Fear the Nobodies: Part Twenty-Seven

>Your name is Samantha Garlen

>You are twelve-years-old

>Your brother, Jacob Garlen, is at that perfect high-water mark of age

>Eighteen

>Able to be tried as an adult, but still juvenile enough to remain mostly ignorant of the consequences

>At eighteen, he no longer swipes his cigarettes from dad’s room

>With his trusty bat in-hand, Jacob often drags you down to the gas station at the corner whenever he goes out for a pack

>Sometimes, he steals candy for you

>SOMETIMES

>You’ve a better chance of having Christmas twice in one year than to end up with a pack of gummy worms on the average stroll down to the store

>One time Jacob bought you a comic book from the magazine rack

>You cherish that edition of X-Men

>When dad left for the evening, he never said who was in charge

>It obviously wasn’t some skittish little rabbit, clutching the hips of her brother’s old jeans to keep them on her body

>Despite his perceived responsibility and importance, Jacob leaves the cooking to you, as usual

>You don’t mind one bit

>You like to cook, actually

“Y-You gotta measure the m-m-milk properly, or else the m-mac and c-cheese is w-w-watery,” you say, your older brother staring, already bored as you fill an old whiskey glass to measure out what you think is a cup of milk

>“How do you know when there’s too much milk?” Jacob says with a sigh, “This would be a lot easier if we had measuring cups, like every other kitchen on Earth.”

>You smile despite his accuracy

“Half of one of d-dad’s glasses is a c-cup,” you say

>In response, Jacob rests his head down on the lopsided kitchen table

>Tired

>Bored

>A bottle of his amber medicine not far out of reach

>Restless

>Your brother is older now

>More weathered

>His brown fur is frayed and unkempt, growing wild in patches

>His body is lean, trimmed of fat

>He stopped going to school, and you stopped asking about his diploma

>In absence of class, Jacob smokes more, and drinks at a pace half of dad’s – already too much for someone who can’t buy his own booze

>He got into more scraps than before

>Old classmates

>Neighbors

>You’re almost certain he robbed someone a few weeks ago with the bat

>And when that old sorrow came knocking…

>…when there was a fight he couldn’t win…

>…if his nerves got the jump on him, and he chickened out on a bet…

>…you’d find yourself on walks with Jacob, sullen minutes stretching into silent miles

>Rain, snow, night, drunk, high

>It didn’t matter

>All these walks end with the two of you at the rail car yards outside of town

>Jacob would stand on the tracks in the dark, the snow, the rain – whatever the weather – his whole body wracked with shivers as he gave you instruction on bravery and self-reliance

>Then he’d hurl his body out of the path of an oncoming train; thrown off the ties at the very last second; all that was required for Jacob’s rebirth; a baptism under the shrieking wail of God, rolling past two lucky rabbits at sixty-five-miles-per-hour

>Your brother scares you

>And in turn, you’re scared for him

>Those nights, you’d picture yourself trading places with him on the ties

>In Jacob’s place is twelve-year-old Samantha, knees bowed, internal engine stalling and choking

>Either a rush hits you, and you press too hard on the gas bailing too soon, or you blow a head gasket, and Jacob has to snatch you from the rails

>That’s why your brother is brave, like a hero

>Because he’s got someone to look out for

>And you have someone to look up to

>When dad ties one on and goes looking for infractions to flay one of you over, you’re relieved when Jacob pushes you out the door

>Even if it is to the rail car yards

>No matter what, you’ll come home safe, your brother at your side

>It’ll be one more night – the last night, you promise each other – of night slinking through the unknowable dark, navigating around dad’s unconscious shape like two sailors of olde, a captain and his first mate plotting course for safe harbor in your room, because on the couch, ‘here be dragons’

>You balance on a chair, hovering above the stove like a hummingbird over a flower, watching elbow noodles roil in a dirty steel pot

>Whenever mom and dad weren’t home, the minutiae of every day life hypnotized you

>You could allow yourself to be…

>…a leaf on the wind

>Or, like noodles in a pot of water

“R-Ready with the b-butter?” You say as you kill the flame on the stove

>You hoist the pot of noodles from the burner, grunting with strain

>Your thin arms tremble like wet noodles as you maneuver your way to the sink

>“Sure, right. Almost forgot my ‘part,’” Jacob sighs, uninterested, as he sets down a half-finished glass of whiskey on the table

>There’s a stick of butter, turning into soup on a small dish beside him

>Despite that, his head lops, like a toothpick on a bowling ball

>Vacant eyes scan the kitchen, as if parsing through dense fog

>Your brother’s already tipsy, speeding towards drunk

>You know the look:

>Confused

>Tired

>Anger roiling within him like water set to a burner

>You know he’s already forgotten what you asked him to do

>Cold water hisses from the tap

>It’s a fact you drown in the sink

>It’s almost funny – dad has the same look on his face when he starts to knock ‘em back

>That sullen daze – like his mind is a sponge, absorbing nothing but hate and whiskey from the atmosphere

>You hate that Jacob wears that look so naturally, too

>You… really hate that fact

>The pot of noodles rests on the edge of the sink

“You know w-what dad said t-today?”

>You try and tip the pot of scalding water forward, unsure if Jacob is even listening…

>…or cares

“H-He said that i-if we l-leave mac and cheese for l-leftovers again, h-he’d wh-whoop your ass for n-not s-stopping me,” you say, trying to force a laugh

>Without a proper strainer, you keep a flood of noodles from the drain with an old fork, pressed into service

>Noodles flit right over your fork as you slosh scalding hot water from the pot into the sink

>“Dad’s right. I’m fucking sick of mac and cheese, Sam. Why don’t you ever make anything else for once?”

>Jacob’s words are a poison cloud, syllables weighed down with an old family curse

>Boxed mac and cheese is pretty much the only thing you’ve ever made in this kitchen

>Cheap

>Easy to make in abundance

>The fridge is more often empty than it is occupied

>No real meat, no vegetables, no fruit, nothing ever ended up in your shitty fridge but six-packs

>Most of the home’s money goes towards the mortgage

>And then, that appetite sated, the priority list is as follows:

>Dad’s smokes

>Mom’s smokes

>Dad’s liquor

>Mom’s liquor

>Anything required to get dad to work

>Maybe food

>Jacob stole anything left to buy cigarettes, or to feed his own growing debt to substance abuse

>You, Samantha, a stuttering little mistake, aren’t on this list

>An upbringing crushed between the hands of abuse and poverty forced you to adapt

>Free lunches from the school – one small measure of decency – became two meals, sometimes three

>A peanut butter sandwich, half a bag of chips, maybe some crackers or an old apple on a paper towel from the kitchen…

>…stashed in your shared closet like a secret…

>…would need to remain a secret

>Jacob stole your food if he found it

>You might be a coward

>But you’re a resourceful coward

>You’re too much of a coward to turn and face Jacob

>Too afraid that you’ll see yourself reflected in the family inheritance – that look of disdain that apparently skipped your generation

“W-Well, we d-don’t have r-really any else to cook w-with,” you stammer, having drained the noodles, “b-but if you got me some onions a-and ground b-beef–”

>You spilled a lot of noodles

>“Why don’t YOU get some of that shit for us this time?” Jacob’s sudden accusation hits in your stomach like you’re being struck by a bowling ball, “I know the Shop N’ Save is just down the road from the middle school. You could go any time you wanted.”

>The pain of truth is also a roaring emptiness in your pockets, where a young rabbit might keep some folded bills, or a quarter with a unique state minted on the back

>“I taught you how to steal and not get caught, but I’m the only one who ever goes ‘shopping’ around this place,” Jacob presses

>Your voice is a girlish squeak, like a kid caught in a lie

“I don’t w-want to steal a-anymore-”

>“What, so I’m the only one who has to take a risk to feed you?”

>Jacob’s chair squeals beneath him

>You turn, standing on that crooked chair, still leaning over the sink

>Your brother’s teeth ram together like he’s trying to bite through his lower jaw

>Curls of brown hair – swept aside by the sudden motion – gather across his face like threads of silk, almost obscuring his eyes-

>“Where do you think the fucking mac and cheese comes from, Sam? The milk? The butter? The boxes of noodles? You really think mom and dad buy this stuff for you?” He roars

>-cloudy with hate and whiskey

>Your only response is tuck inwards on the chair

>A coward

>A thief

>A burden

>Your brother tilts his head a bit, ears lopping down to one side

>“Why are you crying?” He says, suddenly

“Y-You’re yelling, a-and…” you sniff, words trailing off into useless space

>Jacob stares at you for moment, perhaps seeing himself in you the same way you see your father in him

>Then, his disappointed eyes drop to the table, flickering to his glass of your dad’s whiskey

“Sorry, Sam,” he says, almost too quiet for you to hear, easing back down into his chair

>Your brother chews in silence, a glass of whiskey staring at him like he owes it money

>His eyes cloud over, swelling with dark thoughts to match the storm in his head

>You can smell the inebriation in the room like you burnt something on the stove

>That whiskey rot; that sharp scent that stings your eyes

>You hate it

>He smells like dad

“J-Jacob?” You caution, looking up from your plate of noodles

>He spares a look your way and grunts

>Now’s your chance

“That g-goat at sc-school is doing it a-again,” you say with reluctance, “S-She k-keeps r-ramming me. I a-asked her to stop, b-but she says I’m just ‘target practice.’”

>There’s an infantile part of you that imagines Jacob appearing at your middle school, catching Gloria Duchene by the horns – like superman stopping a freight train – and hurling her into the sun

>How pathetic, your high school dropout brother is going to assault a minor on your behalf

>The angular features of your brother’s jaw set in a hard line

>He leans over the table, heavy arms slanting dinner his direction

>“So what are you going to do about it?” He says with a low, angry sneer, “you don’t just stand there and let her hit you, right?”

>You shrink into your brother’s hoodie, two sizes too big for you

>Like a turtle, retreating into its shell

“Sometimes I try to m-move out of the w-way…” you stammer, trying hard not to look at your own sibling, “…m-mostly, I just f-freeze up-”

>Jacob slaps his own face, hard

>He drags his paw down his face, as if peeling off the mask of the brother who apologized for yelling just a few minutes ago

>“Christ, Sam!” He says, unaware of the strength in his voice, “It’s the same lesson with you, over and over again, isn’t it? Why don’t you try and learn something for once, instead of crying to me?”

>Gentle tremors roll through the Earth

>The amber crutch at the table jitters, its surface rocking back and forth in the glass

>Jacob stares from across the table, golden eyes tempered with hate

>The rail car yards must be packed tonight

“I-I’m s-sorry,” you say in a hush that comes out more a restrained sob, “I don’t know w-what to do.”

>You pinch your eyes shut and bite back childish tears

>There’s an effort to restrain your weakness, but you’d have more luck holding smoke

>“You never know what to do,” Jacob accuses, “and when I’m not around any more to bail you out, you’re going to be the same little whelp.”

“Jacob-” you try, but your brother cuts you off, his face twisting up in disgust

>“If it’s not some kid at school, it’s mom, or it’s dad, or some dickhead in the neighborhood. Fuck, Sam, what’s going to happen the day I’m not on your side any more, huh?”

>Jacob’s voice ripples with anger

>His eyes drill holes into you, as if waiting to hear your master plan, some secret play you put together to gain some confidence and self-reliance to carry with you into teenage and adult life

“Please don’t yell at m-me,” is all you can manage – a whisper that struggles out of your throat, in between barely-restrained sobs

>When you look up again, a change washes over your brother

>It’s as if some unseen hand rests on Jacob’s shoulder, calmly reminding the eighteen-year-old rabbit that to continue further is to stumble down into the same chasm that swallowed his father

>Jacob’s chest still puffs up with aggression; his throat is still scorched from the anger, the liquor, the smokes

>But his body slackens

>Hard-set lines in his face become softer, like a jagged shard of aluminum, superheated and bent at the forge

>“Sam. Listen to me. Stop crying like a little kid for once, and just listen,” Jacob says, voice cold and firm

>You blink away tears, and, reluctantly, give Jacob another chance

>“When that Gloria bitch tries to ram you next time, I want you to stand in front of a wall, or a fence. You follow?”

>You nod in earnest

>Anything to stop the anger, right?

>“When she’s about to ram you, dodge out of the way. Like with the trains, remember? Pretend Gloria is a train.”

“Y-Yeah…” you say, recalling memories of you either locking up on the tracks, or bolting far too soon

>Jacob’s frown turns into a hateful scowl

>“And when she’s on the ground, kick her as hard as you can in the HEAD!”

>You can’t tell if he’s angry at you, or angry on your behalf now

“B-But if I kick her in the h-head, it’ll r-really hurt her, w-wouldn’t it?”

>Your worry only stokes Jacob’s rage

>“Who fucking CARES? She’s trying to hurt you, isn’t she?”

“I-It hurts w-when she g-g-gets me in the s-side, or c-c-chest,” you admit

>“Sam,” Jacob says, trying to drunkenly steady his voice, “when someone hits you, you gotta hit ‘em back even harder. That’s the only way they’re going to stop – if they know not to fuck with you again.”

>You can only stare in shock, eyes like warm honeycomb slit with a knife

>Anger doesn’t poison his voice

>There’s a distilled clarity in his tone – a weapon passed from brother to sister without word or judgment

>You think, In many ways, Jacob is his father’s son

>In too many ways, in fact

>But there are still parts of your brother that remain beautiful to you, like the hills outside of town, still unclaimed by concrete foundations and asphalt roads

>Jacob is hard on you, but you know he’s only trying to teach you something you just weren’t born with:

>Self-reliance

>Dinner continues slowly, and in silence

>Jacob’s expression flattens into sullen boredom, having touched more of his whiskey than his actual food

>You chew, trying not to look at him

>“Hey, Sam?” He says, suddenly

>A shit-eating grin spreads across his features

>“Have you ever seen dad’s old gun before?”

>A forkful of macaroni nearly ends up in your lungs

“No. D-Dad has a gun?” You say, trying not to choke

>You hate that dad has a gun

>“Of course he’s got a gun, Sam – from when he served in the war. Remember all those stories he told us? I think he stole it, too.”

“R-Right,” you say to your plate, keeping your eyes down on your food

>“Sam. Look at me for a second,” Jacob says

>You turn your head upwards

>You find yourself staring down the barrel of a handgun pointed directly at you – a black hole to nowhere, a slide and frame of battered steel

>Jacob smirks at you from behind the rear sights

>Instinct grinds your internal engine to a halt

>Suddenly, your brother tenses his finger

>“BAM!” He shrieks, pulling hard on the trigger

>In response you throw your arms over your face and squeak like you’ve already been shot

>A mechanical click tells you there’s nothing chambered in the gun

>The magazine probably isn’t even inserted

>When you finally gather the courage to open your eyes and find that you are in fact still alive, you see your brother howling with laughter

>“Come on, Sammy, you seriously thought I loaded it?!”

>You try to stammer out a response but feel your throat tightening, tears springing to the corners of your eyes

>“I can’t even find the bullets for this fucking thing,” Jacob grumbles, his laughter cooling into ice

>God damnit

>Coward

>Coward

>You utter FUCKING COWARD

>Get a hold of yourself!

>Jacob sets upon your weakness before you can brace for the follow-up shot

>Anger flashes behind his eyes

>His jaw sets into a hard, unsatisfied line

>The drunken laughter becomes a look of scorn

>He reminds you of dad…

>…again

>Jacob places dad’s gun on the table

>The sound produces a resonate, metallic clatter

>You know it couldn’t weigh more than a couple of pounds, but it sounds like it weighs a literal ton

>“Jesus, Sam. It was only a joke. Are you seriously going to be a bitch about this too?”

“I-I don’t- I’m not trying t-to-”

>“You’re such a little baby. It was just a fucking joke,” he cuts you off

>A joke?

>You can’t control your tears – joke or not

>“You cry at everything, don’t you?” Jacob scowls

“I don’t k-know!” Is your answer

>Your brother holds his anger like a sight picture, lining up the soft tissue between your eyes

>And then – perhaps due to your snotty, tear-smeared face – his hatred deflates, hissing in the silence

>“Come on…” he nudges your arm

>Even his pity is rough…

>“You’re bigger than this, right? I’m making you tough, right?”

>…what some might call ‘tough love’

>You jerk your head back and forth in protest, ears flopping as you move

>You grab onto your ears like handlebars and rip on them

“I-I’m n-not! I’m n-n-not like you,” you squeak in protest

>Your brother opens his mouth to speak

>“Sam… you don’t-”

>You cut him off with a compulsive gesture – what might have been your first words as an infant

“I’m s-sorry.”

>Jacob appears lost as he studies the map of your features which he never learned to properly navigate

>His expression hardens back into a stoic, icy-glare, a dissatisfied frown pursing his lips

>He’s still not happy with your waterworks

>And why should he be?

>The gun wasn’t loaded and you still lost it

>It’s amazing, isn’t it?

>The first thing you do when confronted with fear or danger is to ball up and cry

>You’re just making life harder for everyone – like always

>Like the burden on this family; your true birthright

>That word ping-pongs around your skull, drowning out the sound of Jacob rapidly pushing back his chair

>Burden

>Burden

>Burden

>“Sammy?”

>Jacob stands, his own ears twitching

>He’s focused on something in the house your grief won’t allow you to hear

>“Is that someone at the door?” He says without looking at you

>Your ears twitch as you attempt to zero-in on a pinprick of ambient noise of your one-story home

>Metal clicks

>Locks turn

>Pins give way

>Elsewhere, the sound of nuclear missiles bursting out of their silos fills the sky

>“Fucking shit. I think that’s dad,” Jacob says in a sudden panic

>You stand up too, the old and shitty chair squealing in protest against the tile floors

“But he’s t-too early,” you whimper

>Heavy, drunken footsteps plod to the kitchen – the sole source of light in the house, now that dusk blotted out your sunlight

>You blink

>And when your eyes open, dad stands in the doorframe to the kitckhen; leaner and more feral with drink than when he left

>His dark brown fur is tossed, unwashed, and scraggled with a day’s work

>He’s wearing an old dirty work shirt stained with motor oil, baggy work pants, and his ‘shit-stomping’ boots

>There’s a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels in his right hand, likely a top-up for the supply that Jacob steadily drained

>Dad’s eyes scan over his son, reflecting nothing but himself

>And then they linger on you, narrowing to amber slits of disdain

>For a moment, you allow yourself to believe he doesn’t see his handgun on the kitchen table, or his daughter downrange

>Then his eyes flick down, towards your uneaten dinner, and wander over to the pistol

>His expression never changes

>Jacob must see the storm building as he tries to intervene between God and the devil

>“Dad, just hold on-”

>“Shut the fuck up,” your father commands, eyes still fixed to the polished steel slide of his gun

>Jacob tightens his fists, but doesn’t respond

>“Is that my gun?” Dad asks, his voice calm, cold with maleficence, “You been looking around in my room, Sam?”

>He snaps his attention onto you, easing into the kitchen as he ducks the small frame

>You try to refuse his claim, but only a hiss of air escapes your throat

>“Hey bitch, I asked if you been fucking around in my room again?” Dad repeats

>You whole body shakes like someone dunked you in a tub of ice water

>You don’t fight it anymore

>It’s nearly instinctual at this point – the terror that fixes you in place, seals your lips with cement

>Dad approaches, his free-hand trembling like a loaded gun

>Before you can catch hands, Jacob cuts in

>“It was me, dad” he says with cold resignation, “I found the gun. Not my sister.”

>Your brother sneaks a look at you, and it’s so full of anger and determination, you swear, it’s like looking back at dad fifteen years ago

>Why?

>You can understand that Jacob hates you in some many ways

>But you grapple with his love, too

>Is it because you always hide behind him?

>Even now, that which separates you from a feral beating is the love of your brother

>“Don’t protect her, boy,” dad snarls back, “don’t you dare protect that fucking burden of a child. I’ll get to you when I’m done smacking some sense into her.”

>Something in Jacob breaks

>He pivots drunkenly, placing his scraggly body between you and dad

>“I’m not protecting her, you drunken old fuck. I’m telling you the truth this time: I found the gun.”

>Jacob draws a confident gulp of air

>“Leave her alone. This isn’t her fault.”

>Dad turns away from you, and fixes his hate on his son instead

>Your brother doesn’t move

>He doesn’t even flinch when dad gets right into his terrified face

>“You better watch your fucking mouth, boy. You’re talking a lot like a man these days, and ‘round here a man’s gotta be able to defend himself,” dad growls

>“I am a man now,” Jacob says, trying to sound confident

>His voice is so low that dad’s ragged breathing is louder

>“Is that so?” Dad says with a drawl, as he sets his whiskey bottle down on the counter to his right

>He’s tender with the whiskey

>Just not with anyone else

>Not even mom

>“Man’s gotta provide for his family, don’t he?”

>Jacob purses his lips and throws his gaze to the side

>“So, what is it that you bring home, besides lying and stealing, huh?”

>Your brother cocks his head forward, staring straight into dad’s contorted features

>It’s like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun

>Unlike you-

>“I said: I am a man now. I’m eighteen.”

>-Jacob doesn’t cry

>Dad smirks that old devil smirk

>Your brother should have known better than to stand up

>“Is that what you say? You’re a real man, huh?” Dad says, gales of drunk, mocking laughter rolling from his chest

>The laughter stops all at once

>Guillotined

>“Well then, you’re gonna act like a man, you smart-mouthed little faggot,” dad says in a growl, syllables ramming together

>This is it

>Dad’s going to kill Jacob this time, you know it

>You close your eyes and wait for the old sounds of heartbreak to hit your clenched ears

>But nothing happens

>Something clatters onto the kitchen table

>Heavy and metallic, with a dense weight

>Like little stones

>Rocks?

>You ease your eyes open

>There’s a few bullets littering the table, brass gleaming in the kitchen light

>Jacob stares at the rounds on the table like he’s in a dream

>“You think you’re a man, huh? Take those bullets. Load that gun,” Dad commands

>He then knocks the lid off the bottle of whiskey and throws it back for a dirty swig, allowing plenty to slip past his lips and spill onto his shirt

>He smells of motor oil and cigarette smoke

>And now, whiskey

>Jacob reaches for the gun and the bullets in a daze

“W-Wait!” You squeak, “Jake, don’t! P-Please!”

>Your plea falls on deaf ears

>You know Jacob can hear you, but he doesn’t care

>He feeds the magazine into the handgun, racks the slide back…

>…and levels the pistol at his father’s head

>Dad only smiles, cocksure and hateful

>“I’m not even going to move,” Dad draws from the bottle again

>Jacob breathes hard, the strain on his body and mind furrowing his brow

>“C’mon, do it. Prove you’re some kind of man. Put one right here – right between my eyes,” dad says

>And then, dad starts to laugh, but you don’t hear him

>The sound in the room dulls…

>…the electric hum of the bulbs above you goe quiet…

>…the sound of whiskey running down dad’s throat…

>…his hateful laughter…

>…Jacob’s labored breathing…

>…even your own frantic heartbeat…

>…all of these disappear like an echo

>Jacob’s finger twitches

“W-Wait!-”

>There’s a concussive blast that shatters your eardrums

>And you know exactly what happened without ever having to open your eyes

>You do anyway

>Dad casts an easy glance above him – at the new bullet hole punched in the door frame, as if expecting nothing less

>“You ain’t no man, kid. You know what you are? A gutless fucking coward.”

>Jacob’s whole body shakes with a terror, and for once, you think he might actually cry

>Hot air swells in his chest

>Sweat dampens his fur

>You can smell the scent of gunpowder diffusing throughout room

>Jacob lowers the gun – away from his father – as if it weighed fifty pounds

>In one swift movement, dad reaches forward and snatches the gun from Jacob’s terrified grip

>There’s a instantaneous flash of silver as the handle of the pistol crushes your brother’s jaw, crumpling him

>Were it not for the dinner table for him to catch on, he would have gone down onto the tile

“D-Dad, s-stop! You’re going to h-hurt him!” You squeak

>Your older brother – your guardian and protector – tries to collect himself, splayed out on the kitchen table, his young body still shaking from the adrenaline and pain

>Blood funnels out of his nose, a metronomic spattering sound as it falls uselessly to the floor

>“Don’t you EVER let me catch you fucking with my shit EVER AGAIN, do you hear me? You got one your chance, and you pussied out. You ain’t no man, so don’t go around acting like one!” dad’s voice is a roar

>Your father then – in one gulp – drains the last of Jacob’s glass of whiskey

>“And if you don’t start bringing your own liquor to the table, I’m taking the cost out on your sister.”

>You are an afterthought, a worthless bug to be stomped for sadistic pleasure

>Dad then trains his attention on you, a small rabbit cowering by the table

>You still didn’t finish dinner

>“You got got something to say to me, kid?” He spits, “you know, it’s real heroic of you to let your brother fight all your battles.”

>He’s right

>You do a whole lot of staring and not a lot of fighting back

>Do you have something to say to your dad?

>Should you apologize?

>You didn’t really do anything wrong, right?

>Then, you catch a vulnerable look from Jacob , his lower jaw already swollen, a steady trickle of blood threading down his fur from the corner of his lips

>You can hear his silent plea, laid out and desperate

“N-No sir. I-I’m s-sorry, sir,” you stutter

>Jacob’s eyes fall shut, and the last of his hope for you dies in the kitchen

>“God, just listening to you talk pisses me off. Fix your damn mouth, y-y-you retard,” dad snarks

>“I ca-can’t he-help it-” you start in protest

>Dad starts forward, gets right in your face, and says, “you’re just trying to piss me off now, aren’t you?”

>You step backwards in fear

>You don’t know what to say!

>You open your mouth to speak but force it back shut

>Maybe it’s better to say nothing?

>God you hate yourself

>God you hate yourself

>God you hate yourself

>God you hate yourself

>Instead of belting you one, dad turns his hateful stare at his son, bent over the table, leaking blood still

>“Get the fuck out of here,” your father commands, “and take your pussy brother with you, too. I don’t want to see him back before midnight.”

>Jacob struggles to stand, and in his disgrace, scowls with blood between his teeth at you and at dad

>Jacob then snatches your wrist, embarrassed tears leaking from his eyes

>“C’mon, Sam. Let’s go,” he says, sullen

>He yanks at your wrist, sending pain streaking up your arm

>He leads you out of the kitchen, like an impatient boy pulling a small and slow puppy on a leash

>It’s probably best not to resist right now, no matter how bad it hurts

>You throw one quick glance over your shoulder

>Dad sits at the table, his gun in one hand, bottle in the other, a pack of cigarettes budding from his oil-stained shirt pocket like they were flowers

>You know exactly where you’re headed

>With the street lamps watching over you like dead stars, you can tell by the familiar cracks in the shattered sidewalk that you’re on the path towards the rail yards

>Jacob does this too much

>If he’s angry

>Depressed

>Upset

>Had a bad fight

>Lost a bad fight

>The sound of a nearby train roars in dark, like an invisible, incomprehensibly large animal rolling over in its sleep

>Your small, dilapidated house without light becomes smaller and smaller in the night

>Some time passes before Jacob speaks again, and when he does, his words are a wind of razors

>“What the FUCK, Sam? What the FUCK is wrong with you?” He seethes

>You say nothing, only swallow hard and nod like you understand what you did wrong

>It’s best to let him talk it out before you go and make it worse by saying something

>“You could have said something – anything! You could have helped me back there, or… I- I don’t know. All you do-” He tenses his grip on your wrist until you’re certain he’s going to shatter bones

>You squeak in pain as his his coarse fingers ring your wrist, pressing angry marks into your flesh

>As long as he gets out his anger safely with you, it’s okay

>“-all you EVER do is stutter, cower, hide, and let shit happen to you. And then I have to fight your fucking battles! We’re supposed to be on the same team, but your heads always down when things get tough!”

>You stumble, trying to keep up with his pace

>The two of you move quickly in the night, guided by hatred and purpose

>Stooped houses thin out into empty lots

>Grass and weeds storm the pavement

>The sidewalk dissolves beneath you

>Soon, you don’t think you’re in Ranchview any more

>Empty warehouses, unused plots of land, and industrial refuse become your point of reference

>A train horn shrieks in the distance, as if anticipating your arrival

>Your heart sinks in your chest

>You’ve never seen your brother this angry before

>“Well?!” Jacob demands your answer

>You can hear the disgust in his voice

>For once, you’re grateful the darkness has embraced him

>You don’t think you can bare to look at the hateful expression on his face

>“Are you gonna say something? Or are you going to keep your mouth shut like you always do?”

>And what can you say now?

>All of his accusations are truth

>Once more, Jacob had to fend for you

>Good going, Sam

>You had a chance to stand up for your brother for once, and you let it slip between your trembling fingers

>You shake your head – a non-verbal refusal of your burden

>“Well, you’re not going to pussy out on me again. Not this time,” Jacob says from behind clenched teeth, “not tonight.”

>Past the quarry

>Over river bends

>Bridges

>Sheds

>Warehouses

>Where there are no houses

>Where the prairie spreads wide, and cold stars creep out from behind black clouds

>You know exactly where Jacob is taking you

>Your chest feels like it’s going to explode when you at last see the train tracks laid into the ground at the bottom of an embankment

>Wordlessly, your brother drags you down into the old pit that the train runs through, tunnels on each side

>A horn blares in the dark

>The sound is so close now, made even worse by the fact that you can’t exactly see its source

>You resist, but it’s no use

>Jacob marches you onto the tracks, dragging you by the ears

>The minute your feet touch the hard gravel ensconcing the ties, you attempt to bolt in the opposite direction

>This is the way it’ll always be

>You, cowering and running

>Your brother, assuming the mantle of reluctant protector

>Right now, he’s no guardian

>In response to your attempt at fleeing, your brother grabs you by your dangling ears and yanks hard, holding you in place

>A scream of pain rips from your throat

“Jacob!” You say as you pry desperately at his grip, “W-We don’t need to do this! P-Please let me go!”

>“We do, Sam. This is as much for you as it is for me,” he replies, syllables even, drained of warmth

>Jacob is an arm’s length away, puffing on a crumbled old cigarette from his pocket

>“You move one goddamn inch before I tell you to and I swear, I’ll break your fingers,” he says, letting tails of his smoke drain out the side of his mouth, “no drawing for months – and that’s if mom and dad care enough to bring you to the hospital in the first place.”

>Jacob stands so close that the scorched embers of his cigarette feel warm on your damp fur

>You welcome the contrast, because you can’t feel your legs right now

>Are you closer to the tunnel than last time?

>Or, maybe it’s that the mouth seems wider?

>Perhaps the tunnel isn’t so much as swallowing your diminutive body, rather, you are engulfed by the unknowable

>So, you stare ahead, the first mammal in history to ever see what’s on the other end a black hole

>Nothing

>“You hear me?!” Jacob roars, hand automatically locking onto your own, as if to demonstrate his conviction by snapping your fingers like pretzels, “I’m not fucking around with you this time, Sam! You need to be brave! Strong!”

>The pain is already enough to break the spell

“I don’t w-want to d-do this,” you say in a panicked start, looking over your shoulder at the embankment, “c-can’t w-w-we go back h-home?”

>Jacob presses your delicate fingers in his calloused grip like a vise

>You bend, spine a wet noodle, pain twisting your shy face into an ever-dissolving portrait of who you were, or pretended to be

“S-Stop!” You squeal in a panic, “J-Jacob! Stop!”

>Oh my God

>He’s actually going to break your fingers

>To your suspire, though, your brother relents, and a pressure that could crack bone becomes a stern grip

>“BE. STRONG,” he barks, as if a drill sergeant screaming overs at recruits

>Your ears twitch in sudden alarm

>Jacob’s go off soon after

“The g-ground is moving,” you say as your eyes begin to widen

>A rush of hot air swells up around you and Jacob

>There’s a droning hum that grows louder – like a banshee’s wail, punctuated at the end of each second by the Earthly clatter of milled steel clacking off railroad spikes

>Great tremors boil up beneath you

>Your unsure footing nearly topples you over, but Jacob’s hold keeps you upright

“STAND. FAST,” he orders, hauling you back onto your feet

>What began as a wail becomes a roaring wind that shakes your body worse than the tremors

>You watch as a star is birthed on other end of the tunnel

>Jacob takes notice, too

>His angular features melt into primitive lines

>The focus and determination on his face disappears in a shower of light – of fate fast-approaching

>You feel him give you a reassuring squeeze as he steps away from the tracks…

>…leaving you upright, alone on the ties, staring into shrieking oblivion

>“HOLD YOUR GROUND! IGNORE EVERYTHING ELSE BUT ME!”

>Jacob tires to shout above the squeal of the train

>The peeling squeal of metal as brakes engage become his instruction

>“YOU WILL NOT MOVE! NOT UNTIL MY SIGNAL!”

>The train howls with a mechanical blast of sound that shakes the Earth

>This is it

>Prove your bravery

>It’s time to grow the fuck up, Sam

>Your brother tries to shout something else over the sound of shuddering steel, the train barreling forward like a mile-long bullet sent to finish what Jacob started

>Everything goes quiet, just like last time

>The freighter roars forward, no doubt having spotted you at the end of the tracks

>There is only you and that train now

>It’s so close you swear, you can feel the heat of the engine against your face

>Just you…

>…against all that you hate of yourself

>The rush takes over your head

>A flood of adrenaline and blood pounds in your temples like an erratic metronome

>Your heart feels like a grenade about to pop in your chest

>At last you hear Jacob

>“HOLD!” Jacob shrieks over the worried blare of the train horn

>You couldn’t move if you wanted to

>“HOLLLLDDDDD!”

>Don’t move yet, Sam. You need to face this

>This streak of evil ends with you, on the tracks, tonight

>“HOLDDDDDDDDDDD!”

>Face this now…

>…or never again

>The train blasts out of the tunnel like a ballistic missile leaving its silo

>The panicked conductor rips on the horn, the train’s brakes failing to contain the momentum of eighty tons of steel and cargo

>Jacob howls his signal

>“NOW!”

>You don’t move

>Your legs are cinder blocks connected to stumps

>People just don’t change

>Born a coward

>Died a coward

>The train rolls on

>Suddenly, you find yourself hurtling from the tracks towards safety

>Jacob’s arms are wrapped around your midsection – like a football player tackling someone

>The amount of torque a rabbit can generate with his legs is enough to keep you and your brother airborne for a second or two

>Weightless

>Two fugitives from gravity

>You collide with the grit around the rail ties, landing hard on your back

>The impact of which is so violent it pushes what little air you had out of your lungs

>Jacob huddles on top of you, his body shielding yours from the train

>He’s…

>…shaking

>You don’t want to move

>You don’t want to be alive

>What you want is for your heart to stop – to release your brother from the misery of knowing you

>With laborious breath, Jacob eases upwards until he’s astride your chest

>You look up to see him towering over you in the cold moonlight, that devil-look carved into his face by his father’s hands

>In a heartbeat, his face contorts in disgust, and he belts you across the face

>Only once

>Your head physically jerks to the right, but you’re too stunned to yelp

>All you can do is look up into Jacob’s face, those amber eyes swollen with tears of hate, that jaw set like he’d rather bite through your non-existent spine

>“That’s no dodge, you fucking coward,” he spits

>The train rolls on

>It’ll be miles before it can stop

Young Cardinals

They abandoned his voice,
a derelict building;
the red heart of
struggling factory towns.
His plea
‘help me,’
bleached white,
a lonely echo of
mortar
flaking from walls,
a crimson tempest which
baptizes crows
into cardinals

A poem for Sam, written by Oliver Hart

Oliver Hart

Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.

Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall