The Locked Door

by Freida McFadden

It’s a prickling sensation that starts in my scalp and crawls its way down to the base of my neck, then drips down my spine.

Maybe if he had become a surgeon, it would’ve kept him from doing the things he ended up doing.

I don’t like the idea of being memorable.

Brady owned a Halloween mask of my father’s face.

The house seems quiet—-almost too quiet. “Honey, I’m home,” I whisper.

It’s not my fault I’m not like everyone else. But that doesn’t mean I’m like him.