Big Bad

by Chandler Baker

The men around the table take a long time getting to their feet. They’re old, some born that way, some having grown into it properly. Rachel imagines moths chewing up their crotches.

“Sorry,” she repeats, even though she has generally disabused herself of the feminine habit of apology.

seems that everyone thinks their dog is the sweetest until it bites someone’s face off.

He plugs the vacuum cord into the wall, considering, only briefly, whether to hang himself with it. Progress.

Something off about that one, something a little wrong in the head. Oh, well. What’s done is done.

The worst part about being an older sister is the sinking feeling that everything is always somehow her fault.

When your body is in crisis, time slows. Sam remembers hearing once that this phenomenon actually occurs because the brain takes more snapshots during a crisis, clicking like a camera, gathering information, anything that might be useful, anything to save itself. Sam hurls his body at Harold. Click. Shoulder low, he folds Harold in half. Click, click. The two men crumple to the ground with a groan, and it doesn’t feel cool, like an action movie, it feels like two middle-aged men with bad knees playing grab ass.

She’ll stay with her sister, no matter what. Even if it means they die.

Fourteen years with Rachel, and after all this time, she wasn’t the monster—he was.