Page 118 of The Darkest Chase

There’s nothing left of him but evidence markers and a dark stain on the rocks.

Even that will be gone after the storm.

I wish I could say the same about the crows. There are three of the little black-winged bastards today, staring intently from an overhanging branch.

Reminding me I’ll never stop thinking about Jet.

About how I found my brother, this shell of a man who was nothing like I remembered. No longer the big brother who’d step up and take the blows from our father’s fists so they wouldn’t touch me.

Sometimes our old man got to me first anyway, his little ghost-white mutant of a child, but not if Jet could help it.

Mikey, get out of the way! Let me. I’m stronger.

I used to beg him to stop, pulling on his arms.

If Dad was going to hit me no matter what Jet did, he should spare my big brother, so only one of us had to take the pain.

Jet wasn’t having that shit.

He’d just grin at me, crooked and confident, even with his face busted and covered in bruises and ugly red split skin.

Jet, stop! He’ll kill you! I’d scream.

Nah, Bro. If you go down, I’m going too.

I’m good. You’re good. It’s all good.

It wasn’t all good.

It wasn’t all good at fucking all.

I was the one who found him after the beatings were just bad memories.

This emaciated shell of a man in a dirty one-room apartment, slouched against the wall in his boxers and an undershirt stained down the front with vomit.

I hadn’t talked to him for days, and too many missed calls had me worried. I found out fast I had good reason.

My loyal brother died ugly, and I hate the world that let him.

I hate that he was so gaunt, so hollow, I barely recognized him.

I hate that his skin was like one giant bruise.

I hate that it became my final, lasting memory.

Seeing my brother bruised, broken, and this time, not getting up again to face another ass-kicking from life.

Somehow, that was worse in the end than anything our father did.

I blame our old man as much as I blame the Arrendells and the Jacobins.

Maybe they gave him the drugs, but our father gave him the itch.

And now, just like Brian Newcomb, there’s nothing left of Jet but a killing memory and someone else living in his shitty rathole of an apartment with no clue that a man died in the same place where they sleep each night.

“Go on! Get the hell out of here.” I swear at the crows as they take flight, done with torturing me.

At least it’s one of those days where they leave, period.

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