Presenting this week’s flash fiction for Wednesday Words!
I used to have a brother, you know. We were close, growing together and sharing our excitement for our futures. Everything was going to be perfect. Well, until I ate him.
I didn’t do it on purpose. We were still small, tiny, and I absorbed him. Vanishing twins they say. Mommy still mourns him, years later. She doesn’t believe me when I say he’s still here, he’s still inside of me. That I can talk to him sometimes. She just laughs then cries as she grinds her morning coffee.
It pisses my brother off.
I know because he tells me so.
He’s mostly there in my dreams. We play together, laugh together. Sometimes we explore spooky dreamlands. It isn’t the same as our womb aspirations, but still adventures. I tell Daddy about them, and he just chuckles about my imaginary friend and goes back to watching the morning news.
This pisses off my brother, too.
My brother is not pleased that Mommy is about to have another baby. He thinks it’s a replacement for him. That I’m going to want to play with the baby when I’m awake instead of him while I sleep. I tell him he’s silly—I can play with both him and the new baby—and he goes silent.
Yet when I wake, I’m in my parents’ room. Blood everywhere. And silence.
Mommy and Daddy not moving, covered in ugly, gaping holes. A knife still inside Mommy.
My mind relaxes—my brother’s finally happy.
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