These Skins

A quick prompt-based story.

           I remember catching dandelion catching dandelion seeds when I was younger. It always seemed to mesmerize me, the way they hung in the air, simply waiting for a breeze to carry them to earth. Out here, where it’s one-hundred degrees and only ten A.M., the heat waves obscure any flying seeds. All I can see are the oily lines of my neighborhood.

            I’ve pulled my parents’ old loveseat, the one they took a chainsaw to after the divorce, out into the front lawn, along with the old coffee table my brother used to carve obscenities into. My sandaled feet are propped up against the table, the only thing keeping me from slipping off the missing edge of the couch. Peeking out of the tops of my Birkenstocks are my poor bruised toes, wriggling in protest against the oppressive heat. I glare at them. I came out here for contemplation, but not of my toes. Scott, my older brother – not the obscenity-carving brother, but the high school drop-out tattoo artist – just announced that he committed a murder. Over Dad’s sad attempt of blueberry pancakes; those half-cooked kind, that are really just batter-filled skins, that you can feel seeping all the way down your throat until you just want to throw his pancake at his shiny bald head. Anyway, it’s not like I’m surprised that my brother is a murderer. Matt had been really sick, so we all had sort of been expecting it. Matt is, or I suppose was, Scott’s friend. Close friend. He’d been diagnosed with an obscure sort of cancer when turned twenty. That he would die seemed a given. It was only a matter of ‘when;’ and Scott hates to see people suffer.

            I’ve gone back to contemplating my dancing toes when I head the screen door screech open onto the porch. When his dark shadow almost covers me, I glance into my brother’s eyes. The silence that hangs between us seems to strangle him and raises the hair on my arms, but I’m not inclined to break it. Luckily, I didn’t have too.

            “So,” he hesitates, desperate with something innocuous to begin with. “Dad’s pancakes are getting sort of better, don’t you think?”

            I squint up at him. “No.”

            He throws me a look, but I’m not going to fish him out; if he wants to have a discussion, it needs to be his choice. Understanding this, he lets out a great sigh and whispers, “I’m sorry.” He pauses as if expecting me to ask what for, and then answers anyway, “for letting you down, if I have. For ruining whatever idea you had about me.” My heart stops in my chest and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I reach quickly for my Coke on the table, taking a reckless chug. I toss the red bottle cap at Scott; he barely flinches.

            “Don’t talk like that you idiot,” I say, panting as if I’ve just run the block or something. Scott looks at me, confused, and I lift my free hand defensively. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the apology, but it’s ridiculous.” I squint up into his eyes again. “I don’t any such thing about. I know why you did what you did, and I respect it.”

            He doesn’t seem to know what to do with that, and turns his head towards the street. After a few moments, I know that our serious discussion is over when he says, “kind of hot today, huh?”

            I trail a lazy finger through the sweat pooling at my neck. “Seems that way.”

            “I can make those permanent, if you want.” He’s pointing at the drawings I scribbled on my hipbones a few hours ago.

            “They’re alchemical symbols,” I tell him.

            I can see that he has no idea what that is, but he covers by saying, “you would not believe some of the requests I get. They’re insane.”

            “The kinds of things that would have gotten you burned for heresy?” I ask. He shrugs, as if to say, ‘it’s no big deal.’ I stop at that, and our perceived easiness leaks out of the conversation. “You did the right thing,” I tell him, and he shrugs again. “Matt would have thanked you,” I pressed, desperate to erase the melancholy from his features.

            “He did, actually,” he says quietly.

            I blink. “Oh.”

            “Yeah.” The silence returns. He looks at me, and asks, “Why aren’t you at school?”       

            “It’s July,” I point out helpfully.

            “Oh.” He looks back towards the street. “Well, I’m gonna head out. Dad’s not…he’s not taking things so well,” he tells me, absently petting my scraggly red hair. I twist my neck, getting it out of his reach. “He doesn’t notice.

            “Okay, go then.” I make rough shooing motions with my hands, and then I remember something important – “And don’t do anything stupid.”

            He nods but doesn’t hear me as he walks off down the sidewalk.

            I sit back, glowering at my toes; my kingdom for a dandelion.