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couldn’t remember the James I saw boxed into the worn, plastic frame. He had a slight smile curving up on one side of his mouth up, while his eyebrows bore a look of surprise. It was like he wasn’t ready for the picture, or maybe the flash had scared him. Regardless, he looked… Well, he looked normal. He looked like the brother I could have grown to love, could have spent my days building rocket ships and playing baseball in the yard with. A brother I could have walked to the park and climb the monkey bars with. There wasn’t an ounce of insanity plastered into his still features. He was just a toddler, an older brother, who was part of a family that loved him and cherished his existence.Picture James rested his tiny hand on my baby self’s even tinier leg. I was just a baby, barely sitting up on my own. My mouth was wide with an innocent grin and I recognized the baby as me—not because it was the obvious assumption, but because my mother had carefully stitched my name into the collared sweater I was wearing in the picture. James’s was stitched into his as well. We were the ideal-looking family, the one you would see in the display frames at the store, not on the wall. It amazed me what kind of changes happened between when that picture was taken to where we all are now. Dead, alone, and psycho. Some family.
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