Het doosje met alles

I am the last of my brothers, a lone sentry where once we were six identical watchers. My last sibling has just been taken up by the God, his head twists and I count how many before I see it torn off his body. Four times, then his neck breaks. My brother was strong. 

The God drinks his broiling blood, leaves most in his almost opaque body. His red head is reattached to his body, a caricature of once a living being. My emptied brothers stand silently beside me in the blue crate. 

I am a bottle of sparkling water.