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You never expected to be put in charge.
Of course, you’d looked up to Click. Of course you wanted to be like them, of course you’d dreamed of being just as responsible as they are.
But you didn’t expect their weights to fall on your shoulders. You didn’t expect Click to drop everything and disappear.
Your family is rotting from the inside out. Something sickly and dangerous has invaded the system, and the infection is spreading every day. You can see it. See it in the way Popup gets more and more confrontational and distant. See it in the way Click stops calling anyone, barely making it to work. See it in the way Survey sobs into your shoulder and doesn’t want to get out of bed.
See it in yourself, in the anger that settles heavy in your gut.
You’ve always been passionate. Always loved your family, your work. Always loved the example Click set, always loved following it to a T. Always put your family first, because that’s what Click told you to, that’s what they always did, that’s what always should be.
But that passion has grown bitter and hateful and hot and that example isn’t around anymore, and you’re the only one keeping your head above water. You’re the only one still looking to the horizon, and it’s bleak, it’s bleak because of the infection.
It hurts to call your youngest an infection, but the shoe is fitting better by the day, so Spam might as well wear it.
Some part of you wants to care. Some part of you worries, because of course you do. Spam is your little brother, Spam is the youngest and always getting into trouble and always struggling and always always a worry. Always a shining star with wide eyes during the day when he can see you and always something Click whispers about at night, eyes shadowed and concerned because what made Spam struggle when no one else has? Did Click do something wrong? Boost, do you have any idea? Do you know?
You don’t. You don’t know, didn’t then, and don’t now.
But the worry has turned to frustration, because at least when Spam wasn’t doing well things could make more sense. At least before, the worries were stymied, because Spam was around, always in reach, always close enough to be caught if he stumbled. Someone else, a shadowy figure only known as a voice in a phone, has lifted him out of reach, and he keeps shouting from the rooftops, spitting vitriol as if they’re all stupid to worry that he might slip and fall.
You gave up trying to reach him a long time ago. Let him rot himself to nothing if he wants, come crawling back when he’s a mess. You’ll take him back in because he’s family, and you’ll tell him that you told him so, and it’ll go back to normal. It’ll hurt for a while, but hey, you’ll drag everyone back on track, even if you want to strangle Spam for all the trouble he’s causing.
And then Survey comes home, sobbing. Sobbing again- again , because they’d had the audacity to see Spam and worry. They had the gall to ask questions, and worry, because they’re the only one who can’t let Spam go, and Spam had snapped at them, yelled said that the brother you all wanted— because you want Spam back, you love him just as much as you hate him and that’s why it feels like you’re tearing yourself in two —wasn’t coming back.
You hold Survey close and whisper comfort to him. Hold them and promise it’s not their fault, let them use your coat as a tissue and wrap them in a blanket and promise to take care of things. You’re the older brother, you’re the second eldest and you’re the only one still trying, so you’ll take care of it.
The rot calls an hour after you get Survey to sleep, weeks after the fight that tore him to pieces, and you’ve been simmering the whole time. Boiling, roiling, teeth clenched so tight in your mouth they might shatter if you so much as twitch your jaw. Common sense whispers for you to let Survey answer or to just let the call ring off but fury and hurt and desperation— he did this to them, Boost knows it has to be someone and the common denominator is always always Spam, why can’t he just fit in, why is he always the fifth wheel to fuck up the car? What’s wrong with him? —has you swiping the answer call button and stepping outside, far enough away that when voices eventually raise, Survey will stay fast asleep.
You don’t shout, though. No, your fury doesn’t need to get loud, because you’ve finally figured it out. Finally realized there’s one limb out of place, where the infection keeps coming from, and finally realized there’s only one way to get it to stop. Your anger has reached a fever pitch and it is sharp, what you say to Spam. Sharp and cruel.
He doesn’t get it. You spell it out so easily, how hard things have been since he’s fucked it all up. You put all your cards on the table, give him one more chance to realize, to come home. To leave this supposedly perfect, lavish lifestyle behind and beg for forgiveness, because even after everything, he's your little brother. You don't want to cut off the limb if there’s still a chance.
He shouts at you. Throws it all back in your face, and the rot that has been boiling beneath your skin, the rot he brought in, needs to go.
You don’t think you’re a cruel person. You love your family. You don’t want to hurt them, you don’t want them to hurt. But the whole is more important than the one, and you’re the only one around to make this decision. Everyone else has left you to pick up the pieces of a shattered home, and in the end this is the only way you know how to do it.
“I didn’t know how to fix it,” you whisper what feels like centuries from now, when the spotlight comes back to burn your eyes. Because you were never built to pull everyone else together, you just wanted things to be what they always were
, drowning in the hate and sadness and hurt that threatened to sink the ship you’ve clung to for the longest time.
You cut the rot away, and let the limb go.
“Goodbye, Spam.”
You tell Survey that Spam doesn't want to speak to him anymore. To any of them. The lie hurts more than when you said it to Spam, but’s necessary. Survey cries, and you patch him back up as always. You pull Popup back into the fold, tell the lie again and again until it almost tastes like a truth, and Click pulls themself back together. You can begin to breathe.
You patch the wound. Sew up the amputation site, check for any lingering infection, but within a year or two it’s more or less gone. You’re pretty sure you’re the only one who still feels it, eventually. The anger beneath your skin turns to self righteousness, for fear of it becoming shame— and you're the only one who knows, and the secret is a heavy burden to carry but what is there to say?
You have nothing to apologize for. You can’t have.
You focus on that, and when Spamton’s name disappears from the billboards, when Spamton disappears entirely, you ignore the butler’s request for help and pretend you don’t feel the phantom pain.