October 2022—Freemont, Mississippi

MY WORLD ENDS for a second time with three words: “Your brother’s dead.”

Dad isn’t trying to be cruel. He isn’t seeing me or the ER surgeon or the now crushingly bright fluorescents when he delivers the news. He’s lost deep inside himself trying to find something gone forever.

I notice everything. Everything Graham will never see again. And I’m furious.

I’m screaming, crying, punching the flimsy waiting room table so hard that I split a knuckle. Dad grabs me and pulls me into the tightest hug he’s ever given. For the first time, I see my dad cry. I try to pull away. He keeps holding on, and we cry together, until the memories go fuzzy underneath the tears.

They, the memories, are living things to me, at least concerning that period of time. They possess the quality of ghosts. Here and gone, springing out at the least opportune moments to seize me by the throat and drag my entire sense of self into their cramped, gray world of pain. I’m more adept at avoiding them now, but today, they’re unavoidable.

The inch-long scar across the knuckles of my right hand shows up a couple shades lighter on my tan, especially when I make a fist. Like now.

I’m starring down at the polished black of Graham’s headstone, failing to figure out how to mark a year without him. Most times out here, I share what’s new with the family. Today feels inadequate for a gossip rundown. Some of what I’d like to say, he wouldn’t want to hear. Mostly the stuff about Dad.

He’s gotten more paranoid. His rages against the Ansley family worsen more than ever, since he still blames them for Graham’s death. He works constantly, leaving Gran and me to fend for each other. It’s harder for me to do now—help Gran, since I’m at college. Dad’s never been harsh or mean, and he’s not now. At least, not to us. He’s just colder, distant, like he never figured out a way back from the frozen place he went when Graham died.

After my birthday last December, I understand why he blames the Ansleys, though I think he’s wrong.

When I turned eighteen—not quite two months after Graham’s death, he and Gran began explaining our family history. They told me a wild, incomprehensible, story about poisons and curses and powers dating back over a hundred years. Like any sane person, I thought they were full of shit. I was angry. I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said. They took my abuse without a word. Then, they showed me the video of mom.

After that, I believe. I believe the stories about powers and a world I don’t understand. I believe that maybe there are new powers coming into the world. But I don’t believe that the Ansley family had anything to do with Graham’s death.

Dad and Gran told me there was more to know, to learn, but I’d heard enough. At that point, Dad’s pleas seemed to be as much about convincing himself as educating me. I told them that I’d let them know when I was ready to know more.

They still accept my decision. But they want something from me. Something…important. I don’t know why, but it feels wrong. I know it’s bad to think something like that about family who’ve only ever taken care of me. Doesn’t make it less true though. They won’t say what they want, but I feel like it has to do with Graham’s death, Dad’s obsession with the Ansleys. I just want to move on with my life.

The police ruled my brother’s death in the woods accidental. All the evidence glaringly says so, too. Dad refuses to hear it. He still points the finger at the Ansleys. But since the ancient recluse of an Ansley who lived up there passed away not long after Graham, now, he’s targeting the Ansley’s who came from Texas, who weren’t even a part of any of this. Hell, they weren’t even in the state until a couple of months ago. But that’s my dad these days.

Not all his days are bad ones. Small pieces of his old self shine through for Mud Devils’ football and when he’s with some of his old buddies. He really shined at my graduation, and he couldn’t be happier for my academic scholarships. But…all those moments are pretty short lived.

Earlier this year, I worked up the courage to come out to him. I told him I didn’t want to have any secrets if the worst happened to me, too. Dad listened attentively the whole time. We talked about how I felt and why. He gave me one of the first real hugs from him in a long time and told me he loved me no matter what. But he went back to watching a bowl game almost immediately and hasn’t mentioned it since.

I should be happy things are so simple with Dad on the subject. Some of the other folks at Pride Alliance tell horror stories, or they expect one. Dad’s blah attitude still bothers me though.

Is it too much to ask if I’m dating someone? Not yet. Or even embarrassing stuff like if I’m being safe? Yes…the one chance I had to try. Not that I’d like to talk dating or my hypothetical sex life with Dad. At least it’d be something though. Graham got bugged about his girlfriend all the time.

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“Sorry, bro.” I strangle my jealousy. “Class starts in an hour. Gotta get going.”

I press my fist to the oval holding Graham’s picture on his headstone. We share Mom’s looks. The same rowdy, blond curls, blue eyes, and thin noses. She’s gone, too, but it’s been long enough that it doesn’t hurt as bad anymore. Well, hurts pretty bad in moments like this, but I’m now proud of what I always denied before Graham died—that we all look alike. Feels like I’m able to carry something of them no one else can with me.

The tears run into the corners of my mouth without me realizing they’ve come. I shake my head and stand but don’t say goodbye, only, “‘Til next time.”

∞ ∞ ∞

I’m still feeling some kind of way when I roll into the food court right after my public speaking class to track down Sam and Kylie—two of my best friends from high school who also decided to attend UF—at one of the outdoor tables. They’re lost to something on Kylie’s cell.

“You know most of this is all just filters and special effects,” Sam dismisses whatever it is as I sit my tray down.

Kylie gives a disgruntled huff and shifts on her seat to face me. “What you think about these pwps?” In my opinion the viral craze has hung on a little too long, but some of them are probably valid, even though you can’t find much more than a passing fascination with dangerous stunts about superpowers on any real news.

“Some of them might be real. But most are pretty imaginative,” I shrug, knowing this isn’t what she wants to hear, but I don’t want to be outright rude.

Kylie’s face scrunches in on itself again. “C’mon. See you think it’s a little possible? So just watch. You can’t fake this.”

Before I can answer, Sam throws up his hands and launches into another denouncement. “MCU, DCU, all the…manga in Micah’s bedroom.” I shoot him a look. “Sorry, have you redecorated since high school?” He crows without a pause.

“My dorm doesn’t have—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Anyway,” he draws out the word, “those have superheroes and villains and powers. Not— Where was that again? Bumblefuck, Illinois.”

Undeterred, Kylie spins her phone and starts a video for me. I humor her and watch. On screen a chick with neon hair superimposes herself over a video of a guy roughly our age. He’s wearing some sort of Mardi Gras mask and standing beside a rust-eaten fifty-five-gallon drum with an anvil on top.

He doesn’t say a word. The girl narrates something to effect of: “OMG, keep watching.” His eyes close. His right hand extends slowly, and with it the anvil rises from the top of the barrel. “Not yet, not yet,” our hyperventilating narrator screeches. Someone swoops in from offscreen and smashes a fair-sized stick against the anvil. The stick snaps into. The anvil wobbles but stays aloft. “Ahhhhh!” As if finished or fatigued, the potential pweep’s eyes pop open, and he sags. The anvil crashes into and through the barrel’s top. The girl goes wild, and a slo-mo replay starts.

I pause the video. “Ever hear of Shin Lim.” I could be kinder, but I’m not just not feeling it today.

Kylie growls and snatches the phone back. “None of this looks like that.”

The videos keep circulating, more and more all the time. People with seeming superpowers doing all sorts of crazy stunts. Major news hasn’t been able to ignore it, but they don’t give it much credence either. Everyone pretty much falls into three camps: die-hard believers, eye rollers, and the smallest, those who know enough to know it’s possible but not probable. Given what I’ve learned over the past year, I fall into the last and smallest category but for a different reason than most, so I try to waffle between eye-roller and how I really feel.

A nasty, crackling roll of thunder and the pitter-patter of rain ends our debate.

Within an hour, the turd floater, as Gran calls this type of storm, unleashes everything short of a tornado warning. A sea of clouds parks over Freemont and keeps up a steady light and water show. Just as well, I’ve got papers to write, and this is the perfect weather for no distractions.

Sam texts. [Get n some COD???] Almost no distractions.

[Micah: Later? Need to finish a short story for a class]

The short story only needs a final edit, which might take me thirty minutes max. But Sam’s not a book guy or a sit around the coffee shop guy. If I tell him that I’m planning on going down to Beans & Books, he’ll refuse to leave me alone until we’re slaughtering Nazi zombies. My edits are due tomorrow, so that’s a no-go.

[Sam: w/e just let me know when u want to jump on. Maybe after practice]

I reply with a thumbs up and head for the other side of campus as soon as class lets out.

Terri, Beans & Books’ owner, greets me as I settle on one of the oversized chairs by the gabled front windows. “Still want a large white cocoa latte?”

I give her an enthusiastic grin in acceptance of ‘my usual.’

Except for someone in a Freemont Mud Devil’s hoodie huddled behind their laptop on the other side of the store, I’m the shop’s only customer. Perfect time to get some work done.

I intend to do the short story edits, and I sorta do. About halfway through, my concentration keeps slipping. My brain keeps conjuring images of Graham’s life at this point. Starting his third year at UF, whether Dad would still be pestering him to take over the construction company, if he’d still be dating Araceli.

After fifteen minutes of failing to get on track, finishing the edits seems impossible. Not going to happen without clearing the feels out of my way first. I take my mug back to counter and order another. I let Terri know that I’ll be on the Books’ side before drifting off to the stacks. She gives me a reassuring nod. The grinder spins up, and already, I feel a little less anxious.

A couple of weeks passed since I last browsed the shelves. Terri stocks new releases and buys a very select variety of used books. In less than a minute, I’m sure nothing in the new section will catch my eye, and I’m off to the ‘New Imports’ section of used.

Terri calls out that my drink is ready, and I let her know that I’ll be right up. I’m about to step off when the cover of a manga catches my eye. So what, Sam? If this is the one I hope it is— Jackpot! I pluck the manga and bury my face in it, as I weave my way back to the other side of the store.

A bell jingles somewhere in the store. Terri greets someone with her usual enthusiasm. Muscle memory guides me between the couches dividing the store sections towards the bar. The story in this one is even better than I—

“Whoa!” Firm hands brace my shoulders. I snatch my eyes out of the pages and up into the face of a green-eyed, raven-haired god.