whiskey cult

My brother is bleeding. He stands on the roof of a tall building, balanced on the edge, drunk. I can hear him yelling to the ground, though it doesn’t make much sense, and I can’t hear him clearly. It’s dark. Only the torch I shine gives me any idea of what’s going on. My mother’s car is here, but she’s not home. I can hear somebody calling me, atop the roof, and then my brother steps off the edge, and plummets to the ground, and I’m shouting, and nobody can hear me, and there is blood all over the sidewalk.

I feel sick to my stomach.