My Brother is the Killer

My name is Viola Lincoln, and I am eighteen years old. Just past midnight on the date shown on my ID card, I sat at the old house's wooden table, staring blankly at an old photo of my parents. The edges of the photo were worn from being handled too often over the past ten years—on my eighth birthday, I wore a pink dress and held a cake with eight candles, while my parents crouched on either side of me. Mother had a white jasmine tucked behind her hair, and Father's sleeve was dusted with flour, a trace left from baking cookies for me. The warm light from the photo spills out, falling on my fingers reddened by the cold, but when I touch the edge of the table, only the winter chill seeps through my palm and burrows into my bones. Our old house stands at the end of the alley, its plaster peeling away in large patches, revealing the bluish-gray bricks beneath. Between the bricks, seeds from ten years ago remain lodged; in spring, they sprout a few green shoots, only to wither into gray by winter. When it rains, the windowsill leaks, dripping steadily into the enamel basin below. That sound is like the rhythm my father once taught me to count—he always said, “The rain can sing too,” but now, in this song, only an empty echo remains. Ten years ago, the scent of sweet porridge always lingered in this house. Mother had a rule when cooking sweet porridge: she always put in three red dates, each carefully chosen for its plumpness. She would meticulously remove the pits from the red dates before serving the porridge to me, saying, "Viola, eat this and you'll grow tall—taller than me someday." Father sat on a small stool beside us, cracking walnuts. Shell fragments fell onto the table, and whenever Mother wasn't looking, he would sneak them into his mouth. With walnut crumbs clinging to the corners of his lips, when Mother laughed and scolded him as the "childish," he would wink at me and stuff the shelled walnuts into my hand. Now, in this house, there is only Leo Lincoln. He is my brother. This title was bought with our parents' lives and has been his facade for ten years. Three days ago, a car accident left him paralyzed. When the police came to take statements, the surveillance footage on the tablet showed clearly: as I was crossing the street, a truck rushed over, and Leo lunged to pull me away, only to be knocked down by the wheels, his leg bent at a strange angle. The police pointed at Leo in the surveillance footage, their tone full of sympathy. "Your brother risked his life to save you, young girl. You must treat him well from now on." I sat on the sofa without speaking, my fingertips digging into my palm, the pain of my nails pressing into the flesh barely suppressing the nausea swirling inside me. The sofa cover still bore crumbs of the chips Leo Lincoln ate yesterday. He was always like this—throwing trash everywhere, yet pretending to be clean and well-behaved in front of others. Relatives quickly filled the living room, their eyes red-rimmed. Second Aunt was the first to rush over, gripping my hand. Her nails had just been trimmed, the edges still sharp, almost digging into the flesh on the back of my hand. I smelled the scent of supermarket soap clinging to her palms, mixed with a faint fishy odor from the market—clearly, she had just rushed over from the vegetable stall, not even bothering to wash her hands properly, eager to play the role of the "concerned elder." Second Aunt's voice was choked with tears, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes drawn tight with urgency, as if if I didn't nod and admit my fault right then, I would be a sinner beyond redemption. "Viola, your brother is paralyzed because of you!" "From now on, you have to treat him well, never forget this debt for the rest of your life, understand?" That sentence stabbed into my heart like a rusty thorn—ten years ago, the day Leo Lincoln was brought home after our parents died, Second Aunt grabbed my hand just like that, her nails digging painfully into my skin as she said, "Leo Lincoln is pitiful; without your parents, you're the sister, you have to be nice to your brother."