Chris walks down the streets of his old neighborhood, his cobalt eyes flicking here and there, watching, remembering.

I haven't been back here for ages…it's not really the kind of place you want to go back to. Sure , I grew up here, but it wasn't worthy of the title 'home'. It had never, ever, felt like home. If anything, it had been more like hell. But I'd managed to be one of the lucky ones who survived, not just survived, but escaped the griping fingers of filth and decay, violence and hate, sheer desperation, that kept many people here, only to die at a young age in a corroded alley, just another corpse to add to the heap the streets and slime claims.

I drew my hand across my forehead. It was so damn hot today, I'd almost forgotten this kind of heat. My fingers came back sticky, my hair gel was melting off and running down my face, into my eyes. I rubbed at my burning eye, and squinted at a figure on the porch. Both the house and the figure were familiar to me. Not a lot about the house had changed, it had just become dingier, more dilapidated. The young man who leaned over the railing with a cheap cigarette smoldering between his fingers just seemed to match it. His eyes were far off, I wondered if he was thinking of something, or if he was on a trip. I really wouldn't blame the kid if he was strung out on something to get his mind out of this place. His name was Cody.

I heard he was still here because Randy had left, and instead of taking him along as he'd always promised, he chose Ted. I imagine Cody was devastated, Ted was his best friend, and Randy his abusive lover—but even at that—Randy was Cody's only ticket out of this place, and he'd promised. I remember, Cody told me that day of Randy's promise to him, his face glowing, tears in his eyes. He wanted to leave this place so bad, and here he was, still leaning over his front porch, only these days he was tall enough to droop over the railing.

Dave told me Cody lived there with his older brother Dustin now. Their old man had lived there too, but apparently, he'd died some time ago. I remember stories all the kids used to tell about Cody's dad. Shannon used to say he was secretly Jabba the Hut…you know, that gigantic blob from Star Wars? Well, maybe he was. According to Dave, they had to knock a wall out of the house and get him out with a truck because he was so hugenormous when he passed away.

I guess now it's just Cody and his older brother, that mental case, who liked to go around wearing costume paint and a cheap gold wig. That guy was insanity incarnate, probably still is. No wonder as I pass Cody on the street, and wave, he doesn't even notice. Look what he's had to live with. Probably not a day goes by that he doesn't wish he was Teddy DiBiase, out in that wrestling company with Orton.

Next door to the Rhodes were half brothers Glen Jacobs and Mark Calaway. Last I'd heard of Mark, he was in prison. Not much of a surprise there. I think he killed someone. I wouldn't put it past him either. I remember when he found out Hunter, his boyfriend, was banging his brother on the side. That did not end well, and almost resulted in homicide. Mark wasn't really a bad guy, just…intense I suppose. He could be the best friend a guy could ever ask for, if he deemed you worthy, he was closer than a brother. At the same time, he'd be your worst enemy if you crossed him wrong, or if he just didn't like your face. I was lucky to be on the friend side, although I don't know how, what with how I had a tendency to write checks with my mouth that I couldn't quite cash. That's the kind of thing you don't do in a place like this, but, I guess I never really grasped the concept of shutting my mouth.

I kick a busted beer bottle with the toe of my boot, and it rattles awkwardly over the busted sidewalk. My feet take me on past other places I remember vividly, for differing reasons. There's where Hunter used to live with his aunt and uncle and his cousin Shawn, who always had a crush on Hunter but was too much of a pansy to ever tell him. Across the street was Beth, next to her Rosa, across from Rosa was my place, over there on the other side of the park was Shannon, he was dead now. Jeff said his pimp beat him to death. Down there, is that shitty apartment house where that giant kid Paul lived, and the Russian moved in that summer, and took a liking to Evan who lived with his cat-lady aunt in the apartment above Wight. On the corner, crossways from the apartment house with the gangrene looking pool…the Hardy's.

I knew the Hardy's place just as well, if not better, than my own. After Matt and I became close, I spent more time at their place than my own. His mom was a hell of a woman, more a mother to me than my own ever was, it was only too bad that she got that brain cancer and passed away so earlier. I think half the kids in the neighborhood lost their mother that day. I'm telling you, if it wasn't for my siblings, I probably would have taken up to living there, at least before Ma Hardy died and Gil lost it. Some of it makes me want to mourn for things that were lost, but some makes me laugh a little thinking about some of it again. Oh, like how all the kids used to call her Ma Hardy, and she hated it, said it made her sound like a mob boss or something. Anyway, I keep on walking, past the Hardy's house, sparing a glance at the darkened window of the room that used to be Matt's.

A block later, I find myself at my destination. It's that old, creepy looking-church at the corner of Delaware and Twelfth Avenue. The busted, stained glass windows always look like haunted eyes. One's boarded up, I note, as I walk up the crumbling steps and loosen up my tie. I just have to, it's so damn hot, and I've worked up a wet sweat walking from the bus stop to here. Not only that, I feel rather awkward in it, especially here.

Reluctantly, I pass into the sanctuary. I'm not surprised to see very few people there, most of the ones who are there, are my half or step siblings. Nattie turns to leave hand in hand with Beth, both of them looking more like men than women, but Nattie was always a guy at heart. I guess after I left, she wanted people to start calling her 'Nate'. Tyson was lurking up near the front, but he left with some anorexic, heroin-addicted, looking chick on his arm. Maryse was there too, somehow her beauty still shown through the trashiness. When she turned around and looked at me, I could see the hint of a bruise under her eye, and her jaw looked swollen. Her beauty was a sad beauty to look upon. She was worthy of so much more, but here she was still here, her eyes growing hollow and listless as life trudged on and one of her pimps beat on her again. She barely smiled as she walked past me with two thugs on each arm, one a huge guy with sagging jeans, a beater, and some glittering bling around his neck. The other was smaller and looked like he was going to drown in his over-sized clothes, a bandana tid under one knee, his hat cocked sideways, his teeth covered in gold. I just wanted to snatch my baby sister and run away with her. I turned and watched after her as they left, her long, thin legs dappled with bruises, the lobes of her ass bobbing visible below those tiny excuse for shorts, her bleached hair billowing down over her back.

I force myself to turn away, feeling weighed down with guilt, that I couldn't save any of them. Popping a couple buttons at my shirt collar, I make my way towards the front of the church where Christian is. I can recognize his form, slouched in a cheap, second-hand suit. His shoulders move softly, he's crying. I wrap my arm around his shoulders. Without turning his head to look, he knows who it is. My arms are familiar to him.

"Chris." He mumbles out. His voice is slurred with a cold sadness, and I note what he holds in his hand; a beer. The lines creasing his face seem to make him look older than me, even though he's younger by a few years. He turns and looks at me from cold eyes, swimming with water. God, he looks so much like mom. He even smells like her, that cheap fucking beer she always drank, I wish they'd stop making it. But I guess poor folks have to have their alchy too. I watch his hand as his fingers hold tight to the can. I think about prying it away from him, alcohol is one thing I can't stand, but right now it would be best to let him have it. After all, we're standing here over the casket of our younger brother, who doubled as Christian's lover since they were children. I squeeze Christians' shoulders, I have no words to offer, and my heart is too constricted in pain. My little brother is dead in front of me, yet what is more painful, is that his face keeps morphing into another one, framed by dark curls instead of blond.

I understand what Christian feels. What seems like a life time ago, and yet just yesterday, I was looking at my soul mates dead body. I can feel tears sliding silently down my cheeks. I had promised him, I'd promised that I'd take him away from here.

"What am I going to do without him?" Christian cries, his voice wobbling. His hand makes a rasping sound as he rubs it under his nose, against the scruffiness of his upper lip, then down over his face that is dirty and unshaven. "I can't remember…ever…being without him." He starts to weep a little, and lean on me. There are no words I can say to bring him comfort, just hold him, like I'd done many times before. He brings his can of beer to his sobbing lips and takes a long pull, stumbling backwards. I have to catch him before he goes down. He's laughing and crying, the sound so despairing it makes me shiver.

"Come on baby brother, let's get you home." I get him up and pry the can out of his fingers. I sit it on top of Adam's closed casket and drag Christian out. It's not hard, he seems like a bunch of bones.

I get him back to the house we both grew up in and onto the couch. It squeaks when we sit down, and I wonder if it's from a loose spring, or from a mouse or two. Everything's covered in a fine layer of dust and grime, cans of beer litter the floor, the empty chairs, the scarred coffee table, everywhere that there's room there are crushed cans. The place stinks of mold, dirt, beer, and sickness.

"Why couldn't I make him better?" Christian wails as I pull him into my lap and stroke his short cropped hair.

"Christy, Adam's been sick for a long time. You did all you could for him, which was to be here, and give him comfort and love."

"God fucking damn it, I'm gonna die with him!" Christian screamed. He tried to get up, but I held him down easily, he only struggled for a bit. I turned his face towards mine and made him look at me, look at how I was glaring at him, fully in big brother mode.

"Don't say something like that!" I scold him, and wrap my fingers through his.

"Why not Christopher? There's nothing here for me, look around."

"Sshh. Just shush."

I swallow back my tears and hold him as he breaks down. I look around. Everything seems so ancient in this place, yet all the same. I can't do anything, maybe I never really could. What am I supposed to do? I feel just like a child again, holding onto the little kids, closing my eyes, and wishing it all away.