People told me that there was no way that I could have seen the signs; no way to know what he was doing behind closed doors. But they didn't know that I did know. I saw the marks on his arms; not just the ones made by a needle, but the ones that ran horizontal for miles down not just his arms, and the ones I knew father made (another thing that I knew). I was there when he tried to dissect his wrist the first time, and I joined in with the echoes of 'oh my god I had no idea' and 'what a shame'.
We used to sit by the fire in October and I would read him ghost stories. That was before mother started to drink and father stopped caring. That was before I left and then my brother left, too, except he stayed where he was. He stayed put in the empty hallways and locked himself in the attic, just because he could. Just because father told him not to.
This year, it snowed in October, and I think that's what finally pushed S over the edge.
He's hated the winter for as long as I could remember. And now he lay thrashing from withdrawal in an old apartment with a cracked window to let the snow air in.
When he wakes, he doesn't see me; but I see him, and that's enough. I slip out the door and pretend that I didn't see him like this.