My Brother’s Keeper, My Enemy

Can you make sure this Short Story has 600 words My Brother’s Keeper, My Enemy

I remember the days when Jamal and I were inseparable. Born just eleven months apart, we were raised like twins in a small two-bedroom apartment on the east side of Chicago. Mom used to say, “You boys better watch each other’s back in this world.” And for the longest time, we did. But life has a twisted sense of humor, especially when survival turns family into foes.

By the time we were teenagers, the streets had already made their first impressions. Jamal was always the smart one—charismatic, quick with numbers, and smooth with words. Me? I was rougher around the edges. While he calculated, I executed. We found our rhythm hustling together. Drugs, dice games, stolen goods—we moved it all. Our bond made us unstoppable. Until he wanted out.

“I got plans,” Jamal told me one night after a run. “This ain’t it, Marcus. I want a legit business, something we can pass down.”

I laughed, thinking he was joking. But he wasn’t. He meant every word. And over the next few months, I watched him drift further and further away from the life we built.

He enrolled in online business courses, started saving money in a separate account, and even got close with a local developer talking about flipping houses. Meanwhile, I kept pushing weight, staying loyal to the street. To the only system I understood.

Then came the whisper.

“He talking to the feds, bro.”

I brushed it off. “That’s my brother. He’d never do that.”

But the streets don’t lie—not for long. Two of our crew got picked up, and somehow the feds knew everything. Too much. Timelines, locations, drops. Only a handful of people had that kind of access. And Jamal was one of them.

I confronted him.

“You working with them?” I asked, fists clenched, pain mixing with rage.

Jamal shook his head, eyes wide. “Nah, man. Never. I’m trying to get us out. Both of us. I been talking to legit investors, not cops.”

But doubt had already poisoned my heart. The kind of doubt that can turn blood into targets. Still, I couldn’t pull the trigger—not yet.

A week later, I was ambushed on a routine drop. Shot twice. Left to bleed in an alley. And once again, someone tipped them off.

I didn’t need more proof.

I found Jamal the next night outside of a café, dressed in clean clothes, talking about real estate like the streets never touched him. I followed him to his car, gun tucked beneath my jacket.

When he saw me, his face cracked with sadness. “You think I did it.”

“I know you did it,” I growled.

“No, Marcus. I warned them… but not about you. About the others. They were planning to set you up, too. I cut a deal to protect you.”

“What?”

“I was trying to be my brother’s keeper… even when you became my enemy.”

The words hit harder than any bullet. My knees buckled as truth and guilt crashed over me. I had misjudged him. In my paranoia, I became exactly what I feared—his executioner.

I lowered the gun, tears mixing with the rain.

But sirens wailed in the distance. Too late.

Jamal stepped forward, pulling me into an embrace. “Go. I’ll take the fall. You’re still my brother.”

That night, he was taken away in cuffs. And I was left standing in the shadow of the man who had tried to save me.

My brother.

My keeper.And I still hear his words every night I close my eyes.

My enemy.