front of me. My brother’s mouth mutters soundlessly.
“He told me to,” my father says. “He—”
“You damn idiot,” I interrupt. “You stupid, stupid fool.”
The knife in his hand dips, clinks against the counter. My brother shivers at the sound. His mumbling continues, louder. “Phoenix. Phoenix. Phoenix. Phoenix. Phoenix—”
On and on and on as Father frowns at his feet. At the blade. At his son. As if this was his big plan. As if this was ever going to work. I snipe, “What did your goddamn He tell you this time? What was this supposed to do? Kill him?”
My brother will heal. Slowly, but he will.
“The only way out is through, He said.” His eyes glaze as they shift back to the counter. “And it’s working. What changes may one day die. What bleeds has life. To give. To lose.”
“Idiot,” I snap one more time before snatching the blade from his hand. He lets me. I walk to my brother, cut him free. Once I’ve tugged him back to his chair, he looks up at me with dead eyes. Brushing his hair back, I turn on the television as my father lumbers into the room and sits on the couch.
They both settle in.
“Their search remains promising,” the TV says.
“Caught. Cut. Stuck and stick,” my brother rambles.
Shaking my head, I turn and walk away. I brush whatever embers of emotion—their sizzling nuzzle—from my skin, and let the bloated wind outside sweep me up, carry me. It may not be as good as bark on my feet, leaves in my hair, but it is enough. Right now, it is enough.
I have not yet been broken.
One day, I will escape this artificial night.