He did it. He was the whole reason. He had a scrappy beard, some hairs brown and others a deep grey. He wore glasses today, but normally, he would not. He had on a blue button up shirt with khakis and black shoes. Every move he made made me sick to my stomach. He was the reason our family was broken. He sat behind a long, tan wooden table with papers sprawled about. He sat in a gray, swivel chair, like the ones all of your teachers had. He occasionally took his feet and pushed them off the floor and raised his knees, and sent the chair in a spiral. He had a smirk on him the entire time, even when the jury came back into the courtroom after deliberating for hours upon hours, deciding how long this man would go away for. I only could see the left side of his face, as I was on the left side of the courtroom. After lunch, I switched sides of the courtroom, as my place where I was sitting. I look to where he was sitting, in the grey swivel chair again, and I saw the right side of his face. It may seem odd that I had never seen this part of him before, but I avoided looking at him at all costs. What I saw sent me into shock, into anger, and into a lifetime of sadness. I saw a long, red scratch on the side of his face, thin and a bit healed. It looked like someone tried to cover it up, but very poorly. The scratch was thin, as if made by tiny fingernails. It was not the scratch of a dog; it was not as deep as a dog scratch. It was a scratch made of a fight, a fight from a 6 year old boy. This little boy’s name was Lucas Murphy, my little brother. This scratch angered me more than ever. Everything after this point on is just a blurry memory. My heart sank but my blood boiled. I became extremely angry, but my body was still shaking. It hadn’t stopped shaking since the night before. My face was red hot. I knew that people would be looking at me, because I was taking deep breaths, trying to control myself from losing my cool, even though I had basically already lost it. I tried to keep my cool, I did, I really did. Then I remembered a vivid memory. I was picking Lucas up from his bus stop from his first day of school. He was smiling and he ran right into my arms. He told me all about his day at school and how he was so happy for the rest of the year. This was the last day I ever saw him. The people in the courtroom were standing, the verdict was read. He was guilty. They took him away, and I lost it. I stormed over to him, everyone staring and watching. My family wasn’t, they were too busy crying into each other’s shoulders. I ran, I ran right up to the cold blooded killer that murdered my little 6 year old brother. I clawed at him. I kicked at him. I punched at him. I did everything I could to make him feel at least an ounce of pain. I didn’t stop, I kept punching. He didn’t give a fight. I kept punching. My knuckles were bloody. He was on the ground now. I kept punching. The police were pulling me off of him. I kept punching. I didn’t want to stop. I screamed at the police, telling them to let me go. Another officer led him into a different room. I was watched by many, some people took out their phones to record me, I watched people watch me. I fell to the ground. I blacked out with the vision of the scratch engraved in my mind.