Biting pain. Fingernails dig into the soft flesh of the palm of my hand. Surprised, I look down. My right fist is clenched, the only outward expression of anxiety I show even to myself. I force my hand to relax. Then ball it again, secretly enjoying the pinching pain. Something to draw me out of my self, my guilt, into the here and now. My sister is sucking down a cigarette, a quiet desperation in her inhale. I’m standing just out of range of the smoke. We’re both preparing for battle, in our separate ways. She squares her shoulders.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” I affirm.

We walk towards the courthouse, I place my empty hand on her back, just over her heart chakra. Supporting, giving what I have to give. Suddenly, I realize Michael is there. Relief floods me. Numbness drops, my heart hurts, fluttering. My fist loosens as I notice His hand in mine. My eyes close in gratitude. He was always there. He’s been with me through this whole ordeal and he will stay with me until it’s finished. Thank you God.

He walks with me through the metal detector as I flash a fake smile to the security guards.

He sits with me, as we wait for the courtroom to open. As I listen to the Victim’s Advocate talk and talk.

He sits with me, on a bench, in a room much smaller than seen on TV. I’m surprised to see a monitor on the stand, rather than actual people. A stream of people sit before the camera inside that screen, all defended by the same attorney, provided by the state I guess. The judge calls his name; I swallow, trying to get past the lump of guilt and fear and unshed tears in my throat.

I watch the screen. Shock jolts me. I flinch. He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit. His hands are cuffed. My brother. Panic. I put him there. It’s my fault. My sister’s crying and it’s my fault.

Pain. Nails bite my palm, brings me back. I try to understand what’s happening, but it’s over too quickly. Already they’re moving on to the next perpetrator. I turn around to ask the Victim’s Advocate a question. Basically, nothing was decided. What a waste of time and emotion.

Outside, the air in my lungs feels great. My sister’s puffing away again, hands shaking. What is there to say? Tears in her eyes and voice,

“Just tell me this.” Suck. Puff. “If thoughts create the universe, what thought created this?” Tears fall, catching speed. I can hear what she’s saying behind her words. Which of MY thoughts created this? I try to explain: it’s not just your thoughts, but his thoughts, and the judge’s thoughts, and this stupid fucked up world’s thoughts. But words don’t mean anything. She’s sobbing now; there’s nothing to do but hold her and cry too.