Flash Fiction.

Flash fiction: short stories. But shorter.

Better.
After Susan Steinberg

    Get in your room, she says, Stop causing problems, and, This is not okay, But I didn't do anything, and, Take your stupid phone with you, Oh right, because that's the source of the problem. It doesn't matter, she says. But it does to you, because he always wants what you have and he always gets it a lot easier than you do. And now he's yelling and you didn't close your door in time, because he wedged his foot in there and he says, Don't you ever, something or other, it doesn't really matter what he says, and, You're a horrible something, unclear, because you're wailing too. He has a knife and he says, I'll kill you. It's a kitchen knife, you wonder if he'll actually do it. He's shaking and his eyes are bright and droopy. He won't. But then he pushes you and you stumble and her hands are around his wrist and she's pulling but he's bigger than she is now, and furious. Calm down, she says, You're not okay. And then she takes you by the shoulder and drags you through the kitchen, Come on, she says, Get your shoes and get in the car, But this isn't solving anything, But he really just needs time to calm down, get in the car, But why, Because we don't need to be around for this, I don't like this, Oh and you think this is easy for me? She snaps, but she raised him, an angry boy. Like mother like son, and she tears up and says, It's not like you're any better. But you are, you just don't say so. You know how to hold your breath until the words dissolve in your mouth like cotton candy and then you just swallow them again. So you get in the car. You get in the car and let her drive. And you know these streets like the freckles on your hands because she takes the same route every night this happens. You know the stop sign and the gas station and the church and the liquor store and the grocery store and the church and the liquor store and the liquor store before you get to the trailhead and she puts the car in park and she's crying. He looked so scared or something like he was shrinking into himself or shrinking into something. He's getting bigger but he's still lanky right, like he got all stretched out and he hasn't quite caught up with himself, but just because he's gangly doesn't mean it's not scary when he gets like this, does it? She says, It used to be so much fun, the two of you got along so well, I wish you still did, because you would play these imagination games and you would build houses with Lincoln Logs, Yeah but he always ended up kicking them over. And then she's silent and her shoulders shake and you know you shouldn't have said that, it's dark already, you live in a small town but the lights down there mirror constellations. This is bullshit, she tells you to watch your language, But were you even listening to him because he's a lot more foul than I am, and she slams her hands on the steering wheel and tells you to stop antagonizing people, I don't know why you let him do whatever he wants, and then angry tears are coming and you're counting backwards in your head and holding your breath. Her teeth are clenched and her hands are gripping the steering wheel and her knuckles are white and she says, I can't believe you, and, You know that it's not the same for the two of you, and, Nobody is going to treat two of their children exactly the same especially when he needs something different from what you need. And you sink into your seat, ashamed. You want to get out of the car and run away because nobody makes you feel guilty the way she does. You want to run and run until you pass the liquor store and the liquor store and the church and the grocery store and the liquor store and the church and the gas station and the stop sign and you want to run past home and just keep going. You don't get out of the car. You did that before and there were two guys hanging out between the liquor store and the church with what looked like guns, and they heard you coming. One of them met your eyes and so you looked away and ran extra fast and the blood pounding in your ears could have been one of the men chasing you. Everyone knows eye contact is trouble. Neither of them chased you. But it scared you enough to make you to stop trusting the nighttime. She inhales and she's still crying but you don't look, not even a quick look, not even a safe look like the glances you give to the boys you walk past in the hallways at school, because you know if your eyes meet then she'll think it means you want to talk but really you're exhausted. You have no words left for him or her or that house. Everyone knows eye contact is trouble. She has crying eyes like the boy waving the knife in the kitchen with his shaky hands, the same droopy blue. And she stares straight ahead and tries to pinpoint exactly which house is yours based only on the lights. Because everyone knows eye contact is trouble. And she still couldn't see his behavior take over her life, so she let it take over, she let the yelling go on until she spent her days on her tiptoes around him because everything is a trigger and his ability to stay calm is fashioned out of egg shells. And so you joined her in the tiptoeing, because what else could you do?, and the two of you always do a clumsy waltz around his day to make sure you don't step on his toes. But it is clumsy. Toes are always stepped on. And soon she'll drive you back home. And soon you'll be a normal family again. She'll drive you fast from the quiet trailhead, fast past the liquor store, fast, the liquor store, fast, church, fast, grocery store, liquor store, church, gas station, stop sign, back to the boy who is lanky and awkward and now alone. And he sits at the counter most likely, and you know he'll be embarrassed and he'll say he didn't actually want you to have to leave, he didn't actually want to kill you, because that's how it always is. You know he could if he wanted to. You're glad he only sometimes wants to. But this is just you being ridiculous, because nobody really wants to kill their sister, and nobody really wants to be that out of control, and what stars aren't beautiful, even when they're watching you crumble, even city lights, even though it's not a city, beautiful, admit it. She reaches out and takes your hand, she squeezes your palm, puts the car in drive and you go speeding away. You stare straight ahead and say, It'll get better.