the sleeping dead

I was getting out, i walked softly through the shadowy living room to reach the main door, my brother was sleeping on his side, almost entirely naked on a mattress thrown randomly to the floor, his image printed in my brain, so fragile, so helpless, in his ridiculous boxer shorts, even despite the prominent muscles of his athletic body, still bulged, round and strong in its rest, a true masculine force;

Cautiously i closed the door, without turning the lock behind me, to avoid any disturbance, halfway in the corridor i stopped, i turned my eyes to the set of foreign doors away in the back, "others"(a whisper), a wave of dread rushed over me, images of my brother, lying dead in a puddle of blood, on that mattress, in that same foetal position, wearing the same ugly underpants, spurts of thick blood on the moquette, prolonging the neat, unrestrained slashes all over his fit body, the horror pierces through me, me the cause of his death, by my will of non existence, my lost confidence, my uncontrolled self, my lack of faith in humanity, my humanity.