The soft sound of your brother exhaling filled the silence that stretched between you, his warm grasp growing tight around your narrow shoulders.

He knew what he had to say, the words that had to be uttered so you’d be safe, that could be your saving grace, but would only hurt you in the end. His throat was raw from his voice being held back.

You just had to be a good for nothing alcoholic.

You don’t see his look, his gaze downcast; unable to look at you.

“A waste of talent…” He murmured, still holding you in a desperate attempt to keep you grounded in reality while in your drunken stupor.