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>Be Sam
>And you will not cry
>You WILL not cry
>In fact, you don’t really have any good reason to cry — you made a mistake; you disobeyed dad, and you violated his wishes
>You deserved the bruises on your shoulder, the angry marks on your arm
>Thankfully you learned how to hide them with your brother’s old clothes
>Anon just left after dropping you off, leaving you alone in your room, only the sound of the TV like a dull roar in your sensitive ears
>You’re not even sure what time it is, but sleep is long past the point of possibility
>Like most rabbits, your survival drive is extremely high. It’ll take a hell of a lot to get you to calm down
>You examine your soft, brown paws
>In fact, you’re still shaking
>Air
>You need fresh air
>You prop up a broken, three-legged chair against the single window in your room so you can look out at the old abandoned warehouse next door
>Balancing, you suck in gasps of cold night air, and shut your eyes, listening for the sound of strumming on a guitar, the heavy thump of a bass, the pop of a drum’s snare
>Bands sometimes rent the warehouse out to practice or record
>There used to be a human band that played…
>What did they play?
>It was slow and kinda soft. You think there was a trumpet?
>It made you feel like jelly though
>Even the memory of those soft notes, resonate in your mind, is enough to take you away from this retched home
>You see yourself playing in one of those high-energy bands, silent on stage, but perhaps never needing to say anything at all
>All your confusion and heartache gone with the opening notes as the guitars fade in
>Would you play drums? You’ve got the foot speed for it
>You give the bass drum an experimental, rapid-fire volley of kicks
>You could see your music sound-tracking a super hero’s journey
>Who though?
>Samurai Outlaw, her bat wheeling and spinning in a clean arc, clearing a room full of bad guys while the guitarist and drums pick up pace
>And you play your part beautifully, and only in fantasy
>Fantasy is where you’re safe. And when you don’t feel safe, and don’t have fantasy to rely on, you draw
>Pictures, mostly superhero costumes, but sometimes… other things…
>You’ve still got that stash hidden in your roo-
>The shriek of a train’s whistle stops your fragile little heart
>The ground starts to rattle and shake. You can feel the heavy sound of ten thousand tons of steel resonate in your chest
>Bringing you back to that day-
>No no no no no no
>You grab at your own throat
>You don’t want to go back there — not now
>-The day that everything went quiet
>Be eleven-year-old Sam
>You’re in your shared bedroom — Jacob’s things arranged in a messy line on one side of the room, and your meager life (mostly Jacob’s hand-me-downs) on the other
>There’s a furious noise that reverberates throughout the house — screaming match between mom and dad worn on too long; two heavy weights refusing to give up until it gets physical again
>Your older brother, Jacob, hands you a sock stuffed with loose gravel and tells you to hold it like a baseball bat
“I-I don’t- I d-don’t w-want to h-hurt anyone-” you start in protest
>Jacob crouches down to eye level. He’s exhausted, the gravity of sleep pulling at his eyelids.
>He pushes his ears back, running a sweat-soaked hands through his tuft of fur on his head, and taps an aluminum baseball bat against his broad shoulders
>Jacob doesn’t play baseball — but he knows how to use the bat. You’ve seen him beat Joseph from down the street so badly he was hospitalized
>This was, of course, after Joseph kicked your shit in. Jacob just made sure that damned fox stayed away from you forever
>At least Jacob makes you feel safe
>Sometimes
>The sounds of heartbreak come rushing in from under the door — unrestrained shouting, the climax of a love gone wrong, choked sobs, drunken anger — the things you and your older brother know to be love between two parents
>“Sam, look at me,” Jacob says, exhaling, trying hard to maintain his composure like a drunk disarming a bomb with a hammer. “If anyone tries to EVER hurt you, I want you to tell me, okay? Just like with Joseph. But before that, I want you to hit them with that heavy sock. Right in the head. You got it?”
“But I don’t w-want to hurt anyone” you pull hard on your ears, dropping the sock, like you could just pull the blinds on your shitty home and tune it all out and go away
>Jacob taps you on the arm, and you release your vise-grip
>Blood comes rushing back to your ears
>“Did you hear me? I said hit ‘em in the head! I’m trying to look out for you, okay? But you also need to look out for yourself and stop being such a little kid. I’m not always going to be around, you know?”
>The weighted sock feels like it weighs 100 pounds as you pick it back up. Your arms tremble, adrenaline and desperation the only things lending you any amount of strength right now
“Even if it’s Dad?” you ask
>Your brother’s shoulder’s slump. He opens his mouth to speak
>The door shoots open
>Your mother, a tired middle-aged looking rabbit with worn, dirty fur, and amber eyes swollen with pain, scowls at you two
>“Are you two still here?” she slurs, the sting of bourbon heavy on her tongue. “I thought I told you two to get the hell out of here. And don’t come back for a few hours.”
>Jacob stands up to his full height, his knuckles tightening around the bat
>“We heard you. I was…” he quickly glances back at you. “…I was just telling Sam some stuff.”
>You’d nod, but your whole body locks up when you see your mother glare at you — and she turns that same spiteful look at Jacob
>Your older brother, seventeen by now, doesn’t back down. His expression darkens, his jaw clenches up like a coiled spring ready to unload years of built up pressure in a moment’s notice
>Your mother digs into her purse and throws a handful of wadded up bills at you
>“Here. Go. Make yourself gone for a few hours. Your uncle Richard’s coming over in a few.”
>You collect the bills and quickly dart behind your brother, dropping your make-shift weapon in the process
>He stiffens at your touch, his shoulders seeming to broaden when he feels you cowering behind him
>Protective reflexes, likely
>You were only eleven
>You guess Jake has some potent feelings about protecting you
>But then there was this whole thing about teaching you to fend for yourself he’s on
>“Even if you’re a girl,” he said once, “you just gotta hit a wolf in the nose, and they’re down. Humans, aim for the shins. That’s all you have to worry about. Rabbits? Right in the chest and you can stun ‘em. Dad’s done it to me.”
>Mom lets a side gust of air out of her lips. “You think you’re some kinda man with that bat? What do you think you’re gonna do, hit your own mother? Boy, I’d break your fucking ankles if you tried to touch me.”
>Jacob’s powerful leg muscles tense. You watch and pray that he doesn’t lose his temper, so much like dad’s mean streaks
>…
>…
>“You ain’t no mother. You’re a liar,” he says as he marches past her
>Mom steps aside with no response
>You follow your brother out of your room and towards the door, keeping close to his formidable shape and his shadow of safety
>“You’re a liar and a whore.”
>Mom just starts laughing from your room
>Thick bouts of snobby laughter
>“Guess I know where you got your smart mouth from,” she says. “Now get the hell out of here, and I don’t want to see your ass back here.”
>You don’t need a second invitation. Though your home is small, dads tucked himself in the kitchen, and you can already smell the reek of his whiskey, the sting of his cigarettes in your nostrils
>You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help yourself
>You look behind you, into the kitchen, and see him at the table, the trails of smoke rising from his lips, the heavy bottle of amber liquid by his side
>His eyes are red, face burnt out and ashen, that devil smirk as you walk by
>It makes you shake worse
>“Oh, and Sam?” your mom coos from your room. “Make sure your retarded brother doesn’t do anything stupid. Can you do that for me?”
>You nod timidly, if only to get out of there quicker
>When you face forward, your heart freezes as you catch the side-eye from Jacob
>His expression is ice cold when you two walk out the door
>You can practically hear him muttering ‘traitor’
“Jake?”
>“What?”
“I- I don’t u-u-understand why you and m-mom hate e-e-eachother.”
>He stops walking, no longer dragging his bat across the shattered sidewalk
>His body turns, and when you see his face, you swear you see dad’s hateful glares etched into his skin
>“Of course you don’t understand. You don’t understand shit, Sam. You’re still just a little kid who hasn’t had to deal with the kind of shit I have.”
>The scorching sun burns your fragile skin, light brown fur offering little protection — your brother’s old olive-green hoodie the only thing clothing you have, besides an old pair of jeans that barely fit
>His scorching gaze dims a little when he sees you tense up a little in fear
>He sighs with annoyance and lets his shoulders slump down a bit
>“Come on,” he points down the street with the silver tip of his bat. “We’re going this way.”
>You don’t argue, and you don’t drag your feet this time
>Jake has no interest in matching your meager pace, so you keep up as best you can, pausing to pull your pants up every few steps
>“Mom’s a cheat,” Jacob says after a long bout of angry silence. “With uncle Richard. She’s been cheating on dad for a long time.”
>And then he looks down at you
>“I bet you’re probably Uncle Richard’s kid.”
“B-But-“
>“Don’t start stammering at me like a retard, Sam. I’m not blaming you. It just means you’re a coward like him. And mom. Remember what I said back at home?”
>You shake your head, trying to grasp what’s being said
>“If someone comes to hurt you — I take it back. I’m not always going to protect you. Not anymore. Maybe when you were yonuger and smaller I’d protect you from mom, or dad, or anyone at school, but you’re older now. You need to learn to stand up for yourself.”
>He stops walking
>“Do you understand that?”
“N-No… I don’t understand a-anything!” You squeak loudly, wrinkling your nose. You want to cry so bad that it feels like you’re choking on the need
>Big kids don’t get to cry. Nobody gets to cry at your house, even though you cry a lot
>But that doesn’t stop you from tensing your throat up and fighting back tears, anyway
>You stop walkimng beneath the sahde of an overgrown crabapple treee and rub at your stung eyes
>Something about you crying helpless tears twists Jacob’s expression like a scredriver between the ribs
>His eyebrows slope
>His jaw narrows into a thin hard as he clenches his teeth
>“God, when are you going to grow up!?” Jacob lets his bat drop against the concrete, the metal chime like thunder strokes on a hot day
>Instinctively, you jerk backwards, squeaking as if your mom just caught you with the clothes iron again
>Jake still tremblers with anger, but when he sees you shuffling backwards, he takes a long breath and unclenches his fists
>Darkening, he reaches down and grips the bat, lifting it up to you
>“Here. You take this.”
>You stare at his offering and look down the nameless street
>Nobody is coming — no cars, nobody on the sidewalks
>Nobody cares out here in this part of the Ranchview
>“Sam?” He says, lowering his voice. “Take the bat. And let’s keep going, okay?”
“O-Okay,” you stammer, wrapping your spindly fingers around the thin base
>It’s a lot lighter than you expected
>It makes you feel safe
>The two of you walk in silence until you get to the gas station, where Jacob buys you a soda and some gum
>He buys himself some cigarettes and a soda with a fake ID
>He lights up as you two keep walking, the ramshackle houses thinning out and fading into pastures and sheds, the sun overhead dissipating like a drop of amber into the hazing sky
>When the light slants, orange with the dying flames of the day’s end, you two arrive at the old rail car yard, littered with criss-crossing tracks, tunnels built into the hills, and derelict trains
>He stops you
>“Sam?” He says. “I want you to watch what I do.”
>He looks immensely tall and fierce in the eyes of the sunset.
>Jacob stalks over to a nearby tunnel with a strip of timber and steel tracks running through it
>Standing far away from the tracks, you watch, gripping his baseball bat like an anchor to reality
>What the fuck is he doing?
>Jake stands on the tracks, facing the darkness of a tunnel, his legs and body spread wide
>For a while there, he doesn’t move
>And then…
>A pinhead of light glows in the darkness ahead
“J-Jake?” You squeak. “There’s a train coming-”
>“I know there’s a train coming!” He barks. “That’s why we’re here. Are you watching me?”
“C-Come back t-to me and l-lets g-g-g-go home!”
>You step forward, body guided by concern
>You’ll never get there fast enough
>The train whistle shrieks as in the darkness, that yellow nail of light slathering gold onto Jacob
>Jake doesn’t move from the tracks as the train hurtles closer and closer
>“YOU CAN’T ALWAYS BE SUCH A LITTLE BABY, SAM!” he screams above the panicked boom of the horn
>You can hear the train’s steel brakes crying out desperately to stop, to avoid the kid standing dead ahead on the tracks
>They yell at him to move
>Instead, it’s you who stops moving
>Move, you will yourself
>Move
>The train tries to brake, but it can’t. It takes miles for a train to a full stop, to halt its own momentum
>So move
>Your body locks up like a car in the wrong gear
>It can only tremble with the need to move forward
>Jake doesn’t look at you
>MOVE
>“YOU NEED TO LEARN HOW TO F-FEND FOR YOURSELF!” he yells
>You can see his whole body shaking too, like yours
>He can feel the rush of wind from the train barreling forward
>He shuts his eyes
>And everything goes quiet, as if in a vacuum
>He tenses his legs
>Tightens his muscles like a spring
>And jumps to the side at the last possible second, rolling into you, knocking you off your feet and onto your back
>He lays there, his weight crushing down on your tender body
>You can feel him shaking out the adrenaline
>“F-Fucking…” he whispers, trying hard to hide his panic beneath the train’s evaporating whistle
>“See? See Sam? You can’t be afraid. Fear will destroy you.”
>He sits up
>You can see the tears stinging his eyes
>You can feel his body trembling on top of you, pinning you to the dirt
>He looks away, down the track, as the train rolls on
>“And, when you’re older, sometime soon… It’ll be your turn on the tracks.”
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