Akkeron's Honor Blade

Honor Blade

Written by: Abdel-Hamid Musleh

Prince Revik Kolar was sweating heavily. The heat from the forge was overbearing. He wondered how the ancient smith was able to continue to work for hours without so much as a water break. His body screamed for him to walk outside into the cool breeze and seek relief from the suffocating heat. His mind wouldn't give in to the cravings of his body however. Sweat glistened down his face as he shifted his massive frames weight on the work bench he was sitting on, hoping it would relieve some of the oppressive heat. He folded his arms and rested his back against the work table behind him, the cords of muscles in his forearms and biceps showing starkly against the sweat and glow of the forge. Revik was simply watching in mute fascination the smith creating his masterpiece.

The smith was a master. The greatest smith in generations revered not only for his superior skills as a weaponsmith, but also because he was the last known master of the art of enchanting weapons of power. It was impossible to tell the smith's age. For that matter, Revik could not even tell what race the smith was. All he knew was that the smith was considered old when his great-grandfather was a boy. Anything else about the smith was shrouded in secrecy, even his name.

As was tradition in the royal family, Revik was to receive his honor blade. The blade was considered the final rite of passage that declared the heir ready to rule when his father passed. It’s received after the prince completed his first victory as the Supreme Commander of the Royal Forces of Akkeron. At that time, the King would send for the smith, who would spend exactly one moon cycle crafting a blade that had no equal. And in exactly one cycle and one day, there would be a celebration during which the blade would be presented to the prince. From that day forward, the prince became the unquestionable heir to the throne. There could be no contenders and no one would question his authority. Only his father could countermand anything he said.

Revik had been watching the smith for over an hour, his fascination quashing his discomfort. The smith was bent and wrinkled, yet he moved with such speed and dexterity that Revik would have thought him a young man if not for his appearance. The care and attention to detail that the smith put into each miniscule etching in the blade was incredible. The blade itself a work of art, the shape of it, a doublewide broadsword that could cleave a man in two impossible for any man to wield, much less create, but there it lays, glowing in the smith’s hands. Now the smith was doing what no other could do, hammering tiny runes into the blade. Runes of power. Runes of protection. The blade itself will never dull or break. The runes of sharpness imbued into the metal will give it the power to cut through any armor as if it were lace. When the smith allowed, Revik held it, it felt as if it were an extension of his arm, truly a masterpiece, the balance was flawless, the weight insignificant. He was reluctant to hand it back but the smith’s work was far from finished.

The smith was working on the final rune now, the heart rune. That is the reason Revik was summoned. Otherwise he would never have been allowed to watch this fantastic work of art being created. The heart rune was unique for each blade. The smith looks deep into the soul of the person who is to receive the blade and then carves a rune which represents the whole of that persons being. No other will ever be able to wield the blade. Those who have tried to wield an Honor Blade that was not their own have always regretted it and none have ever spoken of what happened to them. The blade becomes a part of the owner. Such that on the death of the blade's owner, the blade itself would shatter into a thousand pieces that could never be reforged.

When the smith was done with his hammering, the blade would be heated a final time. Then the smith would present the white hot blade to Revik. Revik would have to run his sword hand along the searing blade cutting it along the entire length of the blade. If he could endure the pain, he would then press his bleeding hand on the heart rune. If he were worthy, the rune would glow red, the blade would cool instantly, and his hand would be healed. If he was not worthy, he would be burned and his bleeding and burned sword hand would be crippled for life from the ordeal and he would forever be removed from the line to the throne.

Silence. The hairs on Revik’s neck rose. His mind had wandered for what seemed like only a moment until he was brought back to the present by the terrible gripping sound of silence. The smith was done. The sword was in the coals. The time had come. The smith just sat there looking at Revik, waiting. Each prince had to step forward of his own will, when he was mentally ready. The pain was said to be excruciating. It was not something you stepped into lightly. So the smith would silently wait until Revik willed himself forward. He steeled his mind, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, though it was only a few seconds it felt like eternity. Preparing himself for the shock of the pain. Internally he gasped for breath, his heart hammering against his ribcage, but to an outsider, he was void of any expression or emotion, all they could see are the cords of his arms tightening across his slightly heaving chest. Finally he took a deep breath as he rose from the work bench and the smith nodded to him. Revik stepped forward. With a heavily gloved hand, the smith pulled the blade from the flames and held it horizontally in front of Revik. He pulled his dark brown hair back moving it away from his face and fastened it into a ponytail with a small cord of rope. Even at arm’s length, the heat from the blade made his skin feel as if it were about to burst into flame. How could he touch something so hot. It glowed bright enough to light the room, was it the heat...or something else. His hand hesitated for a fraction of a second and he saw the smith's piercing hazel eyes flash. One chance, never to be offered again. With all of his will the crowned Prince of the Kingdom of Akkeron forced his hand to touch the edge of the blade near its tip.

The shock was incredible. He screamed in mute silence all that escaped his lips was a small groan. The hot blade cut to the bone on contact, it was amazing that anyone accomplished this without cutting their hand off. For a blade of this size the task seemed daunting but no blade in history was its equal and that helped to fuel his determination. Pain shot up his arm like nothing he had ever imagined. His knees almost buckled. His light brown eyes showed all. It would have terrified anyone else to look at him. He thought he was going to pass out. The smith smiled as Revik forced his hand to slide down the blade. Revik was the first in many generations who didn't scream. He smelled the stench of his own flesh melting off and the hair on his arm, up to his elbow, singe off. Agony searing through his brain, finally, his hand reached the hilt of the blade. What was left of it anyway, bleeding and almost cut through the bone. The skin blackened and the muscle beneath it showing. He was on the verge of passing out.

Quickly the smith laid the massive blade out flat in front of Revik. In a haze of agonizing mind dulling pain, Revik reached out and placed his hand on the shallow square shaped heart rune at the base of the blade. His blood flowed into the rune, filling it. In that second there was a blinding flash of red light. Revik's whole body felt a jolt of energy and was left tingling, but he felt pain no more. Looking down, his hand was whole again and the blade no longer glowed. The massive broadsword looked to be cold hard steel but knowing that it was much more, much different than regular steel, a shiver went up his spine. It simply shined, reflecting the light of the room, polished like a mirror. It was perfect.

The whole ordeal had lasted less than ten seconds. It seemed like it had taken hours. Then Revik's mind caught up to reality. All of the mental barriers to the pain that he had built up were released. Those few seconds of pain, the smell, the sight of his mangled hand all registered in his brain at one time. His knees buckled and he vomited where he fell. His father's words came back to him at that moment, "it is what happens afterwards that will haunt you". The smith just laughed at Revik's convulsing form on the floor and pointed to the door. It was time for Revik to leave. He would receive the sword tomorrow night during the ceremony. For now, a bath, a very long bath.

Akkeron's Ambition

Ambition

Written By: Abdel-Hamid Musleh

Revik awoke with sweat on his forehead, his palms were moist and his chest soaked. A remnant of his nightmare still lingered on his consciousness; he looked to his window to see the twilight of dawn become orange as the sun crested the ocean to announce a new day. He heard the scuttling of his servants outside his bedroom chamber, preparing his bath most likely. He threw aside his blankets and moved to his shutters, opening them to allow the ocean breeze intoxicate his senses so that he might glimpse back into his nightmare. As he inhaled the ocean air he began to recall the fleeting images that lingered. Vivid images of a great battle lay in front of him, the bodies of warriors were strewn on the ground around him, he couldn’t discern whether they were allies or enemies, everything appeared blurred to him. He looked around at the countryside as he recognized the surrounding mountains of Achgar, he was near the great fortress separating his kingdom and the Solrayne Kingdom. How these warriors died escaped him, the power radiating from his sword overwhelmed his reasoning as a feeling of dread filled his soul. As the blurry shades of blue and gold armor in front of him began to spread apart a slender figure began to emerge, as soon as she was almost in focus a loud bang awoke him from his vision.

He quickly spun around from his window to see what had happened, only to be welcomed by the ashen face of one of the serving boys standing in the doorway to his bedroom. As his eyes searched for a reason why the servant looked so frightened the boy passed out, as he began to make his way towards the unconscious body he noticed he had his massive broadsword in his hands. As he looked down at his hands, his knuckles where white, and his muscles bunched up. He was ready to strike at something when the boy first walked in but what that was escaped his thoughts as the other servants in the bedroom rushed in to see what had happened. As they took in the sight of the half naked prince with his broadsword in hand and the unconscious serving boy, they all took a cautious step backwards. One of the braver servants, a man in his mid-fourties with salt and pepper hair asked

“Is there anything wrong your highness?”

“No. I was meditating when he interrupted me, he was startled is all Master Dagon” He hoped they would accept the story, otherwise the rumors would stalk him for months.

“Ah, well, highness, we’ve readied your bath and clothes for your ceremony today and your father has summoned you, so best we get on with the day my Prince.” With a visible sigh of relief he placed his sword back into its sheath. He made his way to the tub and allowed himself to be scrubbed clean and scented by the bath oils. His day had begun sour and the turmoil of the royal court attending his engagement made the days outlook dismal. As he turned to his faithful friend and tutor, Master Dagon, whom attended him and taught him the intricacies of the court since he was a boy of twelve, he spoke his mind.

“Damnit, why the hell do I have to dress up like this, I feel like a damned fool.”

As Dagon appraised his longtime charge, he teased him a little.
“Because you have to look better than all the other damned fools, you’re a Prince, Remember? You must look like it.” As he said this he was adjusting the ruffled collar on the Princes’ dark red velvet outfit. He stopped the Prince as he began to get carried away, adjusting his obsidian cuffs and straightening out the jackets silver vine pattern that ran down the middle. As a final precaution he ran his hands along the shoulder patting off anything and straightening everything once over again.

“Are you quite finished?” Revik asked with a frown and creased brow that oozed his displeasure at being treated as nothing more than a mannequin.

“Yes, now stop pouting”

“Dagon, I’m a battle tested General of the Armies. I’ll be damned if I’m seen like this. She’s a warrior just as I am, we should just wear our traditional uniforms and be done with it.” As he said this he gruffly tugged the color of his shirt so the top button popped open, he gave a defying grin to his old master as he heard the ageless ‘tut-tut’.

“OH yees, that’ll go over well in the court. With what they already say! You with your broadsword, her with her scimitars, it’ll be love at first blood. First one out of the circle gets to die in the others arms and the kingdoms go to war for another hundred years.” He roared with laughter at his masters joke and thought it would be a more interesting reception than the nobility he was about to endure. But his masters mood changed to a more somber tone.

“If you want to prove to them that you’re not a Barbarian, that the blood is thinner in you then you have to dress like this.”

As he and his friend made their way towards the council chamber he felt like tearing off the elaborate costume his master picked out for him and going on a rampage. Barbarian A stain on his bloodline that can never be erased, his barbarian blood ran through his family strong and true, it’s the only reason they were able to conquer this land a century ago when it contained nothing more than farmers, fisherman and petty lords. It took an ‘uncivilized’ barbarian, his great-great grandfather, to civilize the region and create a formal government yet these noblemen still look down on his family as berserkers, uncontrolled beasts. As he approached his father’s council chamber he snapped out of his melancholy and began thinking tactics. No jesters, no minstrels.

As the Queen approached her closet, she wished she was able to clean her battle regalia. She was advised by her councilors not to bring it, but she felt naked without it nearby. As she made her way to her chest, she flung all the dresses and pretty things out of it onto the bed until she got to the hardened armor and scimitars she was so used to. Her fingers itched to cleanse the armor with the oil and hone the blades until they could cut a man’s torso effortlessly but time constraints and the suspicious nature of this kingdom prevented her.

“Damn him…” Queen Anessa of the Solrayne was a Queen in her own right, but only part of a ruling faction. There were three sovereigns in the mountainous domain of the Solrayne, The butcher-king Rhelon that ruled over the throne of misfortune to the west of the Stonespire pass, the Queen Anessa of the Valkyries that ruled over the eastern mountain domain of Valan and the Emerald king of Solrayne which ruled the only arable land in the domain near the glaciers of Elyse. The Solrayne was a small Kingdom but filled to capacity, the Emerald King supplied wheat, bread and barley to the kingdom while the butcher-king supplied meat from the vicious beasts that roamed his land. Each of them started out as their own kingdom until the threat of harsh winters and invasion from other lands forced them to form a new allied kingdom. The only self-sufficient kingdom was hers. Anessa only agreed to join forces with them as long as she and her people kept control over the armies.

“Who is he to tell me not to bring my armor, a puppet that believes he can go against the puppeteers wishes?” As she slammed down her chest she spread open a map of her kingdom on the table in her room and snaps a dagger into her hand that she took from a hidden fold by her waist and slams it into the glyph that represented the Emerald King. The ruling faction in the Solrayne was the Emerald Kings, his access to the Elyse glacier, also gave him access to the Elyse river that flowed through Akkeron, opening up a trade route to the lucrative river towns that bought the Rhelons furs and the Valkyries gems.

“When I’m done here, I swear to the gods I’ll kill him.” As she pries the dagger from the wood and the map she deftly hides it back into the folds of her garment.

“Fuck the Barbarian, Have his child, make sure he dies.” She growls the mantra out as she starts picking out the clothes and gems she brought for the ceremony.

As the Princes head began sag near the end of his engagement ceremony he looked to his right at his beautiful wife-to-be. Her sapphire necklace glistened against her pale white skin, her blond hair fastened in a net of diamonds that seemed to shine and illuminate her beauty. He had hoped she liked the diamonds, even though they were procured from her kingdom, they were shaped and crafted in his. The entire night he had tried to impress her and move her with gifts, stories of prowess in battle, but she seemed more interested in the abhorrent nobility around him which drove him to begin drinking. Heavily. He much rather be in a drunken stupor than hear those pigs droll on about how respected they think of her when he knows what they say behind her back. And his. As his mood darkened and he began draining wine cups by the minute, his wife-to-be feigned sleepiness and departed, signaling an official end to the ceremony. As Revik stood on slightly wobbled legs he enacted a bow that would put most jesters to shame as he executed it perfectly regardless of his extremely inebriated state. As the nobility was forced to bow lower than him he grinned as some of the larger of bellied ones had to take a knee.

“And with that my noblemen, I bid you all goodnight.” None suspected he was completely senseless except perhaps his newly appointed fiancé whom saw the copious amounts of wine he had just imbibed. As he made an artful exit through the main doors to the hall he looked around him to make sure no one was in sight and wretched into a nearby alcove. As he made his way to the garden he began scooping mouthfuls of water from the fountain to washout the taste of bile. As he tried to right himself, he felt a small hand on his elbow, helping him up.

“If I was one of these thoughtless girls that your noblemen call wives, I wouldn’t have thought twice about your behavior. You were merely entertaining your new wife and your guests as best as a Prince could. But by the way you ignored those noblemen and made them kneel at the end I can suspect you don’t very much like those people.” As Queen Anessa helped her inebriated husband-to-be stand straight, a small smile escaped her lips before she stifled it.

“Ah, my brides to be, yes, I don’t like them.” As Revik took in the scenery around him, the garden, fountain, the moonlight shining in bathing her in it, he immediately began having improper thoughts about the Queen.

“I noticed by the way you kept drinking, most men would be flat on their face, but you’re not like most men are you.” As she lightly touched his chest with her hand she saw his face go flush and his eyes light up. Barbarians so easy She checked to make sure she wasn’t followed after she left and made her way to a nook a few alcoves down from where he wretched, she also made sure that when she stepped into the garden that the moonlight hit her just right that the shadows made her breasts seem larger and pronounced.

“I..well yes I’m much better at holding drink, bigger than most men..” As he fumbled for words he recalled what he just said and tried to correct himself.

“What I mean is it takes more to get me drunk, I’m not really drunk…” and before he could finish his words she kissed him. That was enough to suppress whatever intellect he had left and send his blood over the edge. As they consummated the marriage they had yet to have, in the garden, she had a smile on her face and a laugh that was related to elation more sinister than should have been allowed at that moment. The potion she drank guaranteed a child, and the potion he drank, guaranteed a slow crippling illness, slow enough to allow the child to be born and recognized. As his blood pumped the poison through his body his movements constricted, giving her the child that she wanted and ending the life he thought he would have.

Suburbs

Suburbs

Written By: Abdel-Hamid Musleh

The morning was crisp, the dew on the blades of grass still lingered as droplets awaiting their fateful journey back into the earth. The dawn birthed a new day and the birds began to sing their love songs. The newly awakened sun made the sky a hazy purple that peeked through the morning clouds and window. Jeremy’s alarm clock screeched the din of the morning as it always did, but this specific day marked an occasion. His pasty white arm reached over to his smooth black alarm clock on the bedside drawer to cease the beeping. One year. One Whole Year. He turned over on his back, entangling himself in the bed sheets and comforter as he did so, only to stare at the dusty ceiling fan above him. He looked over at the time, 6:35am, it was time to wake up and see his parents.

By the time Jeremy awoke and got ready it was already 8:00am, the morning was almost over and a sense of urgency stirred him.

“Come on Danny, we’re going to be late.” Jeremy’s voice was young and whiney, it didn’t fit him, at fifteen years old and five eight his voice was to be deeper but for some reason the powers that be chose it to stay high pitched and loud.

“Jeremy its eight in the fuckin morning shut the fuck up already they can wait.” Danny was pouring a cup of orange juice as he said this. It was typical behavior regardless of what day it was and it always unsettled fragile Jeremy. Danny began drinking his juice as tears began to form in Jeremy’s light brown eyes, they both knew he was about to cry again.

“Come on Jeremy I didn’t mean that man, just take it easy we’ll get there, we still haven’t… and we didn’t even pick up flowers yet. Just..come on..It’s the morning.” Jeremy wiped at his eyes with the back of his suit sleeve. Danny was wearing a matching black suit with a black tie on a white shirt and matching black shoes. Both of them looked sharp and somber.

The car ride to the flower shop was quiet as they listened to the hum of the road and the sound of the wind. Every moment together on the road is a sensory barrage, absorbing the past year, the sun coming through the window, the perfectly manicured palm tree’s on the side of the road. Each of them lost in their own thoughts but the approaching shop broke them both out of their silent reverie.

“Jeremy, what’s the flower mom liked.”

“Danny why can you never remember…Lavender Lilacs, she used to always have them in the house.” As Danny stepped out of the car to go into the shop, Jeremy’s eyes wandered to the clear blue sky, feeling the sun on his face and choked back tears. When Danny came back to the car, he absentmindedly handed the squat vase with the lilacs to Jeremy and began to head to the cemetery where their parents were interred.

As they walked up side by side to the headstone that read Joshua and Bethany Greenstead, Jeremy placed the squat vase onto the ground in front of the headstone.

Danny cleared his throat a little and bowed his head as he silently prayed to himself “We miss you guys, especially Jeremy, he’s lost without you, help him be stronger Dad, Mom, look out for him but stop babying him.”

Jeremy followed his brother’s example and ducked his head down and prayed silently so that that his mother and father could hear him. “Dad, help Danny be stronger, he needs your help. Mom I miss you, I don’t know what to do anymore, I need help..and Danny misses you too if he didn’t say that..” As they finished their prayers Danny let out a sniff and Jeremy looked up to see if his older brother could actually cry. He hadn’t. He felt Danny’s hand on his shoulder, leading him back to the car while he kept in the tears that struggled to overflow. He wanted to be stronger for his Mother, Father and Older Brother.

As they pulled into their driveway at the end of the cul-de-sac Jeremy noticed the Black SUV in the driveway, the source of Danny’s income.

“Dan, why is he here today, I thought you said you weren’t doing any of that...today..” He looked towards Danny with tears brimming in his eyes again.

“I did Jeremy, somethin’ must be wrong, when we get inside go to your room.” As he said this Danny got out of the car and Jeremy followed. As they stepped towards the house a figure stepped out of the Black SUV to greet Danny. Jeremy tried like hell to not be noticed; he tucked his arms in, put his hands into his pockets and looked at the man’s legs and shoes. Dirty black and white Pumas, track pants that had slits on the bottom.

“Danny-boy there’s a problem.” The figure that spoke to Danny was about Danny’s six foot height, shaven bald head with tribal tattoo’s littering the man’s strong bare arms.

“Chuck I told you not to come today, Jeremy get inside.” Danny handed Jeremy the keys and Jeremy made a mad dash to the ugly yellow house that they called home.

“Look at that lil bitch run, scared of me ain’t he. And whats this shit about you tellin’ me anyway, you don’t tell me shit.” Chuck walked back to his SUV and pulled out two black duffle bags from the back.

“We’ve got some business to handle Danny-boy, now get the fuck in the house and let’s start this shit.” Chuck tossed one of the heavy black duffle bags to Danny. As Danny deftly caught it he smirked and led Chuck into the house, before he walked through the door Chuck looked over his shoulder and used his free hand to tuck a silver handgun that was sticking out the back of his pants under his shirt.

Jeremy heard the muffled voices of Chuck and Danny in the kitchen through the wooden door of his room. He undressed out of the suit he wore to the cemetery and put on a white t-shirt and shorts. He took a deep breath, put his forehead to the door then reached for the handle and walked out into the hallway. The hallway was the only one in the house, at one end the door to their parent’s room, the room Danny was sleeping in. He walked toward the other end of the hallway where the kitchen was, where he heard the voices, he walked past with his head down so he wouldn’t see anything. As he passed the kitchen Chuck stopped him with a sentence.

“Hey lil’ bitch what the fuck you doin out your room?” Chuck said with a sardonic smile, watching Jeremy’s listless expression change from shame to fear multiple times.

“I…I…I’m going to the garage…Danny I’m goin to the garage.” As Jeremy looked up he saw what was unfolding in the kitchen, the bricks of uncut cocaine Chuck brought in were being weighed, mixed with another white powder, cut up and measured into baggies. His eyes froze on the bricks of Cocaine on the floor and the bag of Cocaine at his feet.

“Fine Jeremy, just don’t touch my shit and the T.V. remote needs batteries and we don’t have any so I don’t wanna hear your bitchin.” As Danny said this Chuck noticed where Jeremy’s stare had froze.

“okay…” As Jeremy broke his glance from the cocaine on the floor Chuck stopped him again.

“Hey hey hey little man, whats goin on here, you eyein the product?” As Chuck said this he got up out of his chair and encircled Jeremy with an arm, looking down at the baggie on the floor, picking it up.

“You interested in this my man? You want some of this? Hey Danny I think your lil bitch here wants some of this.”

“Jeremy get the fuck to the garage already, Chuck lets finish this shit.” As Danny told him to go Jeremy broke away from Chuck’s encircled arm and heard Chuck laugh.

*

The light was dim, the concrete floor damp and hard, the air, humid and moist, suffocating even the most resilient of the rats. The air in the garage was muggy. The only fleeting source of respite was the dusty white ceiling fan which hung from an intersecting beam below the sunroof. Underneath it sat a dingy brown couch that Jeremy was infesting. The fan whooshed away at the muck, in vain. Jeremy used to stare at the sky through it for hours, watching the fan blades pass through the blue-gray sky, listening to the slow whoosh--whoosh sound they made as they hacked away, but that wasn’t the case that afternoon.

That afternoon Eric Clapton was next to Jeremy on an old wooden chair strumming out the melody and singing the lyrics to Cocaine. In front of Jeremy was a chipped glass table that leaned to the left because one of the legs fell off and a pile of books replaced it. On the lopsided glass table was a small rectangular canister, a picture, and some white powder in a pile. Jeremy’s breath was even as tears ran down his eyes. The picture on the table was Danny’s, the one he kept in his shoebox with his drugs and gun, Danny told him not to touch his stuff but he didn’t care he needed to see it. The picture was of him, his parents and his older brother in Puerto Rico, the best memories of his life.

Please. “Come back…” He wheezed as he leaned his soft mush of a body to the table, the tears fell off his face landing in drops on the table, which congealed into puddles, he tried to get his head to bend down to the table but his gut didn’t let him get that far. Cursing god his knees hit the hard concrete floor with a thump and a guttural grunt escaped his teenage vocal cords. His thick pasty fingers were slick with sweat, barely able to stop his hand from shaking as the razor swept the white powder into two lines. As he cut up, he repeated the lyrics he heard

“If you wanna get down, down on the ground; cocaine. Didn’t think he meant it literally…” his chuckle at his own joke was drowned with a quiet sob as more tears fell as he carefully tilted his head sideways, cutting the lines up. He cut it up one more time, clacking away at the powder with the razor. When he was done and the lines were cutup and fat, he sung the last chorus of the song

“Don't forget this fact, you can't get it back; cocaine. She don’t lie, She don’t lie, She don’t lie; Cocaine.” He blinked hard to get the tears out of his eyes then grabbed the piece of drinking straw he cut earlier, put it to his nose and quickly bent to the first line, he tried to do it quick but missed half of it, then moved his head to the second line and got it right this time. He lifted his head tilting it backwards, listening to the music and trying to feel it work its way to his brain. Then a bomb exploded in his head. Sheer burning pain clawed at his eyes, his throat, and his face. He started to scream at the top of his lungs, grabbing the warm water bottle that was crammed between the cushions; he poured it up his nose to try to force it out. He thought about how convenient it was that it was there, that this idiocy was about to be over. It was convenient the water bottle was there. Filled with his older brother’s vodka. A new world of pain had just entered through Jeremy’s nose, uncontrollable screaming and then crying ensued after the vodka was introduced to his nasal passages. At the moment of the most intolerable pain he had ever felt in this world, a bright light penetrated through the side-door that led into the garage. Fear intoned as a triangle in Jeremy’s thoughts. Fuck. Danny.

Danny saw the shoe box on the floor with his name on it, the lid open, his private stash in plain sight, the glass table, the white powder, the canister and the boombox on the wooden chair playing the familiar album over and over again. Danny’s eyes looked up and saw half of his younger brother’s body laying on the couch with his knees stuck underneath his significant weight.

Jeremy lifted his head and saw his older brother in the doorway, he brought his palms away from his face and lifted himself off the couch, losing his balance as his knees groaned in protest, sending him flying towards the bad end of the table. As the books gave way Jeremy was flung to the concrete floor, and the paraphernalia with him. Danny bolted towards his chubby pastel brother but his footing failed him as the table-books got caught between his feet, and now face to face, brother to brother the siblings stared at one another. Danny was the first to utter a syllable while Jeremy’s face was contorted in pain and tears were running freely.

“Jeremy what’re you doin man, what the hell are you doin man? I can’t deal with this right now man, I can’t deal with this right now.” Tears began forming in Danny’s eyes.

In a wheeze that was filled with pain Jeremy lifted the canister to show his brother and let it slip out of his hands as he squeezed the words out of his mouth “Help..me..water…”

Danny’s tears began to fall freely as his sweaty palms slipped on the rectangular canister and the white powder, covering his sweaty palms in the white dust. His second attempt was more successful as he got up and ran to the sink on the other side of the garage, wiping his tears and nose on the way. After suddenly realizing what he had just seen and what he had just wiped on his face he began to double time it when a minty burning sensation filled his nasal passages. He began coughing as he reached the sink.

“Fuckin idiot. This fuckin idiot.” He washed off his hands and face with luke warm water. His actions slowed as rage began to build. Slowly and deliberately he turned the warm water off, filling the bucket with all the frigidness of the glacier from which the water was spawned. When the bucket was full to the brim he began walking towards his brother careful not to spill a drop. Grim, Demure, Pissed, A quiet anger. He stood over his brother now on his back with his legs twisted awkwardly around the table, tears in his eyes, sitting up to receive the water his generous and kind brother had brought. Danny pushed the table away with his leg as he went to a knee beside his younger brother. Bucket on Right knee. Hand behind his head.

“Tilt your head back Jeremy.” His voice was calm and soothing. His mind was roiling. As his younger brother complied, Danny, on one knee to the left side of his chubby brother’s angled body, placed his left hand on the top of his brothers head, to keep it tilted. Then with the bucket on his knee and his right hand controlling it he let his wrath be felt in a smooth controlled flow over his younger brothers nose and mouth. As Jeremy began to sputter, Danny waited till the last minute to clutch his hair and yank his head back into place so he couldn’t get a breath of air in.

“Drown you altoid snuffing piece a shit! You scared the FUCK outta me Jeremy. YOU HEAR THAT! DROWN YOU FUCKER.” As the water in the bucket was spent, and the sputtering began to subside Danny stood up to his full six foot height and sent a swift kick to his brother’s ribs.

Danny spat as his rage came to a crescendo

“You fuckin’ asshole! What the FUCK are you doin? What the FUCK.”

He sent another kick to the writhing figure on the floor. He smoothed his dark wavy hair back as he stepped over the cringing figure on the floor, retrieved his boom box and began to storm out of the garage as Jeremy lifted his head and screamed.

“I’m drowning Danny! I’m drowning man!”

As Jeremy yelled this, Danny turned on his heel and walked back to his younger brother. As Jeremy watched his brother make the about face the only thought that came to his mind was illicit and crude. Oh fuck.

After he administered a moderate thrashing to his younger brother, Danny walked out the garage door and leaned against the outside wall, taking in the warm summer air with the sun shining on his face.

“Fuckin kid’s gonna be the end of me.” And with the deftness that spoke repetition he pulled out a long silver cylinder, screwed the top off put it to his nose and snuffed the substance deep into his body.

As he began walking back to the house he remembered the reason he went out there in the first place. He turned heel and headed back into the garage. He walked to his shoe box that remained on the floor and picked up his stash and his gun. He pulled the slide back, loading a round into the gun and checked the safety. He slid the gun into the front of his pants and pulled his shirt over it. He looked down to his pitiful younger brother and told him with a quietness that betrayed compassion in his voice “Jeremy, clean this up I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“Danny why’d…why d’you do this…why…” Jeremy looked at his brother, ribs hurting, nose running, his tears rolling down his chubby cheeks in a torrent, his world was pain and he knew it well and he just wanted to know “Why…Danny?”

“Because Jeremy, I’m twenty fuckin years old with barely a high school diploma, no college and Dad left us with a big fuckin mortgage and they left us with fuckin nothin’ not a god damn thing, nothing but fuckin’ problems, I need to feed us both and working at McDonalds doesn’t cover that shit.” After Danny finished spitting out his words with venom in each fuck his eyes brimmed with tears as he stared at his little brother, guilt began to choke him, but the job had to be at the only thing on his mind and he pushed the feelings away, far away.

“I meant why’d you beat me up Danny, you didn’t have to do that it was only Altoids I was just messing around…” Jeremy didn’t expect his brother to reveal his emotions like that and knew his response was childish and would anger Danny, but he didn’t know how to respond. Danny blinked and shook his head waving Jeremy off and wiping his tears away. Danny turned away from his brother and walked out of the garage into the bright daylight toward the house with the man with the other gun.