Brother

by Ania Ahlborn

“Hold out your hand,” Ray instructed. Michael did as he was told, and Ray placed the bright-red sphere in his brother’s small palm. “This is a special firework,” he explained. “I’m gonna light the fuse, and when I do you gotta cup it like this.” Ray put his hands together as if holding a bird. Michael mimicked him. “And when it goes off, you’re gonna get a real big surprise, see? But you gotta hold on to it, otherwise it ain’t gonna work.”

Jesus Christ

The air was always better when the world was sleeping. It made it easier to breathe.

Anytime he heard laughter inside, it seemed as though the rooms sucked up the sound and squelched it beneath a veil of discolored wallpaper. If that house were alive, it would feed on happiness and breathe out nothing but screaming and hate.

You know what they say—some people get addicted to feeling bad because whenever they feel good they feel guilty.

Michael descended the stairs, hating how slowly his feet were moving, how reluctant he felt, when he should have been leaping to Misty’s aid. But a lifetime of being afraid couldn’t be cast off like a worthless hand-me-down. He was no superhero. His fear was too ingrained, as much a part of him as a fingerprint.

“Good idea,” he said. “A party ain’t a party without a splash of red.”

Their faces turned up to the sky in search of God—as if he could possibly exist in a world where men like Rebel and Michael Morrow were allowed to live.