Every body that hits the ground in Hell will get up should they choose it. There’s plenty of death and destruction but no dead. All ends are artificial, wishful thinking, and even running, even seeing their soft resolve lie face down, you feel sorry for them. Some bodies are so far decided, and in some areas their lying so dense. You try your best not to step on them, but when you do, most times they don’t bother to make a sound. They mimic what they remember of the dead things from when they lived. In the crowds of the bodies still making their way, I’ve found myself running over the planks the lying make, stepping on the backs of their charcoaled heads, their heads inducing a misstep as they sink, as I further bury their faces. It’s the stress of the flames behind us that causes this, that encourages our rapid, collective pacing. It’s easy to fall. One falling becomes many and many makes a felled section, but soon enough the disturbed tide of running finds a balance, and those of us who have gone under it seems for hours are forced to be the fodder of those whose timing is better. I remember watching TV upstairs. Upstairs, the entertainment center held easily the biggest TV in the house, only with the weight distributed as it was with the TV inside, it was even easier for everything to tumble over. My brother half watched while he browsed at the computer. My feet rested on the lower half of the center, not realizing its rocking as I pushed. I’ll admit I understood badly what it meant to be mad at a person. I thought once it happened, they withdrew from you. You could no longer count on them, and to make things even or protect yourself, you’d also withdraw your protection. My father taught me that. I remember learning the lesson from my brother, but also the day he complicated it. The TV stand began to tip over. Having realized right away, I might’ve been able to escape, but I merely fell back and waited to be crushed. My brother, with one arm, pushed it back. I remember thinking, why would you do that? Had you been waiting for something bad to happen to me, this was your chance. It would’ve made me sad, but I would’ve given it to you. Years back, when we were both tiny, the same thing happened to him, only no one was there to save him. I can’t remember if I watched it happen, but I’d seen its aftermath, my brother flailing under the weight of the thing, and crying. I don’t believe I would’ve been strong enough to stop it, but I don’t trust the memory, or myself inside of it, to know I would have had I been, and I thank God for that. I only need to atone for the present. If the only world is a Hell with my brother in it, being with him will make a new one.