His skull was cracked open and he was lying in a pool of blood, just like our grandfather all those years before. He was lingering between life and death, his crimson blood seeping out into the crisp white snow.
An ambulance rushed him to hospital where a team of doctors operated and managed to save his life. They had to saw open his skull and perform emergency surgery on his brain.
When I went to see him in hospital, he was almost unrecognizable. His head was bandaged, his face was grotesquely swollen and distorted and there were tubes going up his nose. He was a complete mess.
The doctors said he was paralyzed from the neck down and had serious brain damage. He would never be able to live a normal life and would require constant care. He would spend the rest of his days in a hospital or a state mental asylum.
As I sat at his bedside, staring at his sleeping form, I started to remember how he had been when we were children. When our father had beaten me, my brother would always come and try to save me. He tried to protect me and our father often wound up beating him instead of me. I was too weak. All I could do was watch him being beaten.
My brother was so kind to me as a child. Even when the neighborhood bullies attacked me, he would jump in and try to save me. He always seemed to get beaten up instead of me. I wondered why he had changed so much. I asked myself what had happened to turn him into the monster he had become? What changed a kind and caring child into a violent and abusive brute?
Just then, my brother stirred and woke from his coma. His eyes fluttered open and he turned to me. His eyes were vacant. I could tell he didn't recognize me.
"Where am I?" he asked weakly. "Is this hell?"
Tears streamed down my face. I reached out and patted his hand softly.
"Yes," I replied. "This is hell
