0.5

(An excerpt from my notebook)

Time: around 10:58 p.m., July 1st (2 days from my 8th birthday)

Documentary contents:

    I’m running away from the house, real and forever.

I’ve been planning this for a long time, ever since Sheyd’s death. He’s my favorite brother, not that I get to pick. It’s him or John. Being the youngest, I never get to pick.

I still remember what had happened. It was a gas leak. Mom and I were out, leaving behind John and Sheyd. What was she thinking? Leaving a twelve-year-old potential murderer behind with his ten-year old brother? Especially when the brother was the one he loathed, he envied?

Moms always think their kids are angels. It’s probably right, but not with the Falls kids.

They were in the kitchen obviously. How did the explosion just happen? If it really was an accident, why did John survive, by mere fluke? Everyone, mom, neighbors, even the press, is convinced that it was an accident, a catastrophic accident. Not me. My brothers are kids, but they know how to use gas burner.

Then we were packed up in the emergency room. Sheyd had been rescued from the scene, but not from death. We were to see him for the last time, seared and crumpled, still with that Band-Aid on the nape of his neck.

Mom screamed and wept until there were only throat gargles left in her. People had to pull her away in case she would start gouging her eyes out. Sheyd was her favorite son.

John sat tidily next to me. He got out way before Sheyd did, so there are only burned tissues patching his skin. He stared down at his feet. “Mother… It’s on me… my fault… I shouldn’t have…” Mom shook her head, brushing John’s words away.

I looked at my brother from the corner of my eye. I didn’t have to be told, John. It’s your fault. You murdered him. People didn’t get to know you, what you’re like. If they did, they’d dump you in a juvenile institution at age four. Now your scheme worked, Sheyd’s dead. I’m the only who knows what you are.

John took his hands away and his whole face was wet. I sucked my knuckles. Had he been crying? The Falls kids seldom cry, with John being too indifferent to care, Sheyd too playful to do such, me… let’s just say tears have already dried in me. Catching his swollen, moist eyes, I figured he had a flake of onion somewhere in his pocket. John’s always that clever.

“Crispus, why… why are you just… sitting there? Don’t you ever feel… shaken?”

Mom finally got herself together and the first thing she said was an accusation. Directed to me, for what? For not crying? Maybe I should dig my parched eyes out, so I could shed a tear or two, so I can make my mom happy with my pathetic tears. John, despite all those forced sobs, gave me a quick look. I could read his eyes: want an onion, little brother?

“Crispus, why…”

“What use is it to cry? It’s not like if we all cry he’d be back!” Without even realizing, I was shouting at her. I was telling her to snap out of that whiny moaning and crying. And before she could grab for me, I ran. I was scaring her, scaring myself. I rarely had a temper. Or any other kind of strong emotions, for that matter.

That was that screwed-up day. But that day, even that day, I didn’t run.

Now I’m doing it, a month later, two days from my 8th birthday.

We’re in a new room, a new but same-as-old, cramped, greasy apartment. Same with the grayish plaster, the woe, the isolation. Mom says we’re going to make a fine adjustment. I don’t believe it. I’m not even trying to adjust to it, since I’ll be gone.

I sneak out of my sleeping bag and folded it, bare-footed. John’s only a few feet away from me, so I’d better not make any scrunching sounds. It seems awkward, without Sheyd’s sleeping bag sprawling between us, no one to block me from my eldest brother.

I thread my way across the room until I reach the door. I tug it, trusting that it won’t stir awake anyone. The light of the streets leaks in from the crack I’ve made. I turn to look at John for the last time. The rays of the neon signs light up his face, the thick, dark, tousled hair, the carefree smile. The Band-Aid wrapping his wrist is just like ours. He looks too much like a common boy, doesn’t even wince when the light hits him.

Am I ever wrong to…? Then I see Sheyd’s face, and I seal the door behind me.

I have my luggage prepared. Ever since that day, I’ve been packing up for myself. Nothing much, just a school bag with all the supplies I’ll need. I’ll at least look like a normal schoolboy wandering the streets for the first few days.

 I double check my list. Why am I checking again? I’ve been embracing myself for this for weeks.

I breathe hard, scanning the apartment. I can hear the rhythm of my mom’s sleep. I’m beneath notice, like always. Sheyd was mom’s favorite, John’s my long-gone father’s favorite. Me? I was Sheyd’s favorite. But that title’s overdue. No one will ever notice me around here. It’s just this easy to run away.

I unlatch the door. It’ll be as if I never lived here before.

It’s 10:58 p.m. The heat is still radiating from the pavement, the air hot and suffocating. Even this late, the roar of the traffic, the drone and hum of the city ache my ears.

I close the door again, this time locking everything behind.

1

The light in the sanitary flickers before it dims out. It’s near dawn, but too dark to read or do anything in the cubicle. I flip over that page and snap the notebook shut. But I can’t help thinking. Four years, it’s been four years. I’m already twelve and I’ve managed to survive on my own. Incredible.

I kick myself out of my old sleeping bag. Having a keen love for toilets, public restrooms are mostly my residence for a night. There are endless supplies of those perfumed, tiled sanitaries, so why bother risking myself on the streets when night falls?

I swing my bag over my shoulders, undo the latch, and slip outside. I don’t have to worry about being spotted. People overlook me. Maybe I at least keep personal hygiene, so I don’t really stink. Maybe people take pity on me, for I’m not even a teenager.

Though not the cops. I know they’ll step in, once they find me guilty of shoplifting. I’d be sent back to that overcrowded apartment, with mom, with John. If I hadn’t run for it, the next one in line to die would be me.

I pick my way through the town, the Memorial Park with its green trims of shrubs, the malls and the plazas droning with the hums of people, the dusted, winding streets. It’s just a town. But I get to know more ever since I’ve camouflaged in it. I know which crowded marketplace is the best one for pickpocketing. I know which canteen dumps the most uneaten food.

It’s already seven. Students are heading for school, with their parents waving goodbyes in the car. I suck my teeth. When I look up, the state middle school looms before me, dark and massive. That’s when it hits me. This is the school I’m supposed to be going. If I hadn’t run off on my own, I’d be jammed in that swarm of teens, pushing against them on my way to class.

A vile taste comes up in my mouth. I fiercely swallow it down. Skipping lessons never bothers me, not really. And I was practically a loner in my old days at school, with only Sheyd sliding up to my table. Even that’s occasional, since it’s one of the basic rules that guys don’t stick with their kid brothers during lunch period. I was invisible, ignored. The bullies are an exception.

By and large, I guess I should be happy that I’ve escaped school. Then why am I feeling so uncomfortable now?

Shaking a little, I strive to shove my way out, but someone bops me behind the back.

 “Watch where you’re going, skinny,” the boy scoffs. With another mere shove, he has me off balance. Titters. My front tooth goes chattering from the shock, but I can’t even gather myself to notice the pain. I know that voice, that boy. A nightmare in my memory springs to life, fresh as ever.

“Turn to face us! Or maybe you can’t get up with those two toothpicks!” the voice hoots. There was choked, mocking laughter around me, louder now. He doesn’t recognize me yet, but I do. The elementary school’s terrorist, the mob, the worst kind, not only spiteful, but stupid to the end of his brain. He ganged up on me, had beaten the guts out of me since kindergarten, though I still can’t remember his name. Is it Colin or Cormack?

I allow streaks of hair to fall in my eyes. With sheer luck, that half-wit won’t remember me. Hand grappling, Colin\Cormack fastens his fingers around my neck, circling my windpipe. I look coolly into his eyes, his into mine. For a frigid moment, he wonders who the hell this one is to look so calm when I’m threatening his life. Then the terrorist remembers he has a brain.

“Hey, it’s Crispy Brainy! Everyone, Crispus Falls! You all remember him, the classroom jerk who ran away? Crispus Falls!” he wheezes a strangled laugh. And as if echoing to my name, he lets me fall to the ground with a tremor. My knees buckle. Students begin to enclose on me, in a tight, little group, leering, pitying.

I have to act fast. Being so noble, he’ll be sure to butt me at the crotch while I’m still groveling. What do I do? The most heroic thing crosses my mind. So I kick a clod of dirt and I run.

The street passes in a blur of colors and screams. Several times I almost sprain my ankle, but I keep fleeing. I’ve thought the years on the streets would bring me some advantages; thought the winding, twisting backstreets would throw them out of sight. I was wrong. Days of bad sleep and malnutrition have stressed me out. They’ve ambushed me from all directions. Soon I’m stranded, facing a dead end. I’ve no choice but to turn around.

In second grade, Colin\Cormack’s height came just above my head. Now he looms over me like the state school.

They’re all watching me with ecstasy. I know he’s gotten disgusted of me. The first time he bashed me, I was five. At that age, I’ve already learned a lot from John. So when Colin\Cormack threw his fists at me for the first time and beat my nose bloody, I didn’t cry, didn’t make a sound, just watching him torment me. Every time it was like this. I won’t cry or wail for his benefits and he hates me for it.

I know silence will irritate him, so I remain that way.

Colin\Cormack can’t press it any longer. He jerks his head twice. “Falls, you can’t believe how famous you are around here. Such good reputation…”Smothered laughter behind him. He waits for my bewilderment, for me to stumble. I’m still listening, not moving

He has a dazed, stupid smile on his face as he continues, “You’re always the teacher’s little pet, ‘Oh, Falls is everything, he is good at everything. Just like his two genius brothers, the second replica of his brilliant brother Johnny.’” He mimics a sugary voice and his gang cracks up.

My fingers start gnawing my palms. A spasm of sour pain roots on my forehead. How does he know? Why should he have the privilege to know this much? I intuit he’ll act, but he hasn’t finished insulting me.

“But everything’s changed when you ran away like a coward, Falls. Everyone knows you’ve hidden somewhere out of the district. What happened to your poor mommy? You, her son of pride, drove her mad…

“And let’s see. Why did you run away? Oh yeah. Your poor dear brother’s gone. Dead, burnt, buried like a mummy. Everyone knows Crispy Brainy’s heart-broken. What’s his name again, that brother of yours? Shade or…”

No one insults Sheyd.

I lunge, knocking my fist into Colin\Cormack’s rib-cage. The terrorist collapses with my weight on him, unprepared for my sudden blow. His eyes pop up as if he hasn’t yet adjusted to the fact that the skinny’s struck him.

He slams his hands on me but I duck. I feel like pelting, grinding my elbow into his sides, striking on his chest, kicking until his nose is a bloody mess of tissues. I haven’t been mingled in a fight before, not with myself striking. I have no strategy, only striking comes in mind. That’s what scares him. That’s why he doesn’t even defend himself.

Finally, I rest. Colin\Cormack rolls away, moaning. It’s enough. They won’t bother me again. But the adrenalin keeps pumping in my system. And I see Sheyd’s face, his smile.

They won’t bother me again, but Sheyd will never come back. And I pour this into my final attack. There’s a spot on his lower arm that doesn’t have any bruises. And I bury my teeth into it.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. The four canine teeth rip over his skin. Then my front teeth seep into his flesh until I feel the churning blood. I loosen my bite, slowly straightening my spine. That’s when something goes wrong.

The teeth mark has reached an incredible depth for him to bleed. That’s what I expected, but not this: after the drops of red have dribbled away, something else oozes out. Slimy, black, semi-fluid, some kind of pus or gore squeezes itself out of the wound I’ve opened. It’s like blood, but stickier, like it’s rotten over time. Pouts of bloody mud. Colin\Cormack groans again, pupils flashing, blacks out. More gore oozes out as if someone’s squeezing toothpaste.

A chill goes up my spine. I look away. Then I notice his gangs, all gawking and shuffling. The school bell peals to the sky, but no one moves.

“Call an ambulance,” I mumble. No one looks up to meet my eyes. I raise my voice, “Someone call an ambulance! Now!”

They stare at each other, eyeball to eyeball. Then several slink away, with more following. The stragglers at the end of the group peek at me and scurry off. His gangs all have phones. If they were to make an emergency call, they would’ve made it minutes ago. Their leader’s still sprawled on the ground, motionless. He doesn’t deserve to die.

I slam myself into a nearby curio store called Antique Ubiquitous. Inside are a blond girl and an old man with a mess of gray hair. Both are having breakfast, laughing and joking. Even when I break in, I’m beyond notice.

“Call an ambulance,” I have to strain my voice. The two turn, bewildered. “Call an ambulance! A boy’s lying out there… my friend. You’ve got to help him!” I don’t know why I feel so scared now. When Colin\Cormack ganged up on me, when he shoved me and choked me, I don’t feel scared. But now I do.

The old man exchanges glances with the girl, then scrambles to his feet. The girl follows him behind the heels. When they catch sight of the scene, they stop dead in their tracks.

“Hell, what just happened, kid?” the old man asks, wary. The girl bites her lip when she studies me, then dials her phone.

“Someone bit him,” I’m not quick enough to correct myself, “…something, a mad dog, I think… just around the corner.” The world darkens. I don’t even know when I blacked out.

1.5

(An excerpt from my notebook)

Time: around 11:26 p.m., May 29th (the day before Sheyd’s death)

Documentary contents:

The lights were out for two hours. I pull myself out of the sleeping bag. The ground clicks when I walk.

The balcony greets me with a cold sky and the scythe of a crescent moon. I climb onto the railing. I let the cool night air burrow into my pajamas. Nothing matters now. I don’t want them to matter.

“Crisps, you can’t sleep?” it’s Sheyd, so I turn and nod. He’s leaning there, gangly and slim, licking bread crumbs from the corner of his lips. The moon shines on his curly blond hair. Those pale eyes were moons themselves. Though he’s weary and has his hair all mussed up, he’s ready to drive girls nuts. I’ve met five or six of them, always giggling and kissy, always stuffing me with love letters to deliver to Sheyd. I dumped all of them in trash bins. I’ve never seen Sheyd mingle with any of them, either.

With a grin playing around his lips, he tickles me until I finally have to smile. He swings himself onto the railing beside me, quick and lithe. We stare at each other before we both start laughing. Sheyd can divert me easily.

“So, you’re going to be eight next month,” he musses with my hair. The grin on my face fades, but he pretends not to notice. “You know what’s going to happen?” There’s an ominous drift to that sentence. At our house, when kids turn eight, they get to have dinner with dad. The long-lost dad, who abandoned us, left us stranded here in this tattered neighborhood, with its coarse awnings and makeshift stoves.

I don’t answer. Sheyd pops a wad of gum into his mouth and starts chewing. He does this to avoid conversation. He wants me to begin first.

So I do. “What happened when you turned eight?” He never wanted to tell me about it.

Sheyd traces the outline of the Band-Aid on my upper arm, dangling his feet. Moments later, he shrugs. “No big, just a stupid dinner in that stupidly fancy restaurant with that…” Sheyd pauses and he reads me. “You want to know about dad. Don’t you, Crisps?”

I have no need to answer. Sheyd knows me well.

But he moistens his lips. I watch as his eyes flicker away from me. “No, you don’t. I won’t tell. I hope you’re never going to know him, little brother.”

My eyes fly open. What did he just call me? Sheyd notices his slip, too. He spits the gum out, disgusted. “That’s what John calls you. Damn. It’s like I plagiarized or something.” Then pause again. “I’m sorry, Crisps. I hate myself.” He does a flip over the railing and lands on the balcony, so when I turn, I can see his face.

“You’re the only one who does.”

He laughs again, standing up to pull my hair a little. “Soon, you’re hate me, the way you hate our beloved John.” There’s a swallowing silence.

“Sheyd, stop it. You’re starting to scare me.”

All traces of a laugh slink away from his face. In the pale moon light, his eyes glint with a wetness he tries to hide. Sheyd finally speaks, with his voice cracked, like he’s aged fifty years. “Did you know? John wasn’t like this before, before he turned eight. I don’t think you can remember. He was spiteful, but not this… darned reptilian. Now look at me, Crisps. Look at me. I’m not myself. I used to have mates at school. Now who do I hang out with? John? We used to speak nasty things behind his back, Crisps. But don’t get me wrong, I still hate him down to his ass. Yet now I spend time with him. Maybe now you know the significance of our eighth birthday. It brings out the best in us.”

I try to look into my brother. But with his damp eyes, I can’t even see his pupils clearly. I shake my head. Whatever he has in mind, I don’t want him to say it; I don’t want him to hate himself.

Then it comes, that death sentence. “I think I’m turning into John, Crisps.”

With that, he muffles my mouth with a gentle stroke, knowing I’ll say something. My sentence comes out like a distant hum under his hand. But still, he forbids me to speak.

“If I were you, Crispus Falls, I’d run away before I get to see dear dad. I’d forever live in the heaven of seven, not the hell of eight. I wouldn’t become John. I wouldn’t become my vicious brother Sheyd.”

Then he’s at the door to the balcony again. “I think I’ll grab a sugar cube or two in the kitchen. You go back to sleep,” that’s when I finally see a familiar smile. “Anyway, don’t peel off that Band-Aid.”

And Sheyd’s gone.

2

I try to prop myself up, but find my fingers sinking into a fabric. My eyes fly open. I’m sprawled on a cushioned couch, in the corner of a crammed store. The Antique Ubiquitous.

The girl with the blond hair is right next to me, twisting her hair. Alarmed, I jerk up. Seeing that I’m awake, she shoots me a quick smile. I don’t even return with one.

“Where is he? That boy who’s been bitten…? Answer me, where is he!” my voice collapses, panic-stricken, strangely strangled.

The girl tries to soothe before I can shatter again, “Relax, can’t you? The ambulance took him to Central Hospital. They’ll give him a tetanus shot…”

She’s blocking my way, so I bolt to my feet, knocking her down. She curses, “Damn, you idiot!” The old man, probably the girl’s grandfather, pokes his head from a clattering cash register, “What the hell’s going on here?” They both stare at me with popping eyes, and then stumble to their feet to race up.

But I’m already at the door. I know the way to the hospital. I know I’ll have to run a marathon.

Before I can even leave, someone tackles me from behind. I crumple to my knees. I catch a glimpse of flowing hair. In a move of a miracle, the girl has me in a hammerlock, her fingers twisting my wrists. She looks about my age, tall and athletic. Her grin fades when she sees my searing eyes. Instantly, I’m released by the drop of her grip.

I decide I can’t run. The girl will possibly pin me to the ground. So I stand up, all rigid. “Why?” I ask, “Why?” My voice cools by the minute, but I still have hatred seething in my eyes.

The old man emerges at the door. The girl’s touching her upper arms, now reclining against the door frame. It’s familiar, the way she looks at me, tipping her head, “I’m acting terrible, am I? Sorry, I never thought you’d… damn, never mind. Just, whatever you do, don’t try to run… your friend’s already injured…”

“…Yeah, the best we can do, kid, is to cross our fingers and hope for the best. That’s what she’s trying to say,” the old man finishes for his granddaughter and hugs her slightly. He watches me, his crinkly, twinkling eyes disappearing into the wrinkles of a smile. “We’ll call the hospital to check on him, kid. Don’t run all the way there. It’s not worth killing yourself when you’re so young, you know.”

They don’t understand. If they’d known, if they’d known the one who has bitten him was me but not a mad dog, they’d let me go. They’d chase me out of their warm, little store, like I’m a stray mutt. But I let go of that thought. I twitch my lips, so it’ll look like I’m smiling; only it’s merely a pretense.

The girl pulls the door open for me, all her energy and cheeriness seems to zap in, “You hungry, right? Feeling for Breakfast?” They shepherd me to a small piece of pine wood served as a dining table, ignoring my awkwardness. Standing on it are a tall glass of cold milk and a batch of muffins. The ones with the blueberries. All the other dishes are cleaned away, as if they’ve prepared this meal for me. Personally. For a rude, scrawny, suspicious street kid. I finally sit down, but I only freeze there, motionless.

The old man feels I might need someone coaxing me to eat, “What’s up, kiddo? I dare say you’re hungry. Just look at your face, you’ll need a good feed-up.”

I shake my head. It’s all too big and fake. No one’s ever given me decent food on the streets.

The girl leans in, smirking, “No need being polite, I baked them. Go ahead, toss them away.” the girl snorts out a laugh, but goes silence when I just twitch my lips in response. I don’t know why she thinks her joke will help anything.

But then I remember. Sheyd once made us breakfast. He was sort of romantic, says he’s tired of cereal every day. He baked something. Muffins, I think. But quite idiotic for him, he forgot to add flour. So eventually, we had burnt crackers. John scoffed and teased him restlessly. Sheyd just laughed him off.

A pause. And I take one. It has a buttered jam filling, starry with dried blueberries. I only take a morsel, but the memory surges in. Memory of that charred, bitter breakfast Sheyd ruined. And I’m reaching for the milk, in loud guzzles, pouring it down.

“Taste good?” the old man muses, watching me eat. I hesitate. Then I nod, ever so slightly. “Sadie’s a good cook… and a good eater. She eats like she’s addicted to food. Can’t figure out why she’s still this thin…” he confides. The girl bops him on the arm, hard.

I realize I’ve heard her name, “Your name’s Sadie.” Too late. I fear I’ve talked too much.

She wets a corner of her lips, the grin hesitates. “Yes, so?” I notice her wariness.

But I can’t stop myself. “How about Sade…?” Because Sade sounds like Sheyd, it’s lucky I didn’t let that slip. Stupid, I think. Stupid, how can I let a stranger girl know about my dead brother? I want to kill myself.

The girl lifts a pale eye-brow so there’s a roguish look about her, “Funny really, that’s Graves’s nickname for me.” She gestures at her grandfather, who has started popping a muffin into his mouth. Then, “Well, you guessed my nickname, but I don’t even know yours. What is your name?”

I think of telling her a false one, a pseudonym. But only one name comes in mind, “Crispus.”

She considers it, tasting it in her mouth, “Hmn, Crispus…? Mind if I call you Crisps? Sounds smoother that way.”

Crisps. I feel like I’ve been smashed by a pail, like I’m going to have a concussion. But I manage, “My brother used to call me that.”

The old man sneezes and starts laughing, slapping his knees. I don’t get why it’s that funny. Sadie starts cracking up, too, breaking the tension. I bite back my lips. Finally, they stop, breathing hard, sinking into my silence.

And it gets worse. It’s when people start asking nosy questions. And they do.

I deal with them with a bunch of lies. I tell them I’m home-schooled, that my parents are in a faraway city. I tell them I’m in an independence program, in which I’m supposed to live on my own for half a month. I tell them I’m supposed to find a job somewhere around, and weeks later, my parents will surely send for me. The lie ties a knot in my stomach. It’s too perfect, too normal to be true.

But they take it nicely. Especially the Graves. He swings his arms out, still with bread crumbs on his lips, rapping, “Voila! So you’re here and I’ll assign you a job, kid! You can be a casual. Your job’s dusting all the antiques. And for your payment, we get to feed you, you can live here! It’s a win-win! You’re hired! You can start thanking me!” He talks rapidly, like he’s rehearsed this speech.

There’s nothing much to do but gape at him. I figure he’s just playing around. Two weeks, I get to live in a real house. I start sucking my knuckles again. “Thanks.” It’s all I can force out

“Well, stop standing there! Look at your greasy outfit; you just have to take a bath! The shower’s up stairs. Make yourself at home!”

In this ridiculous but lucky way, I’ve found myself a temporary residence.

2.5

(An excerpt from my notebook)

Time: around 11:58 p.m., December 28th (Sheyd’s eighth birthday)

Documentary contents:

The bitter cold snaps me awake for the fifth time. My feet are numb, red, almost swollen. I don’t need to look outside. There’s the howl of furious winds against the muffled windows. The eerie creaking of the snow-loaded eaves. The thought of Sheyd never coming back.

It’s his eighth birthday. While we should be celebrating, he’s out there in the blizzard, having a tough dinner with dad, a dad I never want to meet.

I hate him.

I hate the stupid tradition of the dinner. Why didn’t he cancel it in this weather?

Sheyd’s sleeping bag lay stiffly between me and a slumbering, dead-to-the-world John. He can sleep with a brother’s life hanging, dreaming of his death and still smiling.

A straining hull. The front door breaks open like an eruption. I sprint. Another door creaks and mom runs out, even faster than I am. I see her teary-eyed and pale. Mom’s up all night, too, longing for her dearest son.

Sheyd stands there, weary and windblown, dark circles under his eyes. Before he can say anything, Mom pulls him into her hug, she herself dissolving into tears. “Thank god… thank god…” she strokes his ruffled hair, gently biting his ear, kissing him over and over again, “I thought I’m going to lose you…”

I look away. I’m not jealous. I only wish I wouldn’t have to know how Mom will treat me after my eighth birthday dinner.

Moments later, Sheyd’s in the bathroom, washing himself. He’s been silent for a while, letting me watch him. A new Band-Aid wraps around the scruff of his neck. Peeling off a Band-Aid is something we’re forbidden to do. His original one has been ripped, possibly by dad.

Then it chills me. Why can I see his neck in the dead of this winter? It’s that time when I notice his clothing. Bleached denim shorts. A washed-out T-shirt. I’m still trembling with a jumper and sweaters. I know the cold never bothers him much, but not like this.

For once, I’m speaking first, “You’re wearing a t-shirt, Sheyd.”

He finally looks up and sees me in the porch way. He spits the toothpaste out and licks his lips. Like he’s eating ice-cream. We laugh for a while. He finally breaks loose from it, “What do you think? John can wear tails and a shirt and a tie in August. I can wear a t-shirt in a blizzard. Fair and square.”

I figure he’s joking. It’s hard to tell from Sheyd. Even when he’s deadly serious, he’d be teasing.

He shoves away his toothbrush and mug. Completely ignoring the fact that he’s just brushed his teeth, he throws a Hershey’s bar into his mouth. “Snuck it out of the restaurant, you want one?”

I shake my head.

“Your loss,” Sheyd fishes the rest from his pocket and shoves them down his throat.

He’s shunning in a way I can’t stand any longer. He’s trying to escape from this conversation. “What happened in there with dad?”

He stops chewing. Shoulders sag, like a sorrow’s settling on him. He turns. And I see those eyes, sea blue and clean down to the irises. But now I see a flinch of red crossing them. A twist of the cruel color. Reluctant, I take a step backwards. I’ve seen this in John’s eyes before, and every time he’s strangled me or left me with bruises and lacerations.

“Back to sleep, Crispus,” he rasps, slamming the bathroom door.

But I don’t leave.

It’s not long before I hear movement. Shuffling noises of a hand. Then little animal sounds from the throat. He’s trying to stifle his voice.

I stop dead. Sheyd’s crying.

I slide down against the door, burying my face in my arms. Inside, there’s the continuous ripping of toilet paper. When I lift up my face, my sleeves have gone wet, sticky against my skin.

3

I clear from my throat the flying dust. The afternoon, I’ve worked myself through the useless junks in Antique Ubiquitous. Useless, interesting junks. The place is a remarkable dumpster:

* dust and mildew;

* books and letters with unreadable scribbles and smeared illustrations

* flagons, bottles and cylinders silhouetting dim shapes on the wall

* sugar cube jars, Hershey’s wrappers, chewed gum

* 33% of possibly valuable antiques

* more dust and mildew

    I untangle the cobwebs with the butt of my broom. Dust falls, the way dead skin sloughs from the body. Powder floats aloft. I hawk my throat.

Someone echoes in with the coughing. “Idiot!…Crispus, has anyone … (coughing) ever told you… (coughing) to do the cobwebs?” The girl, by the name Sade, slips down from a nearby shelf.

My skin twitches. She’s been watching me. Why haven’t I noticed? “You don’t go to school,” I say.

She gives me a wicked wink of an eye, “I’m home-schooled. Guess what? I’m also in a program. But it includes babysitting a dishonest street boy.”

Street boy… She’s figured it out. “You don’t believe what I’ve told you.”

Sade tucks away a curl of her hair that has sprung loose, half-smiling. “With that look about you, you can’t be a decent normal school kid, can you? Just don’t worry about Graves. He buys your lie. Completely. He simply loves you, says he’s always wanted a grandson like you, Crisps.”

I just shrug. But I notice something. All the while she talks and babbles, her eyes never leave my face, not once. Soon though, she leaves me alone, her head bobbing with laughter.

My work is over after two hours and two dozen breaks. Dinner’s served, of thick-crusted, homemade bread and sizzling broth with a dash of cream. Graves makes a joke about how he hates fast-frozen foods.

But I don’t want to sit at the table. It pains me, envisioning a warm dinner.

The two crack themselves up through their private jokes. Unwilling to settle myself, I stand up and look out of the store. The darkening alley haunts my eye. I see Colin\Cormac in his stranded, helpless position. I see myself, biting him, ripping him apart like a savage, ravening wolf. Blood splatters out, staining on everything.

I feel sick. Something writhes in my stomach.

“Bathroom,” I grumble. Their eyes follow me as I push my way upstairs.

The bathroom. I hunch over the toilet. Quietly, I puke until my stomach is emptied. I flush the vomit down, refusing to look at them. They’ll be dark and goo-like. Blood-like.

I wish I could cry like a three-year-old. People say after the hot tears, the hot pain will be gone. I squeeze my eyes. I pry them. None come. Lifting my head, I see my eyes, red but dry eyes. I feel inhuman, more of a monster that never sheds a tear. But I’ll make it right this time.

I go down stairs just in time before Graves comes up to check on me.

At nine, the antique store goes dark. All lights flicker and are extinguished. They go to bed. I’m settled in an old room, much bigger than the one I had before. But I’m not going to savor this luxury. Not tonight.

I wait until the silence is too loud and the house is dead. And I sneak out.

Halfway down the creaking stairs, I stop dead. My skin tingles. The gauzy kitchen light at the back of the store is on. It’s too late before I merge myself with the shadows. Sade walks out in her white nightwear, shoving something into her mouth. Graves is right about her addicting to food.

In the pale, waning moonlight, we both see each other. The crunching stops. Sade drops what she’s eating, flustered, with her hands flying to her chest. She must’ve realized that I’m heading for the door. Before she can hold me in a hammerlock again, I run.

I sail through the sea of shadows and alleys. Streetlight after streetlight blurs past, searing the darkness. Sade’s scream tears my eardrums. “Crispus, don’t you dare! Turn back, you fucking coward! Don’t you leave again…” she starts swearing, but the wind blows it away.

Sorry, I want to tell her. I’m really sorry.

Sweat mingles. Blood pumps. Heart flip-flops in my weak, shaky chest. I can’t hear her anymore. I turn the corner, and streaks and arches of the city light leak into my eyes. The familiar buzz of the traffic submerges me. I’m now in the center of the town, still thronged with people. I jostle my way toward the stark, white building I know is the hospital.

The hospital is almost empty, with a few nurses scurrying past, a few patients shaking with grief. Deafening silence settles. The odor of medicine and disinfectant stirs my nerves. I go to the information desk. A man lounges there, glued to his smartphone.

“Excuse me, sir. Can I see the registry form of the emergency department?”

The man taps on the laptop computer.

I slide over. I search Cormac. No results today. Then Colin. There’s a few, but none is a boy. I’ve misremembered his name. Frustrated, I pain my eyes searching through the patients whose name begins with C. My fingers throb, gnawing the mouse. Corlic Samuels. It’s him. Room 169, floor 13. I bite my knuckles once at the numbers, but soon recover.

I start to leave for the department. “Visiting hour’s over,” the man hums. I ignore him. Almost as gladly, he ignores me, too.

The lift hauls me up. Floor 13 opens before me, white and empty. But what am I expecting to see? Corlic Samuels with his skin stitched-up like Frankenstein? What am I supposed to say if he’s conscious? That I’m sorry he’s in tatters, in ruins?

I hate myself.

The door to Room 169 is open. Inside is bright. With voices echoing. I whirl my heels so I don’t expose myself to the room. Two men are inside, in a hushed, intense dispute. The patient’s bed is empty. No sight of Corlic.

“…it isn’t me, I didn’t let anything slip! They’ve found it suspicious and they ran a blood test. It turns out human mucus is in the boy’s blood. It’s everywhere in his body…it’s horrendous! They’re starting to get suspicious…that…that someone’s bitten him…” the first man is a doctor or a surgeon, with mousy hair and a nervous, squeaky voice. There’s a Band-Aid covering his forehead.

“Then you tell me. How many of them know this result?” the second man is in a neatly starched suit and carries a familiar calmness in his voice. He has his back to me.

“Only one, uh, it’s McMillan. We ran the blood test together, the others are still uninformed…”

Crisp laughing. “I suppose the matter’s simple, Richard. You peel off that Band-Aid of yours and dear McMillan’s in your hands. Tonight you do it.”

Sputtering. “I… you’re… not suggesting murder, are you?”

“Is there any other way?”

“Can’t…you…you?”

“We can’t stain more blood up our wrists and still hide it with a sleeve. You have to do it personally, my beloved friend.”

“I have children of my own…sir, please! If someone finds out that…that I…”

“Then you hide it well, simple as that, dear Richard. I hope you’re not overwhelmed that we’re finally assigning you a job.”

“Sir, please, I’m… I’m not devoted to crimes…”

“Someone’s at the door.”

Silence stretches.

The man with his back on me is walking toward me. The polished sound of his shoes scrapes the silence. He grabs tight me by the collar, almost strangling my neck.

We both see each other.

I flinch. He winces, too, but then smiles.

“Sir… what’s all the…?” the doctor hurries up and he catches the sight of us. He stops.

The one who had his back on me is not a man. Barely a man. I didn’t recognize him at first. His threads are too formal. The way he manipulates his voice is beyond his age. He’s a teenage boy, with my ruffled, dark hair and Sheyd’s piercing, blue eyes.

“John.”

3.5

(An excerpt from my notebook)

Time: around 7:32 a.m., May 31st (the day after Sheyd’s death)

Documentary contents:

    I sit at the table, stirring my lump of thick, slushy cereal.

Mom leaves home early that morning. It’s Saturday, but she has a part-time job at the pot factory. Nothing can change her agenda, not even with her crying last night over her dead son. Normally, I’d be glad. It would mean another day sneaking around, loitering with Sheyd. But no, that’s taken away from me, too.

 She’s left me with John. Period. End to discussion.

I leave my breakfast alone. The cereal tastes revolting without Sheyd’s cheerful munching noises. I go to the bathroom to wash myself. I take a step and reach for my toothbrush.

Then there’s the winding of the knob. My toothbrush slips from my fingers. I’ve been locked inside.

I twist around and I see John at the door, a hand resting on the knob. Just perfect. He’s saved a private torturing chamber for me. He’s going to kill me, like he did to Sheyd last night. I’m going to join him.

But he just stands there, with no smirk, no expression. His eyes are still red and swollen. Red of crying, not of irritation. He had given himself to tears so he could convince mom the night before. He’s still in his pajamas; not wearing the suit dad’s given him. He’s not going to splatter his filthy brother’s blood on his best clothes.

“So what do you think of me now, little brother?” he leaves his leaning position and walks toward me. The loping pace, but it’s what unnerves me.

You’re a dictator, a tyrant, a murderer. You give me back my Sheyd. You give back my life. But I don’t say anything.

As if knowing my thoughts, John tilts his head in an almost impossible angle. “I’m going to tell you something, little Crispus. You just listen up. Don’t say anything, or I’ll strangle you. I don’t need you to believe me.”

I don’t move. I don’t speak.

He studies me, and then pauses. His face gleams in the weak morning light. A hauntingly pale face. “You know what, little bastard? I didn’t do it. I know, you think I’m the one who took your sweet little bastard brother Sheyd. I didn’t. We’re father’s bastards, we’re all his slaves. We’re on the same wretched boat.” And he suddenly starts laughing.

His talk doesn’t make sense. Unable to tame my feet, I take a shaky step backwards. But he only edges in closer, his hungry laughing enclosing.

“You think I’m crazy. You’re right. In some ways, you’re right. Oh I just can’t wait for your birthday, beloved Crispus. Then you’d join us. We’ll grab you down the swamp. Let’s see how you’ll deal with it. No Sheyd is ever going to stop your fate.”

John’s taking his time, treading his steps. I’ve got nowhere to hide. He grabs me by the collar, watching me the way ferocious cats spy on mice. “I’m sorry I have to do this, little brother. Just don’t scream or make any sound. Do it for my sake, your poor brother. If you don’t let me, I’m afraid I’ll go mad,” he runs his long fingers across my crawling skin, purring.

Then John lunges, pushing his weight on me. He strips my t-shirt. The air is chilly and stinging against my skin.

“Good job, you didn’t make a sound,” he murmurs, like a croon. “This is going to hurt.”

I feel myself squirming. When’s the time it doesn’t hurt? I want to thrust him away. More than ever, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me, his ravage on me. I haven’t been this scared before. But he just fastens me with his legs.

He runs a cold finger across my belly. “It’s going to hurt the way it never did before.”

And he sinks his teeth into my flesh.

4

I’m stuck in the hospital with my evil brother.

He watches me silently, relishing the fact that I’m helpless, that I’m not going to run. And a smile curls the corner of his lips, “Crispus, little brother.” He lays his hand on my shoulders. I expect him to throttle me, but he doesn’t. He won’t do it in public.

The doctor, naming Richard, seems relieved, “So it’s a family reunion. This is the youngest… uh… John?” He addresses my brother in an awkward manner.

“Who else can he be?” John says pleasantly.

Curtly and hastily, Richard nods, “I see the family resemblance.”

John studies the expression on my face, unable to suppress his widening smile. He knows how I hate it when people say we resemble each other. He smooths my shirt, the one Graves gave me. “I suppose it’s a family reunion night?” I’ll never have a family without Sheyd, you slaughterer. “A guy’s night out, Crispus…? I’ll buy you ice-cream.” He tries to act casual, and not to my surprise, fails. Acting normal is John’s only drawback.

But I nod. He wants to talk? Then I’ll go along with it. “I love ice-cream,” I add with fake enthusiasm.

Before we leave, John turns to Richard again, “The deadline’s tomorrow morning before dawn, my friend. Do it.” He whispers the last sentence with a hungry breath. Richard fidgets uncomfortably, glancing at me. Seeing that, John purses his lips with satisfaction and pushes me out of the hospital.

We’re out on the streets. The mumbling of a rain speaks up. So he drags me into a crowded old bar.

The place is old-fashioned, with only the murky light of the candles and the laughter of drunken human beings. I know why he’s chosen this place. No one will see us. No one will hear us over the uproar of noises. No one will ever know what has happened to me if John threatens my life. We settle down.

“You didn’t come all the way here just to see me, little brother,” there’s a rose on the table; John twists it in its glass. “I say, we all know what’s happened, don’t we? You have such sharp teeth; even I have to admit it. What can I say? I’m proud, Crispus. You ripped out that poor bastard of a boy, even worse than I bit you.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“His bed is empty. Where is he?” I won’t let him say anything more. He knows how to get on my nerves.

John gives me a calm smile, “Where do you think?”

I don’t want to contemplate. My eyes go down-cast. In the gauzy candle light, I see his right arm, the blue veins tightening with tension. There’s a tattooed mark on his wrist, black and ugly like a wound, gleaming. And it dawns on me. He’s lost his Band-Aid. The mark was underneath it. My left upper arm prickles.

A bit pale, I look up. “He can’t be dead,” I whisper.

John’s face has a ghostly glee, “So clever, little brother. You should’ve seen it, all the blood and the gore. The little sucker’s not dead, but nearly. I have to say, I can’t help but appreciate your compassion, sweet Crispus. Don’t go looking for him. We have people in the hospital. Your dear friend has already been removed.”

We… he says we. My stomach has an uncomfortable tightness.

“The room number on the computer is a fraud. You put it there.”

“… So you’ll find me. Yes, little Crispus. I’m just as dying for a family reunion. Hate to admit, you’re the brightest child I’ve seen of your age.” He’s mortifying me, insulting me. He outsmarted me and he’s there to compliment on my intelligence.

“That man in the room with you. You’re tempting him to murder.”

John shrugs, a ghost of a smile playing around the corner of his lips, “I’m only protecting you. If the blood result comes out and they test the mucus, your mucus, what will happen to my precious little brother?” He tries to brush me with his hand but I cringe. He laughs. “Juvenile institution the least…”

He tips the glass with the rose, water dribbles out. “You’re twelve, I assume? Ever missed your eighth birthday dinner?” His eyes flicker to me. Behind the leering laugh and the careless tone, there’s something writhing. Writhing, hatred, resentment.

I don’t say anything. I can read him. He’s trying to tell me: Four years you’ve run away from this, little bastard. You think you can escape this any longer? I’ll make sure your thirteenth birthday is more miserable than mine. I’ll make you cry. You never can run.

“… I say, we’ll make up this loss. Sunday, I’ll get you to our new house. An extravagant dinner is just what you need, little brother…” he says softly.

Sunday is the day after tomorrow. But a new house…? Mom bought a new house? It seems unlikely.

I start to ask him, but he slides away from the seat. Leaving me no choice, I lag behind him.

The rain’s already a curtain of draping water, refusing to slacken. Wind buffets. Droplets sway. “Looks like I’ll have to take you to where you live, little Crispus,” John murmurs, almost like a croon, a sordid croon.

“No. He’s with me tonight,” a clear voice unties me from my strait.

Both of us turn. Sade is standing there, twirling an umbrella in one hand. Her wet hair is dripping gold, her eyes agleam in the street light. She’s been looking for me all this time. I can’t believe it.

I hear John stifling a laugh. But his finger nails dig its way into my neck nonetheless. “Well, then, little brother. I suppose it’s now private time with your girlfriend,” he says smoothly. There’s an instance when his eyes and Sade’s meet. Sade scowls and turns sideway. And then John’s gone, the sound of his scornful laughter rippling.

We’re silent as we pick our way back.

Finally, Sade whistles. “I’m guessing that’s your brother?”

“You know him.”

“No, but I know a cussed bully when I see one.”

She studies me. I haven’t seen her up close like this. Her drenched hair still has the curly quality. The rain smooths it into a rich, warm honey color. Why am I noticing this?

“You’ve followed me here, why?”

Sade makes tssk sounds with her teeth, “Graves would want me to. We’re afraid you’ll do something stupid. And proves that you really did.”

 You’re right. Sorry, I’m really sorry. But I bite that back, “We’re going back to the store.”

To my astonishment, she knows it’s my way of asking a question, “Then where do you want to go?”

The only thing I can think of is John’s hostile invitation. Sunday, I’ll get you to our new house. It doesn’t say what it means.

“I’m going to pay my old house a visit.”

4.5

(An excerpt from my notebook)

Time: around 6:37 a.m., December 29th (the day after Sheyd’s eighth birthday)

Documentary contents:

A chilly, wintry morning. The straggler of the blizzard is still lagging behind. Snowdrift swallows everything. The icicles start trickling with water. It’s when it gets cold, colder still.

All three of us are awake, even John. The frigidness bites our feet like gangrenes, even under the covers. All kids will lie in today, but no the Fallses. Staying in bed is just as dreadful as getting up. For the first time in years, we roll out of bed and head for the kitchen in unison.

Mom’s still sleeping, but we start the breakfast anyway.

John chews a mouthful of yesterday’s peanut butter and jelly. Sheyd pours me water (we’re out of milk), making cereal for me. He’s still wearing his washed-out, faded t-shirt the night before. I glance at him to see whether he has tear stains. He refuses to look up until the water over-brims and dribbles out, cereal flakes floating.

“Something on your mind, birthday boy…?” John smirks, wiping his mouth.

Sheyd glares at him, but his voice remains calm, “You’re just happy we’re on the same boat now.” He scoops up a handful of cereal and it scrunches between his teeth. I put my spoon down. It’s not the familiar, cheerful crunching, but in a loud way that shows frustration.

John sits down again, twisting the spoon. I only see a warped smile. “Well, we’re not just on the same boat, pretty little Sheyd. Give you a few years, probably, and you’ll have a new start. You’ll start talking like me, acting like me, torturing our dear little brother here like me…”

“Fucking shit shut your mouth, John,” Sheyd slaps the cereal box down, flattening it.

“…And by then, even little Crispus will be afraid of you, because you’ll be just like his villainous brother John…”

Sheyd twists his lips, “I said, shut your fucking mouth.”

“But does that matter? Our sweet little Crispus will be dragged into this sooner or later. You won’t be able to protect him…”

Sheyd leaps to his feet. I can’t describe his face. When Sheyd gets mad, he scares me, scares me more than John does. John doesn’t have a temper, he’s the temper himself. Sheyd rarely has a tantrum. That’s what makes him frightening.

“John, get up. The bathroom. Now,” he says icily, eyes unblinking.

John only laughs. A shrill, wry laugh. “You want to beat me? Sheyd, you want to beat me up?” he looks up, all smileys and twisted.

“Or are you too scared to bring down your brother? Your weakling, girly, and bastard younger brother…? Maybe you need to put together a gang so they can protect you, protect you from your filthy weak brother because you’re even weaker than him?” Sheyd retorts, playing his cool. He leans in, “It’s winter, John. It’s my world. My time. I can deck you like a frozen chicken.”

John stops laughing. His lips curl into a cruel shape. “So he’s told you.”

The talking ends there. They turn themselves from the kitchen. Sheyd’s about to leave, but I’m still holding his hand. His fingers entwine with mine, curling gently. He turns. And he manages to smile, “Crisps, you’re out of this. I promise you, you’re forever out of this.”

Then he does something unexpected. For the first time since I can remember, he kisses me. H just lowers himself. He dips his head down and plants it gently on my forehead.

John’s halfway out, sneering, “How touching, Sheyd. Saying your last words to little Crispus?”

There’s something in Sheyd’s eyes, the dangerous red light. He brushes me aside and goes with John. “Don’t come. Crisps, you stay there. Do you hear me?” And they lock the bathroom door. The latching noise. The hauling of curtains.

I wait for five seconds. Then I swing myself for the bathroom. Something like fear rides inside me.

I feel I just have to glimpse under the crack.

And I know what the curtains are for. Sheyd already stripped John, and he himself is half-naked. And I can see the effect on them. John’s not used to the cold, his body stiffer than it was so many times before. Sheyd’s lither, quicker as he dodges John’s attack. But the third time John brings him down. Sheyd rolls around so they’re both sprawled on the hard floor. Wrestling. Grappling. And I’m just watching them.

“Crispus, are your two brothers inside?” I’ve been so perplexed I haven’t noticed Mom, standing behind me, frail, frightened, but still demanding.

By then the two are brawling mad. John’s fingers are slowly curling around Sheyd’s neck. Sheyd has his leg angled toward John’s crotch. With Mom outside, they have to stop.

Before she can react, I bang on the door, “They won’t let me in, Mom! They say they’re playing a prank on me! They won’t let me in! And I want to pee!” I use my best fake, baby voice. I think the two get the message.

The door unlatches from the inside. Mom and I throw ourselves in. And my brothers are acting like a big happy family. Both are well-dressed. John’s brushing his teeth. Sheyd’s wiping his face with his towel, sees us, and grins. The two starts laughing, slapping each other on the back.

“Oh, that’s good, boys. I thought something’s going around…” she looks accusingly at me as if I’m the one who’s mingled in a fight. She leaves.

 Seeing that mom’s out of sight, my brothers stay apart from each other as fast as they can. “Varmint,” Sheyd spits into his towel and thrusts it at John.

5

I’m back on the rusty old streets. The creaking apartment greets me with a moan of its pipes. The restless mildew has woven into a tumultuous jungle on the wall. Huge spiders occupy the corners.

Sade brushes aside the cobwebs, moistening her lips. Quite silent.

We’re in front of the door. For the past few years, I always kept the key, thinking that I might return for a break-in. I fish my pocket for it.

Sade whistles, but even I can tell she’s more disturbed. “You’re not going inside, are you? I’ll kill you if I were your mom. And… your mom’s sleeping right now.” There’s grief in her eyes I can’t interpret.

“They’ve moved, Sade,” then pause. “John says they have a new house somewhere.”

She laughs uneasily. “You believe that crap he says? Then why are you here, checking? Well, if they’ve moved, there’s nothing to see, is there, Crispus?” she retorts. I hate her quick tongue.

“No one’s asked you to come,” I say quietly. She winces at me response, pained.

I shove in the key, twisting it. I’ve barely opened the rusty lock when I hear footsteps. Flustered, I slide out the key and turn on my heels. My hand lands on the stair railing and I’m about to fling myself down, when…

“Cris…Crispus?” A woman’s voice. I don’t want to turn. I’m afraid if she starts calling my name again, I’ll cry. I’m afraid if I see her face, I’ll decide to stay with her. Guilt washes over me but I’m still trying to hide it.

Gradually, I turn. My lip twitches, “Mom. It’s me.”

I didn’t even turn around then, but she grabs my slippery fingers and yanks me toward her. This catches me off-guard. I was waiting for her yelling or her screaming, but not hugging. She never hugged me before. I’ve always pulled her off.

I try to pry her away, saying, “Mom, please…”She won’t budge.

“Thank god… thank god…” she smooths my ruffled hair, biting my ear fiercely, kissing me over and over again, tears welling in her eyes, “I thought I’m going to lose you…”

My heart aches. I give in. I return her a peck on the forehead.

She laughs. A tinkling, honey laugh. Suddenly, Mom looks up. “Sheyd…? Crispus, is that…?”

I turn, shocked that she’s even mentioned his name.

Sade, despite herself, has shrunk into the shadows. Hiding. Her head shifts, even more startled than I am. It’s obvious why she’s been mistaken. Sade has the blond hair, the blue eyes, and even Sheyd’s chin. It’s anguish to my memory. But still miraculous. Mom’s been aching for Sheyd all these years, it’s no wonder.

Sade shakes her hair down and starts chewing a strand. Mom seems to overlook her long hair and her breast. “Sheyd…? Sheyd…! Sweetie, you’re back！”Disregarding Sade’s yells of protest, Mom pulls her into her embrace, knocking her head with mine. Sade’s dismayed look is priceless.

Mom ushers us by the table. “You two… hungry…?” She’s laughing and shedding tears at the same time. Her gaze settles on Sade longer than necessary. But she just fiddles with her blouse.

“Sa… Sheyd and I have eaten,” the name burns my tongue. But I force myself to convince mom.

“Well, then, off to bed. I’ll make breakfast, dears,” Mom says, more than a bit cheerfully.

Sade’s still stuck on the chair, so I kick her shin. I thrust her out. Then I turn, looking at my mom, steadying my breath. This is why I’m here. “Where’s John… Mom?”

Her hand flies to her throat. Her black hair has gray streaks I haven’t noticed. She’s aged while I’m growing, maturing. And I just left her. “They’ve taken him,” she swallows, voice shattered, threatening to cry, “took him… they ripped his Band-Aid. Poor Johnny…”

“Who?”

“Men, men with the Band-Aids… a charity organization… That’s what he told me… he told me it’s my husband’s wish… told me not to interfere…”She sinks her head into her lap, her face wet.

My heart softens. But I leave.

I flick the on the light in my room. Sade’s inside, with her face sullen. She doesn’t look at me. The bitterness in her tone is unmistakable, “Your mom, she’s mistaken me for…”

“My second brother, Sheyd. He’s dead.”

“Oh, that’s… sorry. Gods, I am good at foiling people’s feelings, am I?” her lips are livid when she mumbles. A pause, “Do I look like him that much?”

Hesitantly, I nod, “He’s good-looking.”

She doesn’t buy it. Her voice cracks, “…Your mom has a… problem, Crisps. I’m not offending; I’m just pointing it out. She’s missed you, you two, too much. I think she’s… sort of…I can’t say it…”

I switch off the light. She stops talking. I switch it on again. Opening the closet, I pull out two sleeping bags. One’s Sheyd’s, the other John’s, mine’s back in the antique store. I thrust Sheyd’s sleeping bag to Sade.

“Whose is it?”

“Sheyd’s… Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I don’t really hate dead people. Thanks.”

I whirl around, questioning.

“I’m thanking you. You gave me your favorite brother’s sleeping bag. You’re using John’s. I know you hate him to deuce, Crisps.”

“You know Sheyd’s my favorite.”

“Well, how many brothers do you have?”

I shrug. Lights off. I lug John’s sleeping bag out into the living room. I’m ready to close the door.

“What… are you doing, Crisps?”

I look back at her. The only thing I can see is the shaft of light leaking in from outside, illuminating her face. Her haunted, frightened face.

“I thought girls need private.”

“We do, yes, but… but not me...” Her voice grows small, child-like, unlike her laughing self.

“What do you need? I can leave the door open.”

“Crispus, can you… can you come in? I know you think it’s ridiculous. I… just need someone in my room.” She pleads.

Dead silence that checks the heart.

“It’s not right,” I finally find my voice.

Sade almost chokes out laughing, as if teasing my immature. “It is right if you’re soothing a friend, Crispus.” A friend… she admits she’s my friend. Before now, my only friend was Sheyd, and he’s dead for four years.

I return, latching the door. I settle the sleeping bag at the other end of the room. “How’s that?”

“I’ll… try to manage,” Sade whispers. She punches her sleeping bag and scrunches under it. For the next ten minutes, she’s making small noises in the throat. I don’t complain. She doesn’t disturb me. I need at least three hours to get ready for closing my eyes. But then the next ten, it sounds like she’s squirming, writhing, smothered. Finally she unleashes herself and I hear weeping.

Stirring from my bed, I turn on the light. She turns to me and I can’t describe her face, the pain, the dread.

“You’re afraid of the dark,” I say calmly.

“No,” she rasps, shaking with the hotness of her tears. “Fuck the god…fuck my dreams and my d…” Even now, she’s swearing.

 “You want me to leave the light on?”

“Doesn’t help, darned… It’s the bullshit stupid nightmares, I told you. The moment I fall asleep and they snap on. Like a horror movie… that’s never going to end.”

I feel she’s hoodwinking me. But I see her eyes, drearily stricken and haunted with woe.

I leave it to her, “What do you want?”

“Do me a favor, please,” she breathes, with her voice tentative and achingly affecting. “It seldom helps, and I can’t let you…forget that crap. Just…well, hold my hand.”

I pause. Then I drop John’s sleeping bag next to hers. I jam myself into the covers, sinking in. She slides into hers, her breathing steadies. I rest an arm on the narrow gap of floor between us. Sade grapples for it. Her slim, soft hand brushes my coarse, rough ones. Our fingers lock.

“Thanks. I know it’s hard for you, Crisps.”

I stay silent.

She still gropes around, but not as fiercely. There are numerous times which she throat gargles, stirring with a shattered scream. She clasps my hand tighter, fingers coiling. Finally, around 2:34 a.m., she doses off into a coma-like sleep.

I stay awake that night, watching into the dark.

6

I move the ragged drapes from my sight. I watch as the first streak of light touches the horizon. Stars fade, sky lightens, and the night dissolves into day.

Sade doesn’t bring up the night before. I’ll feel stroppy and she knows it. We are to depart for the Antique Ubiquitous.

I tweak the door open. Mom’s still at the dining table, sleeping soundly and well. I can’t afford to look at her. I’ll feel sorry. I don’t want to feel sorry, running away the second time. The first night she hugs me. I know the next she’ll ignore me. And then the yelling and whining will start. Especially with Sheyd in the house.

We expose ourselves to the street, while cool air runs into us. We thread through the slum and somehow stumble into the familiar dark alley. Graves’s waiting for us in front of the creaking store plaque.

“Punks!” he tries to sound irritated, but his voice seems like squawking. He drops the tone and starts chuckling again. His hand grinds into Sade’s armpit, “You weasels… leaving an old man alone in his poor house, while you two run out at night having a slumber party? Maybe next Friday, you’d be watching movies together and all the mushy…”

“Graves, you old asshole!” Sade screams.

“We’re at my house,” I explain.

That, momentarily, shuts Graves up. “Oh…” he says, “I see…” He nods briefly, acknowledging me. He goes back in. That old man knows something. I dig my fingers into my pocket.

Breakfast is good. Maple syrup. Pancakes. The noisy blare from the old radio. Laughter. More than I can ever ask for. Sade dips her sticky finger into the syrup. Fortunately, Graves isn’t looking, reading a newspaper.

A glimpse at the news he’s skimming. And I feel my spines tingling. Sade notices and follows my gaze. We reach for the newspaper at the same time.

“Is that …your jerk brother?” she whispers.

I don’t say anything.

John’s all perfect, dressed like a banker, smiling his fake, carefree smile at the camera. Standing next to him is Raphael Gallagher, the mayor. I skim the news, skin crawling. The words coil in my mind like serpents. Mayor Gallagher is elected president of Angels’ Wings Charity Raise, the country’s largest charity association for children and orphans… the vice president’s position falls to John Gallagher, former star medal winner of the Olympic Mathematics Competition… currently Mayor Gallagher’s adoptive son… The Angels’ Wings Charity Raise has the most influence…

I slap it down. So that’s what he meant by a new house. John Gallagher… Getting himself associated with socially-prominent politicians is exactly what John does. Give him a few years, he’ll figure out how to build nuclear weapons and bring forth World War III. He abandoned mom. Like how Sheyd left her. Like how I fled from her. I’m just as evil. I crumble the newspaper just after Sade read it.

Graves shrieks, “Hey, kid! I haven’t finished with the suicide on the last page… The hospital…”

Even before he finished it, I knew. Trembling, I extend the newspaper. There it is. His name, McMillan, smacked in the middle of the page. It’s the colleague Richard was threatened to murder …Found dead last night… jumped from a twenty-story-high apartment… a suicide… nobody has been seen entering his room in the video camera… a suicide. I hurl the newspaper aside.

“It’s a murder,” I say it before I can hit myself.

The two stare at me.

“I’ll be excused,” I push my way out, a convulsive twitch on my fingers. What about Corlic? Can he possibly be dead by now? With John as the vice president, the stupid children charity is darned to destroy him. It’ll be on me. All on me.

“Crisps, you’re not…” Sade begins, concerned. Graves hushes her up, telling her to leave me alone. He’s right, I need private. Private time considering possible ways of suicide.

I swing myself out, leaning against the door. The cold morning wind billows into my face. My skin burns like in a kiln, red and hot. But my eyes aren’t. Still darned dry. I want to strangle myself.

An hour passes when something happens. The Antique Ubiquitous has its first customers in two days.

I notice them when they’re merely shadowy figures, emerging. It’s a lean man with a teenage brunette girl, walking toward the end of the alley, toward the store. I get to my feet, ready to slink from their sight. But the man waves, he’s seen me.

“The store’s open, my boy?” the man gives me a tired, but gentle smile. Half of his smile. My gaze falls on him for too long. The man has a mask secured to his face, designed to conceal the face from the right half. His right eye is unseen, hidden beneath the mask.

I hesitate. Realizing that the man’s addressed me, I nod.

“Mute, are you?” the girl grumbles. She studies me. Her eyes are alarming, brown, but with a tint of sharp gold. Then I notice the man’s watching me, too. His visible eye focuses on me. It’s a gentle, exhausted eye, which I like. But I wrench my face away. The odd gazes stop.

Thankfully, I don’t need to call Graves. He and Sade appear at the door. “Welcome to Antique Ubiquitous, folks! It’s full of things you have never… uh, I mean have ever…” The festive welcoming halts, when the storekeepers see who the customers are. I hear Sade crunch the cereal she’s eating.

She recovers first. “Oh, damn, Charles, I didn’t know you’re supposed to be here!” she manages with an expression mismatched to her astounded tone. Graves eyes her with suspicion, as if saying why didn’t you tell me you know this bad guy?

Charles, the masked man, shrugs, “We heard you’re here, Sadie… it is Sadie, right? Aryeh and I decide to drop by to visit…”

Aryeh perks her eye-brows at her father, but says nothing.

“… and we came across this handsome young man,” Charles winks at me. It seems like an effort to him, with the tremor of the eye-lid. But I don’t even look in his direction.

“Crispus,” Sade whistles, “his name’s Crispus.” She acts casual, but I know she’s testing him with contempt, to see how he’ll react to my name. There’s a throb in Charles’s eyes, but he only nods. Aryeh wrinkles her nose.

Before there’s any further chaos, Graves claps his hands in a too merry way, “Alright, people! You’ve come to see the store! So let’s see our beautiful treasures!” He swings the door open, marching in. We trail in, a stiff, packed-up group.

Graves conducts us to the shelves of scraps he calls antiques. He tries to get a conversation going, “Beautiful weather, eh…?” “Had a nice trip to our place?” “That’s my most precious shoe-box collection, people!”

“Nice boxes.” “Yeah, sure…” “Graves, you’re an asshole!” That’s pretty much what they’ve been saying. They’re trying to be pleasant. The atmosphere’s growing tenser still, ill-tempered. With the constant curses, the questioning looks, the glares and grimaces secreted from me. There’s a time when Aryeh points out something on the shelf. Charles yanks her away. What are they trying to hide?

The tedious tour goes on for hours. Charles brushes his sweaty brow, “Excuse me for a while, can you…? Bathroom?” He sees me watching him. Before I can jerk my neck, I catch a glimpse of the quick interest in his eyes.

I pause, curling my tongue. “I’ll show the way.” I lead Charles upstairs before Sade starts glowering at me.

I linger at the door. He beckons me inside with a friendly gesture. He wants to talk in confidence? In the bathroom? I’ll keep his company, gladly. I glance at Charles. I still can’t remove my eyes from his curious mask. The seemingly singed skin underneath.

He settles my thoughts with a twitch of a smile. “I won’t bother you for long. Your two friends will get suspicious…”

“They hate you. Why?”

Charles blinks. That eye, the kind that never tics with a lie. “…please, we don’t have time, my boy. You don’t know what’s lying before you… Grave danger… I’m sorry I can’t help more…”

“What?” But he shakes his head, silencing me. I shut up and immediately know why.

There are footsteps. Sade’s. I recognize the frantic pace.

Charles grips my shoulder tighter. “… here, Crispus,” he slides me a note. Negligibly small. I pocket it.

We burst into the corridor just as Sade reaches us. “This quick, Charles…?” Sade inquires sarcastically, an eye-brow arched, “I thought you’re going to have a lecture.” There’s a moment when the two’s eyes lock. Sade grasps me by my wrist and pulls me downstairs.

Charles and the girl leave without another word.

Half an hour later. Coast cleared. I reach down for the note. It’s not even in a code. In black and white is a website link.

www.the-band-aid.com

Band-Aid. The one on John’s wrist. The one on Sheyd’s neck. The one on my left upper arm. I taste something in my mouth, sordid and foul and twisted.

7

An afternoon compounded with sweat and heat, and my work’s done for the day. I’ve contemplated the idea of stealing out at night again. Considering Sade and her ravenous eating habits, I decide otherwise.

“I’m going to the library,” because there are computers there, with Internets. “I’m lagging behind school work.” A lie. But people like top pupils.

Sade’s eyes brighten, “I’ll go with you.” I think she’s found me distrustful, but her elated tone hauls my mind around. “Let’s eat out, Crisps. We go to Burney’s. Fast-food. The lady there likes me and gives me extra-large ice-cream cones. Then we go around the town and we’ll reach the library…” What? I find myself stranded.

“Wait, you two, hanging out at night again? You think I’m that stupid, Sade?” Graves grunts, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Aw, damn, come on, Graves! We’ll bring take-out. Curly fries, Graves! The curly fries, all that crust and the golden crunch… ketchup and…”

Graves’s face lights up, but he manages a fake, grudging voice, “Well, I suppose I don’t have to cook tonight…”

And Sade drags me out while I’m still speechless. I hate her.

Minutes later, we’re in the crammed restaurant. Noisy, jostling, the racket, the kids screaming, it’s like a packed-up market. Sade manages to get a seat for both of us.

Surprisingly, it’s a quiet dinner. Cross out the background noise. Sade doesn’t talk, possibly thinking her voice will be submerged by the rumpus anyway. The noises only seem distant and vague while we eat. It preserves the silence of the meal, the way I like it.

No one asks questions. No one’s poking a nose into another’s business. I’m free in eating. I don’t think about a badly injured Corlic, tomorrow’s dinner with John, the murder, mom, Sheyd or anything. Or the note, tucked in my pants pocket. I just nibble I can, savoring my first taste of fries and pops in years.

The only disturbing thing? The lady at the counter jokes if Sade has brought over her boyfriend. She laughs like it’s absurd, or stupid. I turn away, reddening the slightest bit.

The tray’s emptied. We leave for the public library. Almost by accident, I lead the way, through shortcuts across town most people don’t even notice. We go along deserted side streets, passing shopping centers droning with people. A few twists traipsing through Memorial Park, we see the white dome of the library. My fingers gnaw at the note.

Sade notices me tightness. “Damn, why are you so silent around me?” she finally asks.

I eye her. I thought she’s noticed. “I’m not used to talking.”

“You used to… Aargh, forget it,” she sizes me up again. “Look, the morning news, I know it’s all sordid bullshit…And about Charles and Aryeh, they’re…”

She stops talking when I twist my head around. I’m afraid she’ll bring up my chat with Charles. The death warning.

The library greets us, with the familiar scent of printed paper and the bright-lit shelves. It’s large. Large enough for me to lose Sade in five minutes. I go straight into the reference room.

The small, squat librarian at the enquiry desk sees me, nods, and returns back to his work. I’ve been here almost every week. The librarian knows a street kid well to ignore him.

I reach for the nearest computer logging in the browser. With trembling fingers, I go on inserting the web name by rote. The webpage appears. It’s only a computer game. The Band-Aid Games. I scroll through the screen. It’s that kind of crap in which kids go on a dull, tiresome mission to beat zombies or something. I feel confusion gripping on me. Why show me a computer game?

I glance back at the librarian. He’s nodding on the phone, copying something down. I should be relieved, but instead feel a new discomfort. Why am I so easily neglected?

Danger, grave danger… Charles’s raspy voice.

What if I find something about Corlic? The wound I’ve opened won’t at least get any worse.

I hit the key and the screen goes rolling. My avatar appears, landing on the streets of what looks like our town. It is a local website. I see the way the roads are arranged, stretching toward Memorial Park. I even catch a glimpse of the twisting alleys behind me.

It takes me some time to adjust to the game. I’ve only watched other kids play. I was usually jammed in the middle of screaming kids that were glued to screen, unable to get out. So helplessly, I had to watch them play. Now I’m glad I did.

I click the scene and I go on. The streets are deserted and the dreary sky pushes down on me. I wonder when I’ll meet a stupid enemy. Unfocused and bored, I bump into someone. I’ve already had my weapons positioned, a hand on the strike key. Games start like that. With a hard strike on you first.

He turns. But all I can do is gawk before the screen. My fingers go slippery and slides down from the keyboard.

Sheyd. It’s a cartoon version of my brother. The game depicts his eyes and that brilliant gold of his hair, even the Band-Aid fresh on the back of his neck. I watch as Sheyd hugs my avatar and messes with my hair. My consciousness lags behind and seems to be bogging down.

Then someone separates us. John, with that cartooned but unmistakable sneer, pulls Sheyd to his side. Sheyd doesn’t object, but hooks his arm around John’s shoulder, ignoring my existence. The two tease and laugh and walk away.

Sheyd betrayed me, forsook me. No, that’s not true. He’ll never let me down, not if hell freezes over. Besides, he’s dead, dead. Stupid. Just a game. A stupid game. For once in a few years, I feel anger smothering. Then I feel someone behind me.

“You’ll be so doom fried if someone finds out you’re hit playing on that computer,” it’s Sade. Being too distracted, I don’t know when she slipped up behind me. I shut the browser, my tenseness returns. I can’t withhold the tightness that haunts my eyes and Sade’s detected it.

She punches me on the back. “Come on, you don’t look like you’re going to stay. Here, have Graves’s fries, he won’t mind.” She conducts me outside. But I see something darkening in her eyes as she glanced back at the computer. She’s seen the game. I know it. But it soon passes and Sade starts cramming curly fries down her throat, before any librarian can stop her.

Silently, I share a bit with her, trying to nurse the food down, trying to wash down the dreadfulness the game’s left me. Sade’s aware of my discomfort, saying nothing but watching me with a tranquil eye.

8

We’re back in an hour. Graves protests about the scant amount of his fries and calls Sade nasty names. But he only touches my head gently, joking that my appetite’s grown. I just shake my head and walk into my room, sullen, dismal, and wasted-tired of anything.

Presently, lights are extinguished and the house falls into a soundless asleep along with the alley.

But I can never sleep. The note is crumpled in my fist. I start to hate Charles. I resent John even more. And I start to hate Sheyd, even though it’s irrational. Stupid. Pointless. Only Sade and Graves are my support, but they’re strangers I’ve met for merely two days.

I give up on tossing or turning, so I get up, tweaking the door open. My toes tingle as I reach for the bathroom, barefooted. Then I stop. A silent glow of light is on down stairs. Not in the kitchen. Sade’s room. She has sleeping problems again. A pause and I pick my way down.

There’s a tangled tightness in me when I touch her door. Something’s afoot. There’s a feeling, a feeling that I have to check before knocking. I crouch down. The filmy light of her room comes in sight through the crack. I see her room. I see the ones inside. And I don’t know what to think.

Sade’s cuddling on her bed, with her back to me. I sense her soft mirth, hindering her laughter at an unheard joke.

She’s not alone.

A teenage boy’s along with her, olive-skinned. He’s easing himself beside her bedpost, wearing a perfect smirk. I don’t recognize him. Sade’s never mentioned him, either. Why would she? But I can’t say I haven’t noticed his silky black hair and that angular face, with high cheekbones. He’d have as much popularity among girls as Sheyd did.

It wouldn’t be more disturbing. The both are in their underclothes.

I should just leave and forget it all, sinking it into oblivion. But I can’t, with that tightness pressing on me.

The boy leans forward, an arm twining around her pale neck. A casual gesture that sends a prickle up my spine. Sade shifts a little. Sensing the girl’s discomfort, the boy breaks into a wide smile, “Why are you still staying this way? You don’t like it. And I’m not used to it.” He has a coarse, honeyed voice and a crafty tongue.

“Damn you, stop asking me that, Parsas,” but through those muffled chokes, I know she’s half laughing. “Really, someone might…”

“See you? See us? And you think it’ll be less embarrassing?” Parsas retorts, all cynical and taunting. He runs a hand through her hair, curling a strand around his fingers. Sade doesn’t shun. Smothered laughter. And they’re cushioned on the bed together, with Sade resting her head on Parsas’s lap and him caressing her hair.

“I’ve brought you something, golden-hair, you know that?” after a while of silent leisure, Parsas winks a swift smile.

She still lies there, relaxed, “It’s long past Valentine’s, Parsas. Piss off, drop it.” But there’s a distinct merriness in her tone.

His lips twitch and that sly smile deepens, “You can have it, just for tonight.”

Something hisses and I’m not prepared for it. Not at all. A belt, scaly green, moves out of the covers. A snake, ugly and writhing. It bares its fangs and slithers. Then it senses Sade’s presence and coils around her shin, twisting up to her thigh. I wait for her to scream because I feel like yelping and vomiting, but she doesn’t. She tilts her head and tickles it.

“You’ve brought Christian,” she whispers. That satisfaction, she sounds like she’s munching a granola bar. The snake hisses again, lifting its head heavily when hearing its name.

Parsas shoots her a look, “I don’t know he has a name.”

Sade just laughs as the slimy thing creeps into her collar, “Nothing, you ass, I just named him after…” She halts.

I didn’t make a sound. But something’s startled the boy. Parsas looks up. A sharp turn of his head. A cringe of my spine. And there’s gap of seconds in which we see each other, clear as ever. He’s familiar; or rather he has a celebrity’s face.

The snake feels the silence as well and desists its hissing, prowling away.

“Parsas, what’s wrong?” it’s Sade, a tinge of wariness in her voice.

“Bathroom,” he says smoothly. There’s a zipping of a jacket. I slip away from the crack.

The door opens. Parsas emerges, well-dressed. By then, I’m already up the stairs, watching him. He’s expecting me to react. But my coolness dumbfounds him.

He withholds quickly, lips twitching to smile. “Pardon,” he passes me. The bathroom door shuts with a quake.

Sade clashes out the room, mortified. She catches me going up the stairs. Our eyes meet. Hot guilt and embarrassment well up in hers. She rushes over and tries to grab for my hand. “Crispus, really… you don’t understand… I’m not even a… I can’t… I never thought you’d…” She stammers, eyes imploring. I can’t hear her. I don’t want to make sense of what she’s saying.

“I can’t believe you’ve dressed so quickly.”

And I turn and walk out of her sight.

9

Sade and I avoid talking to each other the next day. It’s a silent day. The meals are silent, with only Graves chatting as much as he can and we ignoring as much as he’s said. My laboring hours are silent. And my free time’s silent.

I should’ve relished the silence, like I used to do.

But I don’t. Emptiness stirs inside me, slithering up my limbs. I feel drugged but not being drugged enough.

And it’s Sunday already. And it’s near dusk. The distant sky-scrapers are only outlines, silhouetting against the setting sun. A blood-red sun. The light of the day dissolves and melts away. I walk out of the alleys. It’s no use, fleeing for it. John will find me, he always does.

I turn the corner and I see what’s waiting for me. A black limousine is parking by the sideway, shining and out of place. The door swings open when I come into sight. I go to the chauffeur with the blurred face behind the glass. “Crispus Falls, sir,” I inform him.

“Come in. Shut the door.”

“My brother…?”

“Shut the door.”

So I do. Streets twist, leaving the funky condos and tenements behind, heading for the most affluent neighborhoods in town. Past the dancing fountains. Past the thick foliage of trimmed shrubs. Then the car pulls up to a mansion. Eliminate the moats, the drawbridge and the turret, and it’s a clip off a medieval castle. My jaw tightens. It’s the mayor’s house. And now it’s also John’s.

I insist on trailing behind the chauffeur as he reaches the front porch. A door ring that sounds like the resonance of a church bell. And Raphael Gallagher’s at the door, shaking my hand like we’re old friends. He looks just like on the papers, a washed-out, printed photograph. I wasn’t really expecting him to greet me. Personally.

He gives me his professional smile in front of the cameras, “Crispus, my dear boy! …So glad to make your acquaintance. You’re just in time for dinner, come in, come in! John’s told us everything about you.” With a gesture that probably isn’t meant to be as demanding, the mayor guides me inside.

The house is lavishly furnished. But all I notice are the high ceilings and the infinite numbers of corridors. Larger and emptier than necessary.

Like all prominent families, the Gallaghers are all there in the main hall, pretending to treat a filthy street boy like a proper guest. While the mayor starts his crap introducing me, I watch with the corner of my eye. Audrey Gallagher looks even younger, more gracious than on the papers. Creamy eyes, arched, intelligent eye-brows, she can’t be older than thirty. And there’s the couple’s own son. I recognized him before I’ve even seen him.

There’s a silence as Parsas and I size each other up, calculating. Neither of us has forgotten the other’s face.

Audrey senses something. Maybe I’m imagining it, but she winks at me, “Well, dinner’s served. I believe there’s someone besides me who’s starving, Crispus?”

I nod. The quicker this ends the better.

Dinner’s fine, as fine as you can get with three pinch-mannered strangers, occupying only a corner of an epic, long dining table. It doesn’t take a while for me to notice something ironic. The inviter of this meal hasn’t shown his face.

Scraping of my fork. “Where’s John?”

The three put theirs down in uncanny unison. The mayor has a dry expression, glancing at the clock, “Alas, out dear boy’s late. Funny thing, he used to be punctual.”

“He probably doesn’t want to see his brother, does he?” Parsas eyes me, unblinking.

“Son,” the mayor folds his napkin away, quiet.

Reluctant, Parsas lowers his head, scowling, “Yes, father.”

The air tautens. I see Audrey fidgeting with her blouse, paling the while. But she manages, tentative, “John’s upstairs, in his room. He tells me not to interrupt. I don’t think he’s eaten anything today. Well, last night, he… he doesn’t have a good… mood.”

Temper, the word is close to her lips. She’s about to say temper. It doesn’t alarm me. Ever since I had a memory, John’s been laying his talons on me. The wrath in him knows no bounds and there’s never expiation.

Her sentence sinks in. The silence is dead, swallowing, and dead. Those knowing glances they’re passing. The Gallaghers knew, knew my brother’s irascibility, how devastating it is. Then why did they take him in? In the first place?

The meal goes on, through the appetizer, the main course, and the dessert. John never showed up. They try to bring up the heat of a normal dinner, talking about the news, their son’s day at school, and the mayor’s paperwork. But the emptiness has been sowed, ravenously stretching, venoming. I rejoice silently when the dishes are cleared away.

“John’s told you that you’re staying for the night, my boy?” mildly, the mayor smiles at me. I almost knock my funny bone on the edge of the table. But it’s Raphael Gallagher who’s asking. And John will kill me if I objected. That strange mark on his wrist gleams into sight. If he’s going to kill me, I’ll end more horrendously than Corlic.

Hesitantly, I nod.

Audrey puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s a gentle stroke and thankfully I didn’t jerk. “You and Parsas have already known? He’ll show you around. Really, you boys should be better acquainted.” She turns to her son.

He shrugs, “Of course, Audrey.” We share a rigid glance. Under the eyes of inspecting adults, we walk off.

10

People love latching their doors.

Parsas swings us into his room, latching the door. I’m imprisoned there, his lair. It’s unnecessary, really. Counting the priority of age, he’s around two or three years older. And it’s his house, he can throw down a fight anywhere and be claimed innocent.

I allow myself a few seconds to scan my surroundings. The room alone is bigger than our apartment, with its individual bathroom and rumpus room, strewn with black, shiny gee-whiz electronics. There’s a DVD player, a laptop computer and gadgets I haven’t even seen in stores. Our family only obtains a rusty TV set.

For a moment, we watch each other, silent, with him lounging on his bed and me standing there. Finally, knowing I’m mute, he breaks into a disdainful grin, “What, last night’s cool for you, I assume?”

He flops down, but his eyes are on me. Though he’s mocking, smirking, no humor touches his frigid eyes. I don’t talk, just reading the emotion in those wry eyes. He suddenly rolls over, laughing. “Sade’s not fine, is she?” he doesn’t hide the sarcasm in his tone, “She’s been whiny all day. As whiny as she can get, anyway… saying how you won’t talk her, saying that I disturbed you. What? Like I’m gonna scare you shitless? She does like you.”

My brow wavers. What’s he getting at?

He’s now looking at me upside down, leering in a way I can’t put right, “Don’t be embarrassed about it. You won’t be able to help it, can you? Sh…she’s a looker.” Parsas swallows, picking the drape of his four-poster bed. I notice his tone, the conflict. The hatred and the aspiration.

Swiftly, Parsas wrenches his head away, half snorting, and half talking to himself. “Don’t you worry,” he sounds quieter now, voice drowning. “We’ve known for two years, but we’re no friends. I’m nothing to her. Nothing but her therapist.”

Therapist? “She has a mental problem.”

Parsas cocks his head at me, as if suddenly realizing I can talk. “You’ve seen her sleep. All that childish screaming. What’s she asked you to do? Holding hands?” He roars with restless delight.

There’s a wrinkle of silence. He’s now getting up, sitting on his haunches. He knocks his head so it angles at the doorway. “Your brother’s room is right out the door. You don’t want to see him, do you? None of us does,” pause. “Except for Audrey. She and your brother. She’s his therapist, you know?” He casts me a wry glance, knowing I’ll speak.

Before I can strangle myself, I look up, “Audrey. You mean your mom.”

“Stepmom,” Parsas sounds elated to have finally hooked me. There’s something, the way he plays his words. He’s tempting me to ask, to drown me in the murk. But he rolls up from his bed, brushing his outfit, “Bathroom.”

He’s gone behind the door, hanging me there. The flump of the toilet seat. He’s going to take a while. I know what I’ll do. I’ll have to use his shiny computer.

I move from my position. My toes gnaw the floor. I lower myself before the bathroom. Unlike public cubicles, its door can be latched from both sides. A crisp metal clink. And I’ve latched him inside. The door is heavy, sound-proof. Even this close, I can’t hear him properly. Muffled voices. Nasty cursing. Menacing. But they’re only wallowing in the sea of silence. The thinnest of a smile creeps onto my lips.

I slide myself in front of the computer. And I’m back on the website. The screen rolls on with the familiar scene. My avatar bumps into Sheyd. I turn sideways until he and John are only dwindling shadows and I can’t recognize either of them. I pull on my avatar to follow.

But the screen gets stuck. Whips of bullets and fire rain down from behind. If I turn my avatar around, I’ll only face the predictable, functioned enemies. Normal kids will twirl their heels. Not me. I click forward to trail behind my brothers.

The screen gets stuck again, this time darkening. A window pops into sight. I skim the words. This game route is open for staffs or members only, please register your name in the margin.

Name. My head swims. I enter Charles, but it reverts. Please register in details. I’ll need a full name. The frantic banging of the bathroom door. Time is slinking. Fingers scratching the keys, I type in my own name, last name and all. To my discomfort, the window disappears, along with the shooting behind.

Now I’m catching up with the two. I can’t move my figure now. A video has been projected, replacing the game. We immerse ourselves in the darkness of the winding alleys. They turn constantly, lithe and sudden, as if to lose me. My figure stutters behind, straining to follow. Despite my years on the streets, I’ve already lost orientation.

We climb a spiral staircase, holding fast to the railing. I can’t see much. Seconds of groping in the dark. Then a murky light of a candle is aloft, illuminating the entrance to a room. But I don’t see my brothers anywhere. There’s a shove from the back and I know. They’ve trapped me.

One of them, John, I think, grabs me by my scruff. I’m facing a chamber thronged with people. I barely recognize any. But I see Band-Aids everywhere. Plastered on the arms. Wrapped around heels. Smacked on the face.

They’re brewing a fire in the room. People are packed around it, feeding it with white-hot coals. Smoke smothers, thickening, even watching it seems suffocating. Sensing my presence, the people turn their heels, their faces blurry in the rippling broiling air. It doesn’t take long before my attention falls upon the things they’re cradling. Black knives. Bubbling cups of dense, red liquid. Yellow parchment smeared with ink and images.

Someone takes me by the hand. Sheyd is beaming at me. Even in animation it seems so real and vivid. Then he speaks, “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt.” No. I can’t think right. It’s his voice in the computer. How the deuce did they record his voice? I feel my stomach churning with sickness, vile sickness.

Sheyd doesn’t pull me away from the ghastly scene. He just squeezes my hand, clutching. Then without me realizing, blood is squirting, smearing everywhere. I look down. My right arm is bleeding, the arteries pulsing, threatening to burst. Sheyd has drawn out a knife from my bleeding arm. A second strike.

Hot-red liquid splashes into the flames. The people are watching, hungry. The fire gurgles. Then something stirs in its center. A black shape, taking form, expanding. Seconds slip and the screen darkens. My avatar crumples to the ground. End of the game.

The sickness in my stomach flares up. I can’t even go to the bathroom.

There’s only a gap of seconds when I hear something else. A door slams open. But it’s not the bathroom door. John’s standing by the door, the real John. His eyes are blood-shot, a telltale of murder. As if knowing, he flicks an arm at the bathroom door and Parsas is out, panting.

But I can’t gather myself to shut the browser. It’s too late, John’s seen it. His eyes flash toward me, glinting scarlet. “Little bastard,” he whispers.

It happens so fast. And he’s on me, crushing me with a knee before his host’s son. Like the in the old days. But there’s something different. When his fingers pinch my neck, I feel fire scorching there, a spasm of pain so hot and anguishing that I want to pry my windpipes out. There won’t just be a blue bruise this time.

“I’ll tear your throat. Just a kindly little portion of what I’ve been feeling, sweet Crispus,” John’s voice is raspy in my ears. But I don’t see him. All I can make out is Sheyd, Sheyd slowly slicing open my wrists, slowly drawing out the trickling blood. No, it’s just a cruel game. It’s not real. But the two pains are so easily combining together, merging, compounding.

“John?” I look up. Raphael and Audrey Gallagher are in the hallway. They must’ve heard us, the ravaging chaos. And now they’ve seen us, John lunging on his little brother like a raptor, preparatory to split his throat. The mayor seems ill-stricken, his face tightening. But John doesn’t even look at them. His long fingers circle my windpipe.

“John, stop what you’re doing,” Audrey pleads, her voice soft, tentative. “You’re scaring the boys.”

The inhuman light in John’s eyes flickers. He finally looks up, “You’re not part of this.”

“If there’s anyone you want to hurt, anyone you want to aim your bile at, it’s supposed to be me. And I’m just as ready for it,” she sidles up to him, calm, placid. I draw a difficult breath.

John glances at her, fire weaving up in his eyes. His fingers tighten, knuckles whitening. And in a move of pure miracle, he releases my neck. Just like that, my brother’s letting me go. He knocks me aside, exiting. Still dazed, I rub my neck. No one’s ever stopped John, not mom, not even Sheyd.

Someone takes my hand. I look up and Audrey’s over my shoulder, a soft curl of her hair dipping. “Come on, little guy,” she says. “Let’s tend your hurt.”

11

“That’s better,” Audrey dabs iodine on my neck, examining me. After five minutes, I finally compromise and let her cushion me in her room. Something holds me back from trusting her. There’s a Band-Aid nestling on her thigh, just above the knee.

The last nail cut is stroked with medicine. Audrey insists that I pick my room for the night. It’s pointless, really. All the spare guestrooms are identical, like in an elaborate hotel. But I let her lead me around.

We tweak open several doors but I decide not to tuck myself in those rooms. I’m lengthening the walk, longing that I won’t have to sleep. There’s a door around the corner we’ve turned, unlike the others, it’s locked, fastened with a brassy knob.

“Did someone live there?”

Audrey flounders with a tight smile, wringing her hands, “Well, yes. A distant cousin, I think. It’s empty now, but we haven’t cleaned it, so…”

I twiddle the knob and know what she meant by un-cleaned. The room is evidently in chaos. Food wrappers and ragged clothes strew the floor. Bureau drawers have randomly fallen out. Where ever I place my foot, I’ll squash flat on a used paper cup dripping with liquid. It’s as if there’s been a break-in.

And there’s something else. The room stenches of an odor I can’t place right. The smell of all that worn-out garbage, perhaps? The scent prickles a part of my brain. I’ve smelled it before.

Before I can ask, Audrey wearily strains up her sleeves. “I just know I should’ve asked someone to clean it,” she mutters and starts dumping everything in the trash bin.

I move a torn blouse away with my toe. The owner’s female. “I haven’t seen a girl who rips her clothes like this.”

“Girl?” Audrey turns, skirt whirling. “Well, she can be… gloomy sometimes, the cousin. You can’t blame her.” She extends a crumpled paper cup, looking inside. I notice the knit of her eye-brows. When I walk up, she quickly stuffs the cup into the bin, knotting the garbage bag.

The room’s swept and rearranged, but the foul smell doesn’t slacken off. “Moving on?” Audrey tucks a lock of damp hair from her eyes.

I chew my lips, “I’ll stay here. This room.” I don’t know why I’m ever dwelling upon that thought. I only feel something tugging at the back of my head and the decision is stuck. Stuck with the smell.

For a second, she flicks her eyes at me. Quite a moment has passed, she moves up to smooth my hair, “I suppose… if it makes you happy.” She watches me as I settle myself on the creased sheet of the bed. I crack a small smile at her. She’s finally touched. Leaving me alone.

Midnight creeps in, slithering, closer. I watch as the moon swims and wallows, in and out of the clouds. The hum and buzz of the cicadas drowns my ears. With that disturbing smell lurking about the room, I’m fully awake, sober as ever. It’s a sleepless night.

I press my eyes shut. But all I see is the room jammed with ghostly figures. The fire, spiting tongues of flames. And I feel all that gurgling blood, drawn out from me by the twisted knife. The knife held by him.

“Sheyd,” I try his name on my parched tongue, but my voice cracks, “Sheyd, where are you?” No one will answer me. He’s buried in the cemetery, with only a barren piece of dirt and a stark stone etched with his name.

I feel stupid, pathetic, but still self-pitying. What am I doing? Plagued by a video game? Ravaging all my memories about him just for a blamed game? It’s a sacrilege.

There’s an odd shudder of the bed as I flip from it, taking my way out of the door. Being stuck in the room for too long, the brooding odor has stirred my brain. So when I prowl my way out, even my brain refreshes, savoring its time with the clean air.

I don’t have trouble getting out. The mansion is deserted, sunken with dead stillness. There’s only the distant tinkle of the chandeliers.

I promenade along the hall, reaching the kitchen. It’s not that I’m hungry. Rather the warm scent of food, the silent drone of the refrigerator reminds me of certain memories I’ve lost and will never again have.

But someone’s there in the kitchen before me. I see his silhouette casted and shadowed by the moon. Despite myself, I take a step back, and a band of pressure tightens around my neck. All I can feel are the inhaling and stretching of my lungs. Until he speaks up.

“Going somewhere, sweet Crispus?” It’s John at the counter. “Join me, will you?”

Five hours ago he’s threatening to wreck my neck and now he’s going all intimate on me. But I decide I won’t like it if he reverts to a murderer. Unwillingly, I sit.

And I regret sitting down. From my position, I can see him in the light, his face, what he’s doing. His right sleeve is turned up, leaving an arm bare. An arm bloated, pinked. And the arm has an injector sticking into it, with John slowly pushing the liquid, pumping it in.

“Stimulants, takes a while,” the fright in me must’ve bled out, because John’s eyes are agleam with wry amusement. Then he removes the injector, carelessly tossing it away. He doesn’t even care to the wounds and pulls down his sleeve.

The gleam in his eyes ties a knot in my stomach. If I’m staying there any longer, there’s a chance that he’ll force the drugs into me as well. I start for my feet.

“Sit down,” John hisses. There’s a creaking of his knuckles. The mark on his wrist becomes vivid, stretching with the pale skin. It haunts me, a painful reminder of my own one underneath the Band-Aid. Without a choice, I resettle myself.

There’s a crooked smile from him. “I see that you’re scared of me more than before, little brother.” You murdered Sheyd, you reptile, what do you expect? “You’re getting near the truth, clever one?”

That discomforts me. I shift. The Band-Aid. Our biological father. Other things. He’s talking about the things that have shrouded our entire life since we’re infants. He knows, Sheyd knew, but not me, the one who’s skipped the eighth birthday dinner with dad.

I don’t know why, but Charles’s face flickers in mind like lightning caught in a storm. That’s it. That’s what he’s been trying to tell me. The game, all that fire. Charles has been implying the answers with that game. Danger, grave danger. Sheyd, John, both in the game. Something’s stirring about in our town, concerning my brothers and my lost dad and all the others with the sinful Band-Aids.

And my damage on Corlic is just an indication of a catastrophic storm.

I look up and see him watching me. In the moonlight, John’s face has a ghostly quality, gaunt and paler than usual. He tilts his head, but all I see is the dark hunger that his eyes have failed to veil. “Yes, little brother. Something’s happening,” he whispers. “You’re in this bloodbath right up to your hilt. The problem is…” His voice is overwhelmed by the silence.

I can read his eyes. The problem is… whose side you’re on, little critter…

 “Not on your side,” my voice is quiet.

John laughs, all mock surprise. Then he leans in, the irises crystal clear, “Your beloved Sheyd would’ve sided with us, little Crispus. He would have no choice, like you.”

“He’s dead. We saw his body.” I strive to keep my voice calm. You killed him, how dare you even mention him.

“What if he isn’t?”

Dead silence that scrapes the floor.

I can’t read anything from his face now. Having said enough, he stands up, leaving. He knocks over something on the way out.

When I make sure he’s out of earshot, I pick it up from the floor. It’s a box of cereal, the frosted ones, with the sugar. Sheyd’s favorite. I grieve as I feel myself chewing a flake. But I never cried that night.

I scoop a handful of the cereal into my pocket. No crying tonight. Not yet, anyway.

11.5

(An excerpt from my notebook)

Time: around 3:44 p.m., February 16th

Documentary contents:

I slide into the house, schoolbag drooping sullenly. Sheyd is nowhere to be seen. He should’ve walked me back. But ever since his birthday dinner in the frigid snow, he seems to be forgetting that he has a kid brother.

There isn’t much to check. Stand at the entrance and you’ll see every dust-smeared wall of the barren apartment. John will be back in a blur of seconds, so I better find Sheyd.

The wind is cold as it sings past my ears, but I sweat though. Already winded, breathless of suspense, I reach the familiar slope. Staring down what can be called a bluff is the only piece of wild green in town. A deserted blotch of gray-green needles. Sheyd used to take me here when we were still younger, running wild till the moon had risen gold. We even camped here once when the day is too hot and sticky.

Now the tight patch of green is just a locked-away album. You only shuffle through it when you’re feeling for it. This is a hard time Sheyd should be feeling for it.

And I find him in an airy clearing. He’s resting on a pine tree with his back on me, watching smokes. I realize he’s burning something. A small patch of a fire is alit near his feet, crackling with heat. I edge in closer, but a twig snaps under my feet.

Sheyd flips around. The alertness in his eyes softens when he sees me. “Hey, Crisps,” he whistles. I let him frisk me for food, as usual. “Bummer, I thought you brought marshmallows for me.” He squeezes my shoulders the slightest and we laugh.

“What are you burning?” I approach the now smoldering fire.

“Homework,” he still has the mood to joke.

I look into his eyes, “But you hate fires.” That part is true. One of my earliest memories is of John scalding Sheyd with a lighter. I remember the haunted look on his face even now.

Sheyd twists his lips, “I know. But that’s why I’m burning them, Crisps.” He strikes a match, carelessly, tossing it inside. The fire glows reddish dim. The light catches his face, his blond hair. I silently watch as my brother breaks a branch in his fingers. Save the buckling of the twig, there’s only humming silence. Something’s wrong with him.

“You didn’t go to Paul’s birthday yesterday.”

“I turned him off.”

The coolness in his voice flabbergasts me. He’s been burbling about the party just last year. Why’s he now so indifferent? Something snaps inside me, and I feel I have to ask, “Sheyd, what happened to you?”

He remains silent, but tugs at my collar and eases me down, so we’re both sprawled on the withered winter grass. A languid hand is reached up to grip a thread of unseen wind, stirring the pale, dappled light. It seems that he’s going to lounge there forever.

“Crispus, stop asking. You didn’t use to talk that much.” Finally he’s speaking and his voice is sharp. Too sharp with distress and annoyance. I scramble to my feet. In the hazy light, there seems to be a red tint in his eyes. Uncomfortably, a scene slips into sight, the birthday night he locked me from the bathroom and wept for his own. But the red soon proves to be an illusion, for he quickly drops his eye-lids, shaking with a smile.

 “Sorry… What am I thinking? I just don’t want you to…” he kicks himself up. And as quick as a cat, he goes for me, prickling the tender skin of my armpits. When he tickles, his hands are reckless, evil, reaching for the places on me that are most off-guard. I fall down again, floundering with irresistible laughter.

His long fingers dig into me, soft as a breath, “You forgive me… you forgive me now… Hmn, Crisps?” The only thing I can make out from my brother is the smile I’ve loved for my entire childhood. I’m wrong. I’m so wrong to have ever thought that Sheyd’s changed. He’ll never be alien to me, never be like John. His love for his kid brother will never slacken.

In the end, I pull my head onto his lap, dog-tired, begging mercy for him to stop. I’m already wheezing, squirming, or else I would’ve let him itch me a while longer.

Ceasing and hoisting me up, he himself breaks into another grin, “Let’s go. I’m starving already. Race you home? The loser gets to do the winner’s homework!” I’m still aching to get up, but he’s already down the slope, laughing and hooting the while.

I start to pursue him but step on something again. I feel it crumple under my sole. It’s a folded paper, one that Sheyd has slipped and neglected to set on fire. I extend it. And it’s no homework. Just a plain paper, with only one name on it. I figure if Sheyd wants to blow it down, the retched name must be John’s. But it’s not.

“Crispus?! Are you this dying to do my homework?” his voice is carried away by the wind.

“Coming!” I scream. I tear the paper into shreds and run after him.

The name was in red ink, in Sheyd’s neat handwriting.

Satan.

12

First light. I snap my eyes open to see the sky rinsed out by the gold of dawn. I leave the stony mansion without rousing awake anyone. I’ve made too much fuss in a mere night, enough reason for me slink away.

I linger about on the streets. There’s no way I’m returning to Antique Ubiquitous. Sade will be there. Although my luggage, the schoolbag I’ve pulled along for four years is still stuck in the store.

No worries, not today. I have plans. I know where I’m heading.

There aren’t many graveyards in town. Most of the dead are just cramming the cemetery, with only bare stones and shriveled bouquets of flowers to mourn them.

I’ve only been there once, when he’s first buried and being fashioned with that headstone. Mom has been there every week, and every time she returns with a mist of tears and puffed-up eyes. Whenever mom told us she’s going to see Sheyd, I swing myself out of the house.

But all along, I remember where he is, where he rests. The grave blends in with the others, gray of granite, plain and glaring, with the chiseled words that are too forbidding to read. Sheyd Luther Falls. Two dates. Loved for his life. Adorned with nothing else.

I imagine his body. Scorched, seared, baked, bones all snarled-black, crumpling with the close-fitting crush of other coffins. It’s too cruel for him. He shouldn’t have been buried here. Sheyd belongs to the outdoors, with rain to wash him clean, with the bitter cold he always laughed about and enjoyed. If mom had allowed me to take his corpse, I’d bury him myself, burrowing bit by bit in the patch of flourishing green needles.

It’s still early, the sky dreary with emptiness. The cemetery is desolated. No one will see me. I empty my pockets. A match box rolls out, along with the heap of frosted cereals. I scrape a handful of matches and the burst of warm fire flickers into sight. I toss them into the cereals, allowing the flames to heat them, char them.

The cereals are burnt. The tantalizing fragrance of it spices the air like baked crackers. The smell drifts up, rising to the sky. Neither Sheyd nor I is a Christian, but I long for him to taste the smell in heaven.

“Sheyd,” I mouth. Then my voice trembles to a whisper, a plea, “Sheyd, I need you.”

“Crispus? You’re here?”

I yank my head around to see Charles and Aryeh, with a bouquet of white carnations in their arms. “May I?” Charles implores, with his eyes tired as usual but equally melting. I shrug at him as a greeting. He crouches down beside me. The girl hesitates, but shooting me a scornful look, eases down with her dad. For a moment we just sit there, an awkward group, mourning silently.

He lifts his gaze from Sheyd’s headstone, “Your brother?” I nod. Over at the other side, Aryeh scowls before her dad can hush her up. I feel something jerking inside me.

“Why are you here?” I twist a corner of my lips.

Charles dips his head in Aryeh’s direction, a slow, pained smile across the unmasked half of his face. “Aryeh’s parents. At the other side of the cemetery.”

I take it immediately. “How did they…?”

There’s a swat from my back. And I see Aryeh hooking her fingers around my collar, wrestling me to the ground. Charles has to hug her back. “Shut your mouth, witchling,” she hisses at me as she pries him away. Her eyes are inches from mine, the sharp gold in her pupils twisting with murderous hatred. As if I’ve killed her parents. Then she whirls to leave, vanishing amongst the graves.

We watch as she goes. Shuffling seconds pass away. Charles withdraws from the discomfort, sighing, “She’s having a hard time, Crispus. Leave her be. You should try to…”

“I forgive her,” a deep breath is drawn out from my lungs. “I know how it feels. When I dream of Sheyd, I feel like hurting people.” Then a pause and I find myself rapping, “I even want to strangle you now for bringing him up.”

But there’s an amused look from him. “Ah, but you’re not,” Charles rests an arm on my shoulder. Instinctively, I wince to avoid him. I hate it when people touch me, Sheyd is the only exception.

Despite being an adult, he obediently draws back his hand, “So you still don’t trust me, Crispus.” His voice sends remorse over me, all that sourness and the grief. He sounds like an old man, shriveled by time and grieving for others. “The video, have you…?”

There’s a gust of wind that shatters his sentence. Suddenly, Charles jerks up with the alertness of a huntsman. He gathers himself, gazing in one direction as if there’s a target to take down. “You go, I have to find her.”

When he’s off, something lands kerplop on the gravel floor. It’s his mask. Stooping down to grab it, I stop cold. I feel blood rushing to my eardrums. The inner side of the mask, the side that secures against his face, is stained with blood.

My voice trails off, “Charles…” There’s no need to call him, he’s returning in a wild haste. Even from yards away, I know something’s wrong. As he sidles up, I’ve taken back several shaky steps. If it had been some other kids, they would’ve screamed

I’ve always figured that he had an accident that disfigured half of his face. A long scar perhaps. But not like this.

He looks like he’s just survived a volcanic eruption.

The skin had peeled off, revealing a marred, horrible flesh. Burned tissues and half-healed blemishes ranged from his hair line to his jaw. The right eye, now revealed, had a thin, scarred eye lid pressing against it. The sunken eyeball was a clash between white and blood red, as if it’s been pried and clawed out over and over again.

I want to slam my eyes shut. But his good eye is gazing at me, soothing and tender, pleading for me to trust him. He smiles, apologetic, the right half of his face contorting with anguish, wrinkling. “The girl at the store is going to find you here, go that way, to the park.” He takes the mask from my rigid grip and is gone again.