happy sobbing coming from the kitchen. The sound is full of snot and throat.
“Dad?” I call. The crying hiccups. Then there’s a sniffle. Sliding the door shut, I tiptoe towards the room.
He whispers, “Come in. Look at what we’ve been given.” His voice lowers, into a sort of prayer-like cadence. “A miracle. A miracle.”
My feet still.
I don’t like how my father says that word.
I don’t like what he fills it with.
“Liam?” I say, quieter this time, calling for my brother. Nothing answers me but silence. Silence, and a rhythmic dripping up ahead. Like the sound of a leaky faucet. Plip, plop. Plip, plop. Plip, plip, plop. Still… I start walking again, stopping only as I round the corner, as my sneakers kiss the grasping, frayed ends of the carpet—an uneven seam separating the hallway from the kitchen’s tile.
In the middle of the room, we have a counter. On it, my brother’s body dangles. His arms and legs are splayed, tied down by the ankles and wrists. The ropes are unnecessary. One look at his face, and I know that the fear in his wide, horse-startled eyes have him pinned far more firmly than any bit of string.
Deep slashes twine his body—careful, knife-made marks. From them, blood dribbles along his skin, cliff-dives off his fingertips, joins the crimson splatter beneath him. Not a lot—not nearly enough—but us Deathless freaks hardly bleed anymore too, some of us not at all, and that is how you know we are dead.
The floor is freckled with red.
My father’s hand too.
“What did you do?” I ask, even though the answer is in front of me. My brother’s mouth mutters soundlessly.