his brother and realized that his skin wasn’t red from heat, but from cold; and that it wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, but melted snow. Then he realized something else. “Those aren’t your pants.”
Julian ignored him. “They locked all the doors but the main one. They wanted to make me come in the front, past all the people. They thought that would be funny, but I beat them. I came in where the bats come in. You know? Right, Michael. The bat room.”
Michael saw it now. He saw his brother running through the snow, naked and cold, then squirming through a gap of rotted wood and collapsed subfloor, headfirst into all those bats, all that shit. “Those aren’t your pants, Julian.”
The pants were stiff with crud and far too big on his narrow waist. They looked like something dug from one of the moldy boxes that littered the basement floor, a man’s pants, old and stained and frayed at the cuff. Julian’s fingers curled on the stiff knees, and his eyes hung open in a face gone suddenly slack. “Why would I wear somebody else’s pants?”
The expression was so familiar, the dull eyes that refused to focus, the open mouth and hint of crazy.
The disconnect.
As much as Michael hated to see it, he understood too well why the look took his brother so often. Harassed at every turn, Julian had been disintegrating for months, so twitchy and pale and hollow-eyed that he barely ate or slept; and when sleep did come, it was as tortured as his days, the dreams relentless. The worst moment came two nights ago when Julian rolled out of bed with a whimper in his throat and silver spit on his chin. He crammed himself into a corner and balled tight, same slack mouth, same nightmare eyes. It took long minutes to snap him out of it, and when Michael finally got him back in bed, Julian remained jittery and glazed and afraid. His words broke as he tried to explain.
Things change in the dark. It scares me.
Things change how?
You’ll think I’m crazy.
I won’t.
Swear?
Jeez, Julian ...
You know how a candle starts out all clean and smooth and pretty? How it makes sense when you look at it. Like that’s how it should look.
Okay.
But then you light it, and it melts and drips and goes ruined and ugly. Well, sometimes it feels like that when the lights go out. Like everything is wrong.
I don’t understand.
It’s like everything melts off in the dark. Like the dark is the flame and the world is wax.
The world’s not a candle, Julian.
But how do you know if you can’t see it?
Why are you crying?
How can anybody know?
Just the thought of it made Michael angry. So what if his brother was soft? “Who did this, Julian? Hennessey?”
“And Billy Walker.” Julian started crying again, bright, oily tears. He sniffed loudly, smeared dirt with a forearm.
“Who else?” Michael asked.
“Georgie-boy Nichols. Chase Johnson. And that fuck-head in from juvie.”
“The one from north Georgia? The big one?”
“Ronnie Saints.” Julian nodded.
“Five of them?”
“Yeah.”
Michael stood, even angrier. Furnace heat pulled sweat from his skin. “You have to stand up for yourself, Julian. Once you do that, they’ll leave you alone.”
“But, I’m not like you.”
“Just show them you’re not scared.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
“Don’t say you’re sorry…”
“Please don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
Julian buried his eyes in a forearm, and Michael stared down for a long second. “You have to stop, Julian.”
“Stop what?” Big eyes turned up. A heavy swallow in his narrow throat.
“Stop mooning around all the time.” Michael hated the words. “Stop singing to yourself and looking lost. Stop running when they chase. Stop flinching—”
“Michael…”
“Stop being such a pussy.”
Julian looked away. “I don’t mean to be. Please don’t say that, Michael.”
But Michael was tired of the worry, the fights. “Just go to the room,
Julian ignored him. “They locked all the doors but the main one. They wanted to make me come in the front, past all the people. They thought that would be funny, but I beat them. I came in where the bats come in. You know? Right, Michael. The bat room.”
Michael saw it now. He saw his brother running through the snow, naked and cold, then squirming through a gap of rotted wood and collapsed subfloor, headfirst into all those bats, all that shit. “Those aren’t your pants, Julian.”
The pants were stiff with crud and far too big on his narrow waist. They looked like something dug from one of the moldy boxes that littered the basement floor, a man’s pants, old and stained and frayed at the cuff. Julian’s fingers curled on the stiff knees, and his eyes hung open in a face gone suddenly slack. “Why would I wear somebody else’s pants?”
The expression was so familiar, the dull eyes that refused to focus, the open mouth and hint of crazy.
The disconnect.
As much as Michael hated to see it, he understood too well why the look took his brother so often. Harassed at every turn, Julian had been disintegrating for months, so twitchy and pale and hollow-eyed that he barely ate or slept; and when sleep did come, it was as tortured as his days, the dreams relentless. The worst moment came two nights ago when Julian rolled out of bed with a whimper in his throat and silver spit on his chin. He crammed himself into a corner and balled tight, same slack mouth, same nightmare eyes. It took long minutes to snap him out of it, and when Michael finally got him back in bed, Julian remained jittery and glazed and afraid. His words broke as he tried to explain.
Things change in the dark. It scares me.
Things change how?
You’ll think I’m crazy.
I won’t.
Swear?
Jeez, Julian ...
You know how a candle starts out all clean and smooth and pretty? How it makes sense when you look at it. Like that’s how it should look.
Okay.
But then you light it, and it melts and drips and goes ruined and ugly. Well, sometimes it feels like that when the lights go out. Like everything is wrong.
I don’t understand.
It’s like everything melts off in the dark. Like the dark is the flame and the world is wax.
The world’s not a candle, Julian.
But how do you know if you can’t see it?
Why are you crying?
How can anybody know?
Just the thought of it made Michael angry. So what if his brother was soft? “Who did this, Julian? Hennessey?”
“And Billy Walker.” Julian started crying again, bright, oily tears. He sniffed loudly, smeared dirt with a forearm.
“Who else?” Michael asked.
“Georgie-boy Nichols. Chase Johnson. And that fuck-head in from juvie.”
“The one from north Georgia? The big one?”
“Ronnie Saints.” Julian nodded.
“Five of them?”
“Yeah.”
Michael stood, even angrier. Furnace heat pulled sweat from his skin. “You have to stand up for yourself, Julian. Once you do that, they’ll leave you alone.”
“But, I’m not like you.”
“Just show them you’re not scared.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
“Don’t say you’re sorry…”
“Please don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
Julian buried his eyes in a forearm, and Michael stared down for a long second. “You have to stop, Julian.”
“Stop what?” Big eyes turned up. A heavy swallow in his narrow throat.
“Stop mooning around all the time.” Michael hated the words. “Stop singing to yourself and looking lost. Stop running when they chase. Stop flinching—”
“Michael…”
“Stop being such a pussy.”
Julian looked away. “I don’t mean to be. Please don’t say that, Michael.”
But Michael was tired of the worry, the fights. “Just go to the room,
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