Shattered
Shattered. That was the only word that came close to describing what remained of me when they told me Kayden was dead. My brother. My other half. My everything. They had taken him from me and left behind a hollow ache that clawed through my chest every waking moment. We were only children when they dragged us here, children who never even understood what crime we had supposedly committed. Kayden's name meant fighter, companion, strength. It suited him perfectly. Every beating I couldn't endure, he endured. Every night I wanted to give up, he forced me to keep going. When they starved us, he shared his food. When they locked us in darkness, he spoke until I fell asleep. He was the reason I survived. And now he was gone. Most people would have wanted to die. I wanted something else. Revenge. Not the kind from stories. Not quick. Not merciful. I wanted every person responsible to feel what we felt. I wanted them awake at night. I wanted them afraid. Footsteps echoed through the corridor and the guards appeared as they always did. "Poor kid," one of them laughed. "Brother couldn't handle it." The others snickered. I stared at the floor while they mocked him, mocked us, until eventually they grew bored and left. As the metal door slammed shut, my eyes drifted toward the wall beside my mattress. Something was scratched into the concrete. A number. 17. My heart stopped. Kayden had carved it there. I knew because the seven leaned slightly to the left. He always wrote it that way. Slowly I reached forward and traced the mark with trembling fingers. Beneath it were more scratches, faint enough to escape notice but deliberate enough to mean something. Not random. A pattern. A message. Kayden had left me something before he died. For the first time since hearing the news, I smiled. Not because I was happy. Because suddenly revenge no longer felt impossible. It felt patient.
