Riots So here I am. Sitting here, in an uncomfortable chair in a silent room. Waiting to see my brother for the last time. I wonder what colour my eyes are now. I'm afraid, so they'll be mostly violet, but I'm feeling so many different emotions right now so they could be anything. My thoughts are interrupted by a quiet young woman in a white lab coat. "You can see him now," she says. I rise slowly. Walk through the door to the operating room. And there he is. My little brother is sitting up in bed. He looks pale and thin, but I'm looking at his eyes. The yellow tint to them tells me only one thing. He's dying. As he turns his gaze to me, a hint of blue returns to his eyes and he smiles. I find that I can't meet his gaze, because I was part of the mob that killed him. It wasn't his fault. He was simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time. And when the street turned into a battlefield, with the violent rebels on one side and the red-eyed police on the other, Jamie was caught in the crossfire. He doesn't say anything. Neither do I. There's nothing to be said between us. He doesn't know that I was with the rebels, throwing the shrapnel-bombs that killed him. We stay like this, solemnly silent, until his irises lose colour altogether and become deathly white. He is gone. Only then, finally, do I begin to sob.