls to come home to, but I haven't had one for a long time. I came home to my baby brother because he didn't have anyone either. I called him a fag, a fairy for wearing rocker clothes and always fussing over his hair. Truth is—I don't think he actually had a sexual preference. He was too traumatized as a kid. Sex scared him to death. I paid for him to have a lap dance once and when the girl got close to him his eyes went all wide and his whole body started to shake. Thought the kid was having a fucking seizure. Took him most of an hour to snap out of it.

Really, I don't think he ever came out of his shell except with us. The evidence was plain at his funeral. No one else showed. No one cared. He didn't make any other real friends in his short lifetime.

The memories in the house don't do me any good. I can't turn around without seeing something that reminds me of Ma or Jack or both. Pictures on the walls, Jack's skates hanging in the entryway. I should just get the fuck out, but I sit there, strumming noise on Jack's guitar and wishing I'd let him teach me a few cords.

Ma used to say everyone needed a way to express themselves, work out their energy. It was hockey for me, girls for Angel, money deals for Jer, and music for Jack.

Well, here's some music for ya, Fairy. This is your big brother, Bobby. I hope you can hear me, 'cause I'm never going to say this again:

I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry I let you down.