BaneBerry Fire

Red…red was his favorite-not like the red from papa’s steak-or the red that mama puts on her lips, no…its more like the red of the sky-when Brother and I have to head Home, when another tree is ‘liberated’ and Brothers all covered in those sticky colors. I like to say I loved it too-but I cared more for the blue he was using to craft an ocean onto the un-‘liberated’ body of another grand old tree. Blue-white-yellow, Brother is always clever with his color choice. “Nothing is ever pointless” he used to tell me-, “Even shit has it’s purpose” Brother always had a way of saying things.

He painted buildings-golden ones-rising just over that blueberry sea. I’m not sure how he made gold-but it was beautiful…not quite white-not quite yellow-a color in between. I shivered, and hugged closer to Brother’s black coat. It always took too long-the liberating. Often times, when Brother wasn’t saying much, and his colors weren’t so vibrant, I’d curl up beside a bush and nap, or take a walk down to the stream for a change of scenery; but that was on days when Brother wasn’t so mad-today he was like the fires he paints.

“Greedy-greedy-greedy,” He hissed, slapping the fourth golden tower onto the aged wood. “Greedy, greedy, man,” Brother said lots of things, but only when he was angry.

He wore color instead of clothes when he was angry-it was always odd to see him bounding through the wood draped in sky reds-big city golds-and blueberry ocean blues; all naked. He’d do this after a tree was liberated, with torches and sparklers-howling like a dog; wild and colorful. I’d follow him-howling back-something tells me we won’t be doing that tonight.

“What is it this time,” I ask from a body of autumn leaves, sipping at my plastic bottle of old tea.

“Roan,” He says to me-the skin beneath the paint pale-almost blue-from the cold.

“Roan?”

“Roan-,” He confirms as he uses blackberries to craft mountains, “-it’s a city,” he says

“A city-like San Francisco or L.A?”

Brother shakes his wild head-, “No…bigger,”

“New York?”

Brother doesn’t say anything as his painted fingers move along the bark.

“Equal greed-equal corruption-but not the same,”

I’m not sure what he meant by that, but then again nothing was ever sure about Brother-that’s why he didn’t finish school, and why Papa goes out drinking every night-and why the hospital nurses come to visit once a week-because Brother was so unsure.

“Where is it?” I ask looking up at the sky still painted ashy blue.

“Somewhere very far-,”

I picked a dead leaf from a brown curl in my hair-, “How far?”

Brother growled and slapped his favorite red just above the mountains-, “Too far,”

That was odd-Brother usually liked questions-, “Don’t be afraid to question whether or not the impossible is truly impossible,”-was what he painted on the first tree in our forest of color.

“I hope you get to see it someday,” He muttered sliding his favorite red with my favorite blue-Brother made a purple toned sky…

“Is it a nice place?”

Brother shrugged in his colored nudity-

“Parts of it are-its a lot like London, or Paris-or Rome,”

I smiled, “Mrs. Walter taught us about Rome this week,”

Brother slapped some white down on the sky and it became pink; makes more sense now.

“Rome-Roan…they sound too similar,” Brother mumbled almost to himself.

“Maybe call it something else?”

“Logan then-,”

I laughed and popped open a bag of chips from my lunch box.

“Greedy-greedy man,” I mocked.

“It’s old greed-tempered-and thick with a messy past,”

Brother went back to his work-and I was back to watching him. Night always set too fast and Brother always swore about it. Home isn’t fun-not like the forests. Home is mama-papa-and sister Darla all scolding Brother for his colors, and scolding me for liking them. Brother would often leave in the night after midnight shouting matches, to return to our forest of colors-I can see him from my bedroom window sometimes-running through the forest naked, with branches of fire in each hand; Brother feels no shame, because he is above it.

Dusk is soon upon us and Brother is finished with his painting. I rose from a nap to see the completed picture of a man, standing on a beach overlooking a sea, and that golden city of Roan-or Logan as Brother now called it. The man looked more like a shadow of black and blue, but I like to consider him a man-a man who looked lost.

“I’m done,” Brother says as he throws the Tupperware filled with smashed berries into that neon orange backpack of his.

“No fires,” I ask, wiping at my tired eyes.

“No fires,” Brother returns.

He puts on his trousers, and bounds into the surrounding darkness of our colorful forest, assuming I’ll follow; I do, I always follow Brother-even when he doesn’t know it. At dusk our liberated trees seem to glow-the colors more vibrant, the faces more real. Most of them are of men, women and children, all from a faraway place Brother keeps telling me to visit. He says you can’t get there by plane-but I don’t believe him-Brother likes to play tricks, and even lie when he’s able. Shadows play off the faces; the woman standing at a train station in a red coat, the young men sitting around a table with foggy bottles, the shadow of a man standing before a burning building-the word “Father” Painted in gold upon a lonely pine at the center of our forest; I think that was Brother’s favorite word-Father.

“Are you going to paint tomorrow?” I ask him, as we pass the golden ‘Father’ tree.

Brother shakes his head, “Need more paints,”

I sigh, the heat of my breath rolling out in white swirls, “Ask papa,”

“Ben and I aren’t on good terms right now,” Brother growls as he puts a tighter grip on the straps of his backpack.

“It’s just berries right” I ask looking down at my dark booted feet.

“Ben doesn’t have the money-he’s too busy spending it,”

“On what,”

Brother smiles in the half darkness, his straight white teeth flashing at me against the rainbow on his face, “Hookers,” He says bluntly; that word gets thrown around a lot at Home.

“Oh,” I say rubbing my numb hands together, “Mama won’t like that,”

Brother shakes his head, “No Leah won’t like that at all,”

We walk the rest of the way Home in silence-just like Brother wants it. Eventually our colorful forest is gone and we enter the ‘un-expressed desolates,’ as Brother likes to call it; whatever that means. Brother’s colors seem to fade when we step into the ‘desolates’-he also seems to slouch, and I can see the dark rings around his eyes better.

When we get Home its dark, the streetlights are on-and Brother is sure to get a scolding from papa. Our house is small, built right behind the ‘un-expressed desolates’ along a secluded stretch of road with very little visitors. It sits between two other houses looking all alike-Brother likes to say the houses would look good with a spot of wild red on them; I’m not sure what he means by that.

Papa’s blueberry blue sports car is parked out front, next to mama’s chalk colored mini-van; Brother is going to be back out at midnight tonight for sure. We head up those steps, past the porch, and Brother is greeted with papa’s wrinkled white face. He’s smoking again, and I can swear I smell that hot stuff on his breath-his fingers are smudged with pencil dust, and his thinning gray hair is all thrown about; no patience from papa tonight.

“Again with this,” Papa says first.

“I don’t need this tonight Ben,”

Papa didn’t like it when Brother called him by his work name.

“Boy,” Papa hissed with that tone of his, “Don’t you come stepping in here with that sort of lack of respect,”

Brother stomped passed Papa, wearing all those colors and tracking them on the carpet-I follow him like always.

“Stop right there-,” Papa tries to shout, but Brother is already upstairs, and I’m already in the kitchen with Mama and Darla.

Mama is over a pot of veggies again-no one at Home eats meat-Darla is sitting at the dinner table lost in her phone, and I begin to tell Mama about my day. She drops her shoulders and stirs as I tell her about class, and what Mrs. Walter taught us today. Mama was blonde-like Brother; Darla and I got Papa’s brown hair, although I don’t believe it was ever brown. Mama had blue eyes like Brother too, but they didn’t look as blueberry blue today as they do normally-Papa must’ve scolded her too; he liked to practice.

“-Ancient History-I didn’t know they taught that?” She said, trying to sound interested as she wiped her hands on that pine green apron of hers.

“What’s for dinner mama,” I asked standing on my toes to peer into the pot; no one at Home was tall.

“The usual-,” She sighed, it was green and orange muck-just like it was every Monday-papa loved going out too much.

Dinner is served, and we all eat to the sound of the television talking about fighting again. Brother had cleaned off his colors, and looked tired-papa was still smoking-mama was still tired-and Darla was still lost in that phone of hers; she’d make a laughing noise every now and again, but then she’d shut up. On the T.V there were men fighting in a desert-just like they always did-Brother says they’ll fight there forever.

Dinner passes without scolding, and I’m left still hungry. Once homework is done, I slip into Brother’s room-sweet music comes from there late at night. His bedroom door is painted with swirls of every color imaginable-sunset pinks, autumn leaf oranges, blueberry blues, pine greens, and reds…fiery, fiery reds. Somewhere in that beautiful storm of color I find the door knob and slip inside. I’ve already showered, my hair damp and tossed about-mama says I should brush it, but Brother doesn’t so why should I?

Inside Brother is sitting in the darkness, as he stares into the night sky painted onto the ceiling. The stars glow like they normally do, and I often wonder if Brother somehow stole a piece of the night sky and put it up there on his bedroom ceiling. His walls are painted too, but I never know what it is-seems to be a mash of everything, and at first glance looks as chaotically wonderful as his bedroom door. When I look harder I see figures, buildings, mountains, seas and forests-but that doesn’t come very often. There is only a bed in Brother’s room, and currently he sits on the floor, legs folded Indian style. The music comes from an old boom box he stole from papa-the sounds it makes remind me of the theatre on Saturday nights when the old men and older women go dressed in their finest clothing. Usually I can never understand the music, but when I see Brother listen to it I know it’s powerful.

His face is peaceful, and it seems as though he is somewhere else-somewhere faraway. It’s wrong to disturb him so suddenly, so I sit beside him, following his position-my pond green eyes staring up at him in the darkness. Eventually he senses me, and comes back Home-the dark rings reappear around his eyes.

“Hey,” He says to me softly-his voice like the crackle of a dying camp fire.

“Hey,” I say back to him.

“It’s beautiful-,”

“What is?” I ask, fiddling with the fabric of my checkered pajama pants.

Brother sighs; he tries to explain but it never comes out right.

“You should go to bed,” He says.

“No,” I reply, “I’m not tired,”

“Ben’s going to yell at you,”

“I don’t care,”

Brother stands up, and stops papa’s boom box-he’s naked again-without the colors this time.

“I think I’m going to keep calling it Roan,” He says suddenly as he stares out the single window in his bedroom.

“What?”

Brother looks out at the edge of the ‘un-expressed desolates,’ and shakes his head, “Nothing,”

“Papa hasn’t come up yet?”

“No,” Brother says turning back towards me-no shame, “But he’s bound to,”

“He’s mad at you huh?”

Brother sat back down, “He’s always mad at me,”

“It’s because you’re unsure huh?”

Brother nods, “Yeah,”

We sit in silence for a moment, and then he says, “I think he wants a better son,”

“You’re his best son,” I reply quickly.

Brother sighs again, “Can you do me a favor?”

“What is it,” I say, sitting straight, a little excited as to what Brother could possibly be asking me to do for him.

“Wake up tonight-at midnight-,”

I sit for a little while, waiting for more, “Is that all,”

“That’s all,”

Brother gets up, and turns on papa’s boom box again, “I need privacy,”

I follow Brother’s order and trot from the room like a soldier-Brother’s soldier. I go straight to bed, setting my alarm for midnight. I try to get some sleep but all I can think about is the colors, and the idea of liberating another tree at midnight; counting sheep doesn’t even help. Eventually after a few hours of restlessness I knock out-and am almost instantly awakened by the buzz of my alarm and a stench that brings tears to my eyes.

“Get up,” I hear Brother say from beside my bed.

I see Brother’s face, staring at me-unpainted, clothed, and covered in a thin layer of smoke.

“I’ve painted the kitchen red,” He says to me.

From downstairs an alarm wails in pain, and I’m jolted awake.

“Fire!” Papa’s voice rings from the bedroom next door.

Brother pulls me from my covers and drags me out my bedroom door just as the dining room table catches fire. He takes me by the hand, and pulls me out the front door, looking like he does when we tear through the forests with burning branches and sparklers-howling at the night. We run out into the street, and turn to admire his work.

Smoke billowed through the open door, as a faint red glow wavered from inside. Somewhere down that stretch of road a fire-truck siren rang, and some of the neighbors had begun to rouse from their homes to see what the matter was.

Mama, Darla, and a quite frazzled Papa are out next to us within seconds, watching the wicked red devour the inside of our house; it looked different from the others now. Eventually the fire-fighters came, with their yellow trenches, and brilliant hoses; they seemed to take a certain admiration to Brother’s work. Once was all cleared away, and the sun returned from its hiding place behind the trees, we were left to look over what the wicked red had left us. A few chunks of ash, and mama’s old trunk she kept in the garage; she said nothing could ruin that thing. All the while papa didn’t say a word to Brother, and Brother didn’t say a word to papa-I felt a storm coming-papa had to have known that Brother had painted our house red. Now the house was gray, gray and black-two colors Brother never used-two colors that I never knew could smell so bad, and leave such a mark…

Papa got us a room at a cheap motel at the other side of town where the poor people lived; papa seemed angry to be sleeping just a ways away from the ‘dealers’ and ‘cranks’ as he called them. Mama didn’t say much, she never really did. The night we moved into our new Home, Darla chewed out Brother, saying there was no gas leak, that it had been his hand that put that first stroke of red upon the kitchen stove.

“-I was asleep,” Brother said softly sitting at the end of the two old smelly beds we had to share.

Our room was a small yellow square…the type of yellow that you see on the tiles of boy’s bathrooms, or on the walls beside urinals-that type of yellow. The beds smelled like that yellow, but it didn’t bother me too much-it was better than the smell of that wicked red. Mama was zoned out on the television-more men fighting in the desert, painted with nothing but gray. Papa was out-again-as he always was; that night was our third night there and he had been out every last one of them.

“Asleep my ass,” Darla shouted, her blonde locks falling over her overly painted face; those colors weren’t natural.

“Well I was,” Brother said, not really trying to defend himself.

I sat beside Brother, on the bed, tapping away at my Gameboy trying to pretend as though I weren’t listening.

“Then why were you the first one out,” Darla spat, with both her hands on her hips; her fingers were painted too with that unnatural coloring.

“The smell woke me,” Brother muttered as he bit down on his third wicked red apple of the day.

“The fucking smell woke you? Well that’s a load of bull-shit, you and I both know that. We all know what you do in those fucking forests-setting fires and running around naked like a damned caveman,” Darla liked to swear a lot-but then again no one tried to stop her.

“-You set fire to the fucking house didn’t you!?”

Brother didn’t answer her, and bit down on the apple core-he was clothed, contained, and cool-I had never seen Brother so calm before.

“Answer me damn it,”

Brother tossed the half eaten apple core into the trash, “No,”

Darla ran off another series of swears, and stormed to the bathroom where her crying could be heard shortly after; Brother liked to call Darla “-an emotional nut,” I think I believed him.

Two more nights went by this way, with Brother not saying much, and mama and papa not trying to pry anything out of him. We didn’t go to our colored forest, as the walk was always too far, and I always had school the next morning; although that didn’t stop him going by himself. He’d come storming into the motel room late at night, wearing nothing but his colors, smelling of that wicked red, and looking a little blushed; I think he was drinking-he was old enough to.

The next morning mama would scold him as best she could, but she was tired-I could tell. I barely saw anything of papa, he was either out at work, or out with the “Hookers”; I don’t understand the enjoyment in hooks-and I don’t think papa’s a pirate. Throughout that time in that yellow motel I learned about story of the Romans, and a certain ‘Emperor Julius Caesar’ from my teacher Mrs. Walters. Mrs. Walters never showed much emotion, but I think she had a liking for the Romans as when she’d talk about them, she’d go into so much detail. I didn’t catch a lot of it; my mind tends to wander a lot in school. It’s not my fault though-mama and papa sent me to a special school, a school where they said: “-only the best and brightest boys and girls go to,” Although Brother says: “-the school is run by greedy fat men and old sexless hags-Ben and Leah sent you there because some damned magazine ad told them to…damn Americans always giving in to capitalist consumerism. Your lucky-so very lucky you have me to teach you right from wrong…you’ll learn nothing of use from that damned institution-,” Brother says a lot of things when he’s angry.

Anyways, I learned about Rome more-about how it’s been around for nearly two and a half thousand years…Brother says that’s not that long a time, but I have trouble believing him on that. The images Mrs. Walters showed on the screen looked a lot like one of Brother’s paintings-the one that he called: “Augustine’s Arena,” The Romans called it the Coliseum, but I think I’m going to go ahead and call it Augustine’s Arena instead.

One night Brother fought papa…Brother fought papa so hard-papa stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped drinking, stopped going to the Hookers, stopped scolding Brother…Brother fought papa, and Brother one. If that had been in Augustine’s Arena, the crowds would cheer his name, but only I was left to applaud his work.

It happened on the last night in the motel, the same day I learned about how Julius Caesar died from Mrs. Walters. Julius was stabbed…so was papa, although papa saw it coming, he always did-Caesar didn’t.

Papa and Brother were arguing again-Brother wasn’t in his colors; he was in his clothes-although by his anger I would think at any moment he would begin to paint himself with chaos. Mama had locked herself in the bathroom because she was frightened by Brother, frightened by what he could do-I think she’s just weak. Darla was trying to lose herself in her phone but it wasn’t working, and I was crying, crying because papa didn’t like my drawing of Brother.

I knelt over it, the crumped piece of paper, colored bright with berries-just like Brother. The drawing was of Brother, standing in our color forest, with wicked red in each of his brilliant hands. Papa saw this when he came home, and beat me for it-I think his hand was still red, red like the skies Brother paints.

Brother came home after papa had beaten me, and left me curled up on the ground sobbing. Brother laid eyes upon me, and couldn’t control himself. He first slapped mama, demanding she tell him who did this-but she had been out, and papa had already left to go live it up with his hooks. Mama hid in the bathroom, just as papa came back from a night of drinking-Brother would show no mercy.

“-You had no right!” Brother shouted, the anger rising in him.

“H-He’s m-m-m-my son,” Papa blurted out as he tried to stand upright.

“You had no right!” Brother repeated.

“Oh s-s-s-shut up,”

Brother pulled that knife, that oh so clever knife, from the pocket of that black coat of his.

“You had no right,”

“T-t-t-the little s-s-s-shit is-s-s becoming l-l-like you-u-u-u-had t-t-t-o beat some s-s-sense in him,”

“You had no right,”

“Put the knife down,” Darla said finally, looking away from her phone.

“H-h-he w-w-w-won’t d-d-do it, he’s spineless-s-s-s just l-like his Father,”

Brother screamed, although I couldn’t be sure it be could considered a scream as it broke all rules of a scream. The sound made my body rattle, the yellow of our room turn white, and filled papa’s heart with fear. I looked up, through tears, and saw Brother lunge forward…

Red…red was his favorite, and red was what spilled out onto that yellowed carpet of our overly yellow motel room. It wasn’t like the wicked red of fire that burns without judgment, or the red that lights up the heavens at dusk-no it’s more like the thick, dark, heartless red of hatred-the red that you can’t really see-the red that you can feel. Julius Caesar bled that hated red.

Darla shrieked, my tears stopped, and Brother smiled; it was a smile that matched the ones he flashes at me once a tree is liberated. Brother’s body moved quickly, as papa fell to the ground in a pale heap. The knife was removed, and heated eyes fixed on Darla-poor, defenseless, ignorant Darla.

More red, more hated red-I didn’t like this red, no, I liked the blueberry blue better-the blueberry blue that came from Brother’s eyes as he moved across the room to reach for his half-sister’s neck. I could hear mama howling, I had a feeling she knew what was happening. I sat back besides my crumpled painting of Brother, and watched him work without too much a sound.

“Please, please,” Darla whimpered as Brother held the knife to her throat.

“Yes I burned the fucking house down,”

“Please, don’t, I’m sorry,”

Brother smiled again, hated red in his teeth, “You disgust me, you vile commercialized pig-give me a reason why I shouldn’t end you-,”

“Brother please-,”

“Give me a reason!” Brother shouted, pressing the knife harder against her overly colored skin.

“I’m your sister-please stop-,”

Tears wiped away the fake colors, and made them run.

“He is my only family,” Brother spat pointing at me-, “He is the only one who understands me-who is willing to listen…none of you listen, none of you look up from your TV’s and your cellphones, and your Facebook’s, and Twitters,”

“I love you Brother, please stop this-I don’t want to die,” Darla pleaded, the tears streaming like a river now mixing with the beginnings of that hated red; a bit of it was papa’s.

“No-no I’m not your Brother, you are not my sister-you’re cattle, nothing but blind-stupid cattle,”

More hated red, more screams-this was unlike liberating trees. I wanted to run, to scream, but this was Brother-brilliant, wholesome, genius Brother; I could not run, not now…Mama had locked the door, and Brother swore for it; another painting for another time I suppose.

Without any more people to be liberated, Brother went for his neon orange bag of berry paints. Tossing some of papa’s cash in the bag, and a few bottles of water, Brother caught my wrist and dragged me from the yellow-red motel.

We stole papa’s blueberry blue sports car, and before long were tearing back to the edge of the ‘un-expressed desolates,’ When we reached the end of that barren-colorless wood, the sun was rising again. Brother said a lot of things, some of them I remember-others seemed like gibberish:

“Keep that blood close at mind little brother-keep its color in your head-I want to remember it, I want to paint it, I want to liberate every tree with it. I want the world to know the sin of humanity, the true greed-petrified disgusting greed that has corrupted the roots of this earth. I want them to see, I want them to feel, are you listening,”

“Yes,”

“You better be listening, please listen, please listen-colors, little brother, there are so many colors,”

“Yes,”

“You see don’t you, you see the truth. Oh thank God, you see the truth-someone sees the truth,”

“Where are we going?”

“Home little brother, we are finally going home,”

After that, Brother started rambling on about things I couldn’t even begin to understand. At one point I had a feeling that he was talking to himself-but Brother isn’t that mad. When we arrived at our colored forest, the sun had cleared the trees, and had set itself high in the sky. I followed him to the largest tree in our forest, the one Brother said he’d never paint; Brother likes to lie sometimes.

He stripped down, and painted himself-this time with red and only red. I watched, sitting on my hands against the trunk of the liberated tree painted with the word: Father. With quick hands, Brother painted the whole lower half of that enormous tree with the red of something Brother liked to call Baneberry. To me it looked like strawberries, but Brother liked to lie, and I liked to believe him.

“Fire, the fire inside all of us-it rages-urges us to create, to inspire…too many people ignore this fire, little brother are you listening!?”

I woke from a short nap and replied with a weary, “Yes,”

“You’re brilliant little brother, smarter than most-that’s why Ben and Leah, sent you to that school, why Ben didn’t want you to follow me. I want you to continue being brilliant little brother, even after I’m gone-promise me that please, please promise me that,”

“I promise,” I blurted out, unsure of what would happen if I didn’t.

Brother returned to his work, and I still had trouble making out what it was. He had begun to put gold into the painting, a gold that shined and dazzled-I had never seen this gold before. After a long while, he crafted a golden ring emerging out of this sea of Baneberry red.

I dozed again, but was startled awake moments later by more of Brother’s rambling…

“NO!” He shouted as he knelt down to my level and stared at me, his head cocked to the side like an owl.

“No I will not join your army!”

I’m not sure who he was talking to, but I just replied with an honest, “Okay Brother,”

“And I will not fight your war!”

He stood up straight and puffed out his chest.

“Do not fight in their war-do not fall for their army’s lies,”

I glanced behind him, and saw that Brother had begun to paint a clock; a golden clock, spotted with droplets of Baneberry blood.

“I am the fire-you are the fire-we are all the fire!”

Brother began running around the tree, screaming: “fire, fire fire,” and laughing hysterically.

“They are fire, they have fire, but they will be burnt by the coming fire-how ironic,” Brother said, as he stopped running around and returned to painting.

“Is it almost done?” I asked.

Brother shrugged, “Has the world heard yet?”

“Heard what?”

Brother flashed me that smile, the hated red stained onto his teeth, “Heard of it’s sin,”

I didn’t reply, and just stared at Brother blankly.

“It’s okay, you don’t understand yet-you will,”

He went back to his painting-and I went back to my sleep. I dreamt about Julius Caesar and papa. In my dream they were talking in the forest, when Brother leapt out and set them both ablaze. Together, all three of them began chanting: “fire, fire, fire,” it was odd.

When I awoke again, Brother was gone, and the tree was all that I could look at for a long time. Brother had painted something there, something that is tough to shake from my memory. It was the image of a golden watch reading five till midnight, sitting in a pool of Baneberry blood. This was one of Brother’s best works, and it kept me wondering as to what it was and why he had painted it.

I waited for a long while, staring at the watch, hoping Brother would come bounding out of the forest to tell me more mad words-and even madder promises. Eventually dusk set, and I was getting cold. I took Brothers neon orange backpack, threw it over my shoulder, and headed back to the ‘un-expressed desolates,’ On my march out, the faces of the liberated trees seemed to watch me with anger, hissing at me as I walked alone. I took to running, the sense of betrayal burning my throat.

Once I was back out in the street night had fully set upon me and I decided to wait a little while for Brother-still no sign. The car was still there, which meant he was somewhere still in the forest. I took to walking along the forest edge, hoping he’d be waiting for me.

The night was thick, as the moon had decided to hide for the evening, so I found myself stumbling as I walked along the tree line. After patrolling didn’t work, I went to calling out his name, a name I hardly remember; still no reply. A few neighbors spotted me, while they were either out walking their dog, or going for a late evening jog. Some wanted to help, but I would tell them off like Brother would.

“Don’t you have something better to do,” I’d hiss, or “Fuck off,”- that was Brother’s favorite to use on people. I slept in the car that night, covering myself with Brother’s backpack and wondering what could’ve happened to him. My dream were fogged with that hated red, and of Rome-or was it Roan; I can’t remember. The next morning, I ate at some granola bars he had packed; especially for me. Once I was mildly full, I went back to the forest hoping to find Brother.

A day of searching through the ‘un-expressed desolates’ amounted to nothing but an empty stomach. I returned to our colored forest and finished off the rest of the granola bars-it was dusk-and the faces had that similar look of betrayal. I went back to the tree where Brother had painted the bleeding watch.

In the half light of dusk I rummaged through Brother’s pack: some of papa’s fizzy stuff, a few empty bottles of water, granola wrappers, a box of matches, some containers with old berry paint in them-nothing of much use. I looked up to the bleeding golden watch and saw something perched on the branches. At first I thought it to be a bird, but the idea of a bird hanging upside down didn’t make much sense; birds were never that big either.

I tossed a pebble at the bird, hoping it’d flutter away-the stone made a hard thud, but no angered squawk came from the bird. I dared to take a closer look, and saw the blueberry blue of Brother’s face, the hated red still in his teeth and the blank gray of his eyes.

I didn’t cry, not immediately-instead I watched him…I watched him hang from that tree, with a rope wrapped around that slender red neck of his. I wanted to climb up and be with him, join him in that faraway place he always dreamed about; he did say you couldn’t get there by plane-I still think he’s lying.

I looked to the tree, with the most puzzled look on my face; unsure of everything. Without too much a sound, I went to the neon bag, retrieved Ben’s beer, and poured it at the base of the tree. Then with careful hands I lit a match, and watched the fire spark to life; such beauty in something so terrible. Brother would’ve wanted it like this.

I toss the burning match with the liquor and watch it go up in flames. Standing back, I admire my work; the textures of red, white, and gold-not quite white, not quite yellow-but something in between. Satisfied I turned from the bleeding tree, and stumble past the faces who now look on with a sense of pride.

When I pass the final tree in our colored forest labeled with those brilliant words: “Don’t be afraid to question whether or not the impossible is truly impossible,” my body locks up, and my heart tears from my chest. Tears burst past emerald eyes, and I can’t help but wail in pain, a terrible, terrible pain; I felt like Julius getting stabbed 33 times…33, odd that I remember that number.

Brother’s favorite number was 3-did I ever say that; he used to tell me to look out for it-because there was always a reason for it being there. Brother said lots of things…wish he would’ve said something to end that terrible pain…