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“No, no, wait, we can‘t leave him!”
“Come on, Malcolm.”
“Ains— Ains, please, Ainsley. They’re going to kill him, they’re going to—they’re going to kill him, they’re going to—”
“I know.”
It’s not his fault. Martin’s been messing with his head for decades. It’s not his fault, but it makes him weak.
She drags him, heels dragging on the cement, his eyes pinned to his father’s like he couldn’t bear to look away. Like if he did look away, took his eyes off the monster, it would devour him. It would sink its canines into him, draw blood, pull his guts apart, string him up, make a portrait of him, his pain finally knowable.
Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe he can't bear to let go of the one thing that can explain him. Surgically pull him apart and clinically label every muscle and tendon, every joint and tremor in his hands.
“You have to let go, Malcolm!” She screams, “Let go of him, let fucking go of him! What did he ever give you?! What did he ever do for you that you—”
“Please, Ains, God, please, I don’t have anyone else—”
She drops him. His head cracks against the cement. “You don’t have anyone? You fucking have me, you stupid shit! Your stupid police team! Gil! Mom!”
He groans; his head lolls. Hand shivering against the back of his head. Hair fluttering over staccato breaths.
“Fuck,” she sighs. Threads her fingers through her bangs, tugs a little before putting her hands back under her brother’s shoulders. Pulls. “God, Malcolm. You don’t know what you have.”
He’s weak, it’s true, but—he’s good. He’s good, and they all see it in his eyes, earnest, his hands that never stop trying, not like the steel of her eyes, the steadiness of her hands, whether smeared with blood or tears of the ones who love her. She’s strong, stronger than her mother, clearer than her father. That’s why she can pick Malcolm back up and drag him away from the walking corpse of his father, the rot that’s climbed over him and into him. He’s too good for it—she hates him for it.