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The metallic stench of blood was familiar to Brian by now, the way it hung thick in the air, so thick and pungent that he could almost taste it with each breath, copper on his tongue- that wasn’t out of the ordinary. The way it mixed with the tang of rust and the saltiness of the sea that slipped in through the cracks of the shipping container, less so.
Brian’s hands trembled as he knelt by his mother’s lifeless body. Jeans soaked up her blood greedily. The cold, wet floor beneath him seemed to leech the warmth from his skin, intensifying the lack of insulation the metal gifted. The world outside was distant and unreal, a stark contrast to the horror contained within this claustrophobic tomb.
His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, pulse roaring in his ears. This wasn’t right. He’d done this before. He’d done this, watched his mother get killed already, what kind of fresh hell was this? Brian died that day. That six-year-old no longer existed in the same way- the weight of the moment crushed him; the echoes of that child’s laughter were now replaced by the ghostly silence of loss. This day killed his soul and made a monster out of him. He could hardly bring himself to look directly at her, but when he did, he regretted it.
Her eyes that once only looked at him with love, were frozen wide open in a horrifying, eternal stare. They seemed to lock onto his, inescapable, boring into him as if demanding why he hadn’t done something, anything, to stop this. The guilt, the helplessness- it consumed him. A cacophony of regrets swirled in his mind, drowning out any rational thought. He hadn’t been able to protect her, to save her, and now those vacant eyes were an accusation, a perpetual reminder of his failure.
He pressed his hands down into the sticky floor, trying to steady himself from the wave of nausea, jaw clenched so hard he felt his teeth might crack. He’d spent over three decades honing his ability to deal with flashbacks, to try to desensitise himself to the eternal images of his mother’s body. And now… now it was so real. He could feel her skin on his fingertips. Feel her stare on him. Feel the hollowness in his own chest. Hollow since this day, when the murderer scooped out anything he ever felt through cracked ribs by taking away the only woman he ever loved so viciously, so brutally, so carelessly.
His heart pounded in his skull, he swore he was dying again. Laura’s death was a blur of screams and blood spatters. His fists hung at his sides, blood-soaked, clenched tightly enough that his nails dug into his palms. Every muscle in his body was tense, frozen in the aftermath of the slaughter.
He could hear his own heartbeat, uncomfortable thumps up in his throat, but even louder to him was the small whimper from behind.
Brian blinked hard, forcing his gaze away from his mother's still form and turning toward the source of the sound.
Dexter.
Little Dexter.
Fuck.
Three-year-old Dexter sat in the same pool of blood, his tiny hands stained crimson, his wide eyes locked on Brian. He wasn’t crying anymore, but there was something far worse in his expression: confusion, blankness. An innocence shattered too early. Brian felt as if he were watching the light of his brother's life flicker and fade, leaving behind an emptiness that threatened to consume him. He was watching Dexter’s soul die in real time.
Brian swallowed hard, pushing back his own tears. He didn’t have the luxury of breaking down- not with Dexter here. Not when they were still trapped in this cold, desolate hell.
Dexter’s wide, indelible eyes looked up at Brian, searching for something- comfort, protection, understanding. But for the sanctity of childhood innocence being ripped away and staining him impure, all Brian could see in his baby brother was an angel. Yes, the three-year-old’s soul was gone, he would never be the same, but Brian could never see Dexter for the monster Harry made him believe he was.
“Hey… hey, Dex,” Brian whispered, voice rough and low, trying to make it sound calm but unable to help it cracking at the edges. He crawled over to his baby brother, hastily cleaned his bloody hands on his shirt, and gently wiped a streak of blood from Dexter’s cheek while trembling. The boy flinched, his gaze darting between Brian and the gore on the floor. His eyes were glassy, distant, as if part of him had already retreated far away from the carnage surrounding him. It killed Brian’s heart to see his brother so lost, so vulnerable.
Brian swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay composed. He couldn't afford to lose control now. Not when Dexter was looking at him, depending on him to make sense of this nightmare. He frowned and gently pulled him into his arms. Dexter leaned against him, his small body trembling. “It’s over,” Brian murmured, though the words felt hollow in his throat. “You’re safe now. I’m here.” A pause. “It’s… it’s going to be okay.”
The lie tasted bitter in his mouth, a facade meant to shield his brother from the truth. Nothing was okay. Their mother was brutally murdered- Mama was gone, and they were alone in this godforsaken shipping container, hidden away from the world.
He glanced at their mother’s body, bile rising in his throat. He’d been old enough to understand the situation when they were taken, old enough to know what was coming, but he hadn’t been able to stop it. He’d failed her, failed them, and the weight of that failure felt like a shackle on his soul. But he wouldn’t fail Dexter again. He couldn’t.
And Dexter— he couldn’t let Dexter see any more of this. He couldn’t let him truly understand what had just happened. He needed to protect him. Big brother needed to fix this or die trying. He had no plan, no allies, no idea where to go. But one thing was clear: they couldn’t stay here. The container was a tomb, filled with death, with nothing left for them but the graves of their three souls.
Brian’s hands shook as he held Dexter tighter, shielding him from the sight of their mother’s body. The reality of their situation pressed heavily on him, and panic bubbled dangerously beneath the surface. He needed to get them out. There had to be a way. And then a crushing realisation settled in his chest: There’s nothing for them left. Nothing at all.
He rocked Dexter gently, shushing him even though the little boy hadn’t made a sound. Time slipped by, the minutes blending into what felt like hours. The blood on his clothes was sticky now, drying in the cold air. Brian’s breath hitched as panic threatened to claw its way up his throat, but he forced it back down. He had to be strong. For Dexter. For both of them.
He pressed his cheek to the top of Dexter’s head, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll figure this out, I promise,” he whispered, though he had no idea how.
For now, he had to make sure Dexter was warm, covered. He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around Dexter, ignoring how his skin immediately pricked with goosebumps at the sudden cold air in favour of thinking about Dexter shrouded in his big brother’s warmth instead. “We’re leaving now.” He told him, voice firm but soft enough not to startle. “We have to go somewhere safe.”
But the boy didn’t respond, didn’t move. He was catatonic, locked inside his mind. A fresh wave of despair washed over him; a bitter reminder of how fragile innocence could be. The surge of helplessness rising like bile to his throat made Brian feel like a failure again. “Dex,” he said, louder this time, hand gripping his baby brother’s little shoulder. “Look at me.”
Slowly, Dexter’s eyes met his, but there was no recognition there, only blankness. Brian’s chest tightened. There was a wall now, something broken, something he didn’t know how to fix. He pulled Dexter to his feet, tightly wrapping the jacket around the boy. “We’re leaving,” he repeated, more for his own sanity than to Dexter, as if repeating himself aloud would solidify his plan. “I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans, his mind permanently in survival mode. He scanned the room, calculating. Brian took a deep breath, stepping closer to the door of the container. He cracked it open with some force, peering outside. The world was eerily calm beyond the threshold, the sound of waves crashing against the dock echoing in the distance. He could see no one, but he knew better than to assume they were alone.
He turned back to Dexter, who was standing, still staring blankly at the mangled corpse. How do I even begin to help him? Brian thought, his hands flexing into fists by his sides. He wasn’t sure how to care for a child. He wasn’t sure how to care for anyone. But this wasn’t about nurturing anymore. It was about survival. And in survival, there was no room for pleasant things.
He couldn’t think too far ahead. Couldn’t dwell on the blood, the bodies, the sheer magnitude of what had just happened. All he knew was that they had to get out of here— away from this hellscape.
Something dark and raw inside him gave him the strict duty of protecting him, an instinct to shield his baby brother from the cruelty of the world.
He picked Dexter up in his arms, noticing the way Dexter’s hands were slightly raised, slightly clawed, the blood uncomfortable on his skin. He took his baby brother’s wrists one by one and wiped them on his own shirt, then pulled the large jacket around him completely, shielding him from the light outside.
Brian didn’t know how long it had taken him to psychologically recover from the shock, the trauma, but now that he was older, he actually had a chance. He could protect Dexter now. He didn’t have to fail again.
Big brothers always make sacrifices.