When we were young, Mom would always sing to us before bed. I remember her words as if it were yesterday.
"Sunshine, my only sunshine…"
The words would enter my ears as sweetly as fresh honey glazing the tip of the tongue.
".. you make me happy…"
Some days, I could hear the scratchiness in her voice. Maybe it was a rough day at work, or the stress of taking care of us. I was too young to know—or to remember, but even those days, the song was beautiful.
"…when skies are grey…"
It's not like she had a beautiful voice or anything, but when she looked us in the eyes and brought us close to her chest, it was magical every time.
"… you never know dear, how much I love you…"
Ah, it was that line. Maybe that's why I loved the song so much, because no matter what happened that day. Whether I'd lied, gotten in a fight, had a rough game, I knew I was loved. I remember always checking the expressions of my brothers too, making sure they were feeling the same warmth that I was. It was the oldest who hated the song the most. You could tell he wanted to do something else—anything else—but once the song started even he couldn't resist a smile. Even the ever so loud youngest child's mouth remained shut when while he relished in the affection of our mother.
"…please don't take my sunshine away."
It was those kinds of nights back then that remind me that no matter what, the four of us will always be together, that we'll always be connected by blood and love. But sometimes things don't always work out like that, and I'm part of the blame. In fact…
I might be able to take all of it.
As the three of us boys grew older, the song slowly faded, and it became something that was forgotten between all of us. I think Mom could tell that the magic of the song was fading from our eyes as we grew older, and perhaps it did. I wouldn't know unless I heard it again. It might also have something to do with my father, who returned after being separated from my mother for a few years. His presence in the house immediately shifted the aura when the other four were home. My mother, while still emotional and paranoid, was in a drastically better mood much more often. Maybe the song was more for her than it was for us.
My parent's relationship had its up and downs, even after Dad's return, but what relationship doesn't? A few months after their reunion it was clear that it would be stable, and I fully believe that they're happy together.
As for the older brother, he grew up well, was successful in athletics and surrounded himself with good people, even after graduating from high school. He's someone that likes to dream big, which I consider to be a good thing, but he also tends to be someone that gets interested in various hobbies quickly, often forgetting his previous ones. It can sometimes be a bad blend of personality traits. I can sometimes hear Dad rumbling about how his garage is full of useless clutter and unfinished projects. It's even worse if you visit the room of the perpetrator, which is why I think Mom avoids eldest brother's room on purpose. If she doesn't see the mess, then maybe it doesn't exist. He often talks to me about preparing to move out after his degree is finished, and I think that might be for the best.
It's the younger brother of mine, Jackson, that I actually worry about. As he grew older, his chattering habit became worse, but it's the combination of that with his "strong willed," attitude (as my aunt would say) that causes his downfall. To put it bluntly, people don't like him.
I started noticing this around when I started middle school, while he was in fourth grade. While he was always in trouble one way or another with my parents for lying, causing ruckus at school, or being disrespectful in some compacity, it never occurred to me that he might have a hard time making friends. The few friends he did bring home often acted in a similar manner to him. They had to be the ones that decided the rules, they had to be right, they had to be the "leader" of the group. Of course, this dynamic resulted in a lot of arguing and not a lot of actual playing, but I brushed it aside since it seemed to work for them.
However, as years passed and Jackson grew, it felt like the other boys had grown through their awkward "conceited" phase while he was stuck in the same place. Every year it felt like he was bringing friends home less often, and by the reached middle school, he didn't bring any at all. I knew better than anyone how difficult it was to interact with him. He was constantly grounded, being yelled at, and throwing tantrums. Every step he took was walking on thin ice, and it was only getting thinner with every step.
"Ya know, youngest… you're gonna be in a lot of trouble if Mom through those doors right now." It had to be a school night during his first year of middle school. Our parents out for their weekly bowling league. My younger brother was grounded for some odd reason—as he usually is—yet he stood inches from the T.V., controller in hand, his body swerving and contracting every time he got hit by his opponent.
"Shut it. I'm trying to focus." His body jolted synchronously with the attacks of his character on screen.
"You know better than anyone how unpredictable their time of arrival can be. Don't you think you're cutting it a little close?" I sat up from my viewpoint on the couch a few feet from the action.
"I said—NO WAIT. Let me—!" He jumped in the air in the hopes that his character would escape the relentless combo he was being put it. "STOP! MOVE! AGH!" His defeat was sealed as his character fell off the screen.
"Unfortunate. Well, a good time to stop don't you think? They'll be back any se—"
"I told you to shut up." The game proceeded into the loading screen of a new match.
I sighed. "Ya know...getting caught means I get in trouble too right? I'm supposed to be watching you."
"She ungrounded me. I'm allowed to play." His gaze hasn't once drifted from the screen.
"Bullshit. Don't try this with me."
"It's true… huh? What are you doing?!" The T.V. screen flashed black and the game was removed from the screen. The boy finally locked eyes with mine, before gazing down at the remote in my hand.
"That's enough for today. Get ready for—" Before I knew it his head bashed into my chest and his arms wrapped me tightly around my waist. Screams, shouts, crying, you name it. The neighbors likely heard everything: The yelling before sending a punch, the screams of pain from pulling hair, the thuds from a growing boy being thrown into the ground. When it was all said and done, I was unscathed. I was older, stronger, more athletic. He was just an angry middle schooler. Which is probably why when I looked down upon his body, bruised and battered, curled into a ball, tears flowing from his eyes… For the first time in my life, I truly regretted something.
Even today I can hear the whimpering—the crying—vividly in my ears. Yet I don't remember apologizing or comforting him.
I simply walked to my room, phone in hand, and latched the door.
Believe it or not, I wouldn't say that my brother and I had a bad relationship during this time, but anyone who saw our family dynamic knew that it wasn't perfect. I was a carefree teenager involved in various sports and activities, and I was out with friends rather than family more often than not. Our older brother was busy entering college and deciding his future in both athletics and academics. Our parents were both busy and hard workers, and despite their clear love for him, Jackson's mistakes often promoted shouting. I was the worst though. I chose to ignore the thinning ice, and as one would expect… it eventually broke.
"A two week suspension…" The paper trembled in her hands. She read it again, slower this time, as if the words would change. Her voice cracked. "For hitting a girl."
He sat at the table, hunched over his plate, fork unmoving. "I was defending myself," he mumbled. "She hit me first."
No one answered right away.
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm not saying he should let people hit him—but this? This isn't how we solve things…but…we tell boys and girls they're equal, right? Isn't self-defense still self-defense?"
Father stood behind her, arms crossed tight, shoulders stiff. "He's bigger than her," he muttered. "Doesn't matter who started it. You don't hit someone who can't hit back with the same force."
The words sank into the floor.
I watched from my seat across the table. I wasn't eating either, but I kept moving food around to make it look like I was. The oldest beside me chewed casually, like he didn't hear any of it, and maybe he didn't. That's how he's always been—on his own island, just outside the storm, but not me. I heard everything—and worse, I knew more.
The look in Jackson's eyes told me everything. He hadn't just been defending himself. He'd been holding it in. For weeks, maybe months. He was being picked on, I was almost sure of it. I saw the way he came home—quieter, dejected. But I told myself it was normal, or more honestly: I convinced myself it was. So, I sat there. Quiet. Watching. Waiting for the issue to be solved.
"I'm not saying we punish him for protecting himself," she said again. "But there has to be a line."
Father didn't reply. He looked at the boy, then at the floor. The boy still hadn't taken a bite.
I don't remember what I said that night. I just remember how small he looked, and the way my heart throbbed as I stayed quiet.
Years went by, and while his situation hadn't necessarily improved, it didn't get worse. He stopped going to school in person and opted only for online classes. It was probably for the best, I couldn't imagine going back to school would bode too well for him after the incident.
Three years passed like a slow drip, each day barely different from the last, but still finding a way to erode everything that remained.
I graduated from high school, started college, and moved a few cities away to chase a degree in biology. I told myself it was just the next step, a normal transition into adult life—but part of me knows I was running. From the noise. From the silence. From the guilt.
After the suspension, we all knew something had to give. The lying. The misunderstandings. The long silences after school. It wasn't working—any of it. So, at some point during the summer, our parents made the decision: Jackson would leave traditional school and continue his education from home.
They said it was to protect him. To give him space. To keep him from being dragged down by a place that clearly wasn't equipped to handle him. And maybe they were right. Maybe being surrounded by kids who didn't understand him—who refused to—was doing more harm than good.
I didn't argue. I didn't say much at all. I nodded when they told me the plan, then went back to my room and shut the door. Looking back, I don't think I agreed or disagreed—I just didn't care. It didn't have anything to do with me.
The house grew quieter. Less tense, maybe, but not peaceful—just… muted. There were fewer raised voices, fewer slammed doors, fewer confrontations, but it wasn't because anything had been fixed. It was just that Jackson had stopped letting us see the cracks.
He spoke less. Smiled less. Ate his meals faster, alone when he could. I'd pass by his door and hear nothing—no music, no games, no movement. Just silence. And when I did hear him, it was never his voice—it was the faint hum of a screen, or the dull thud of footsteps pacing back and forth.
He stopped telling us about his days. About anything, really. No stories, no rants, no complaints. Just "fine" or "whatever" when asked. We weren't getting updates—we were getting status reports. He wore a mask, and he seemingly never took it off.
We told ourselves he was maturing. That he was finally calming down, growing out of it. But that was just what was easiest to believe. The truth was harder: he was withdrawing. Fading. It felt like we lived with a ghost—someone occupying space, but not sharing it. Someone who used to scream and cry and throw punches, but now just stared at walls with tired eyes.
And the worst part? I got used to it. I stopped knocking on his door. Stopped asking him to come downstairs. Stopped checking to see what he was doing. I convinced myself he wanted the distance, that I was giving him what he needed. But the truth? I didn't want to know what was happening in that room.
However, change was coming, and in a way that we never anticipated. I was visiting home on a weekend when he did he caught us all off guard when he brought someone home.
A girl.
She had this calm to her—still, almost too still—and auburn eyes that made the air feel heavier somehow. Jackson introduced her as his girlfriend, and when he looked at her, I saw something I hadn't seen in years. Not just affection. Not just relief.
Hope.
"Mia. Nice to meet you," she proclaimed, grabbing the cloth of her skirt and acting out a curtsey.
We were stunned, shocked, immobile.
I couldn't think of anything to say. What could I have said? She seemed proper, polite, beautiful in her own way, but I couldn't get over it. The look in her eyes when she peered up at my youngest brother, who I could barely recognize as he nervously fidgeted and blushed in her presence. It was too confident. Too knowing. Like she understood something that we didn't.
But when my parents, crying tears of joy, welcomed her with opened arms, I brushed the thought off. I thought I was overthinking it, maybe even jealous at the thought of my younger brother getting a girlfriend. So I, too welcomed her with a smile on my face, and ignored the shaking in my hands.
***
Three months later, in the present day, it almost felt normal. She was relaxed on our couch, head resting on Jackson's shoulder as he stared at the TV. You'd think she'd lived here her whole life.
The morning news was playing: "...17-year-old girl found dead in the park last night. There were no visible signs of injury, and the autopsy concluded that she had no underlying health conditions."
"Another one added to the count of the Faded, huh?" It was our eldest brother who said it, walking into the room mid-yawn.
"Hunter… good morning." I looked up to meet his gaze, then returned my eyes to the screen. The girl's photo lingered in the corner. "It's become the second leading cause of death for people around our age. They say it could be anyone… scary, right?"
"I suppose." He dragged himself toward the kitchen table, uninterested.
The Faded.
That's what they call them—those who die suddenly, inexplicably, with no physical trauma and no warning signs doctors can agree on. Thousands every month.
You'd think people would be more afraid, but the numbers are easy to drown in. Less than one percent of the population. And one percent feels small... until it happens close to you.
While the cause is always officially listed as "unknown," there are certain traits people are told to look out for.
Changes in eating or sleeping.
Sudden emotional shifts.
Withdrawals.
Silence.
"As a general reminder to the public," the newscaster read, "if you or someone you know is exhibiting the following signs, please seek help from a licensed professional immediately…"
As the list continued, my eyes drifted to Jackson, sitting there quietly. Calm. Too calm. His girlfriend nestled into his side like she belonged there, like she'd always been there.
I shook my head. I've overthinking a lot lately. She's been there for him when I haven't. I'm glad that she's here, and I hope she stays. At least on the surface his mental state has greatly improved. He spends more time with family, and I get to see him smiling and laughing often. Last weekend we even played video games for the first time in what felt like years, and without a doubt…It's all because of her.
The way his eyes sparkle like fireworks when they lock eyes. The way his posture stiffens when someone mentions her name. The way he always finds a way to talk about her during any conversation. She's everything to him.
"…she's the fifty sixth victim just this week across the states, a record high for a three-day—" I muted the TV. The room felt colder now, and I wasn't sure why. Maybe I was just tired.
Still, something about the way the newscaster told the story like it was just another day at the job bothered me, or maybe it was the way Mia couldn't be bothered to even look up at the screen.
I let it go. I told myself I was overthinking things again. I've been doing that a lot lately. Later that afternoon I stepped outside for a walk to clear my head.
I never go on walks.
***
The bell above the door let out a small ring as I entered the convenience store. Cold air from the freezer section rushed out to meet me, and for once, it felt welcome against the warmth outside.
"Chips, water, cheese," I murmured under my breath. It's not that I can't remember things—actually, I pride myself on that. But if I don't repeat the list out loud, my brain wanders. I still don't know how Mom manages to multitask.
Then I saw her.
Mia.
She stood at the far end of the aisle, staring up at a box of tea bags just out of reach. There was a visible hesitation—she was too short. I watched for a second, curious how she'd solve the problem. When she started to climb the shelving, I stepped in. A light tap on her shoulder, a quick reach, and I handed her the box.
"Oh—Lance," she said, surprised. "Thanks. I didn't think I'd run into anyone here."
I nodded, unsure what to say. We'd barely spoken before, and honestly, I wasn't even sure she'd recognize me. "…Hey. Just picking up a few things." Awkward silence immediately followed. "Lavender tea, huh?" I asked, motioning to the box.
"Yup. It's for Jackson. He hasn't been sleeping well. I've been helping him relax." She glanced at the box, then up at me.
Her words hit harder than I expected. What have I been doing to help him? I shook the guilt off. "I'm glad. I'm sure he appreciates it."
"I really hope so. I'm doing my best," she said, brushing off her skirt. "I try to keep an eye on him, you know? I think he's doing better…" Her smile deepened, and her eyes softened almost too much. "…don't you?"
The cold I felt wasn't just from the freezers, was it?
"Yes… he seems to be doing a lot better," I said stiffly. "…thanks to you."
"Oh, you're just flattering me." She gave my shoulder a playful slap and stepped past me toward the register. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of him."
A shiver of delight passed over her face—gone almost as soon as it came.
I turned. "Wait." I caught her lightly by the wrist. She twitched, startled, then turned slowly. Her eyes held an anxious gleam.
"What made you fall for him?" I asked. "What do you like about him?"
She exhaled like she'd been holding her breath. There was a tension in her jaw—like she was savoring something unsaid.
"He's… raw," she said slowly. "Honest in ways he doesn't even realize. The way he gets overwhelmed when he's alone too long. The little stutter in his voice when he's trying not to cry. That look he gets… like the world's closing in and he doesn't know how to escape."
She took a step toward me. Her eyes flashed red. Just for a moment.
"I think it's beautiful." She paused. Her smile widened— too wide. "And I love…"
Her head tilted.
Her body twitched.
Her shoulders curled inward, and her fingers tightened against her skirt like she was holding something in. "...I love the way he feels things so deeply." A soft blush rose to her cheeks as she trembled, trying to steady herself.
I stepped back, frozen. My mouth hung open. My hands were sweating.
I couldn't speak.
She straightened, gave a little skip toward the register, and glanced over her shoulder. "I'll see you later, Lance."
She was gone.
And on the way home… I realized I forgot the cheese.
***
Later that evening, when I returned home, I headed straight for Jackson. I didn't knock—I just pushed open his door.
He was lying on his bed, lazily swiping through his phone. Next to him, Mia sat cross-legged, gently stirring a cup of tea on his nightstand like it was some kind of ritual.
My heart sank the moment I saw her.
Why is she here again? Isn't she always here?
"Lance?" Jackson looked up, setting his phone down when he saw my face. "What's up?"
"Do you wanna grab something to eat? I haven't taken you out in a while, right?"
"Uh… sure, but why so sudden?"
"I dunno." I forced a laugh. "Just felt like it, I guess."
He stared at me for a second before shrugging. "Okay, let me throw on some socks."
I exhaled in relief. He's coming.
As Jackson pulled on the second sock, his eyes drifted to Mia. Her stirring had stopped. She stared at the tea like it held answers.
"You'll come too, won't you?"
Her eyes flicked upward—lit with a strange glimmer.
No.
"No!" The word came out sharper than I meant it to. They both froze, startled. "…I mean," I scrambled, "I kinda wanted it to be a brother-to-brother thing."
Jackson blinked, surprised. His eyes searched mine. Then he looked over at Mia.
She smiled—sweet, supportive, and completely fake. "I don't mind," she said softly. "Some bonding might be good for you."
But I saw it. That wasn't the smile from earlier today. That wasn't the smile that twitched and pulsed when she talked about his pain.
And I couldn't unsee it.
"Okay, we'll be back soon," Jackson said, giving her a quick hug before stepping past me.
I followed him out, but not before stealing one last glance.
Mia sat still. Teacup in hand. Smile untouched.
And behind that plastic grin…
Were eyes tinged in a dark, hungry red.
I shook the vision from my head and grabbed my keys.
"Mom! Jackson and I are heading out! We'll be back soon!" I pushed him through the door and closed it behind us.
We stepped into the car, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. I started the engine, still unable to find the words. As we pulled away, I drove toward the furthest—but least suspicious—fast-food place I could think of. All I could focus on was how to start the conversation.
Something's wrong with your girlfriend.
Have you noticed anything strange about Mia?
Neither option felt like a good idea. Too blunt. Too risky.
I glanced over at Jackson. His head rested in his hand as he stared quietly out the passenger-side window. As the silence stretched between us, my thoughts slowly shifted—away from Mia, and toward Jackson himself.
When was the last time we did this? Just drove somewhere together.
When was the last time I even talked to him, really talked to him?
The realization, the guilt, the weight of the years I'd let pass by without showing up for him, it hit me all at once.
Tears started to fall.
Uncontrollable, vision-blurring tears.
"Hey? Lance?" Jackson sat up straight, panic rising in his voice. "What's wrong?! Hey!"
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." My hands wiped furiously at my face, but the tears kept coming.
"For what? Lance?"
"I'b bween swuch ashwity owlder bwoder."
"Whoa, whoa. What? I can't understand you. Calm down." He grabbed my wrist, firm but steady. His eyes locked on mine. "Breathe. Just breathe."
I never thought it would be my younger brother calming me down—but somehow, it worked. I slowed my breathing. The tears dulled to a trickle. I looked over at him, really looked at him—for the first time in what felt like years.
"I've been a shitty older brother," I said, voice low but steady. "I'm sorry."
Silence.
It ate at me. But somehow, I didn't hate it. Just sitting here with him—after everything—felt like relief. Like something I didn't realize I'd been starving for.
"I never thought you were a shitty older brother," he finally said. "It was me that made it hard for you... wasn't it?"
I wanted to deny it. To throw the words back. But...
"I mean... yeah. Sometimes. But just because something's tough doesn't mean I should've avoided it. Especially not when it's family."
Jackson's gaze dropped to the floor of the car. His voice came a little quieter.
"You know, brother…"
"Yeah?"
"That was really cringe."
I nearly slapped him across the head. I wanted to. But instead…I laughed. That was Jackson. My brother. And honestly? That's exactly who I missed.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, but not the kind that felt heavy or strained. It was the kind of quiet that felt almost... right. Like the space between us was finally starting to close, even if just a little. For the first time in a while, I didn't feel like I had to say anything. Just having him there was enough.
We pulled into a small fast-food place on the edge of town. One of those older spots with peeling paint on the windows and a flickering neon sign half burned out.
We ordered quickly—burgers, fries, and drinks—then found a booth by the window.
Outside, the sky had darkened completely. The hum of the kitchen and the occasional sound of a car passing by filled the quiet.
Jackson took a few bites of his burger before glancing at me with a look that was half amusement, half curiosity.
"So... what did you drag me out of the house to talk about?"
I blinked. "What?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Come on. I'm not stupid. You've been acting weird all day. I figured something was up." He smiled. "I'm your brother. Of course I know."
I let out a short laugh, caught somewhere between guilt and relief. "You're way too perceptive."
Jackson shrugged and reached for another fry. "You're just easy to read."
I opened my mouth to say something, maybe even ask about Mia, but then he spoke again before I had the chance.
"It's Mia, isn't it? She's great, right?"
I paused.
"She's... really helped me. More than anyone else has. When I'm stuck in my head or feeling like I can't breathe, she knows exactly how to ground me. It's like she understands me in a way that nobody else ever has."
He smiled to himself. "She sees the version of me I want to be. And being around her makes me feel like that version is real."
I didn't say anything. I didn't need to.
"And I know you've probably had doubts, or maybe you just didn't trust it at first, but... I'm happy, Lance. I haven't felt like this in a long time."
I looked across the table at him. The weight in his shoulders had lifted. His eyes weren't tired.
He looked alive.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Seeing shadows where there weren't any.
"Then I'm happy for you," I said quietly, taking another bite of my burger. As I watched him eat, my thoughts drifted back to the convenience store.
Her twisted smile.
The way her body trembled when she talked about him.
The red glare she gave me as I left his room.
I had no doubts.
She's crazy—no question about it—but maybe that's okay.
Maybe what I really needed was to talk to my brother. To understand how he felt.
And sitting there, watching him devour his fries in groups of three, I truly believed that everything would be okay.
On the drive home, with the two of us singing along to our favorite songs on the radio, I felt something I hadn't felt in years: peace.
What will we do tomorrow?
Maybe I'll take him to work out.
Maybe I can talk him into joining a sport again.
Happy thoughts filled my head. For the first time since I started high school, my body was like a cloud. It was like a weight had been picked up off my chest. Like my body had been unshackled.
When I parked the car in front of our house, a quiet thought stirred.
I haven't said it in a long time. But the way things are now…
I can say it.
"Hey... Jackson?"
His hand paused at the door handle.
"Hmm? What's up?"
"I love you."
My eyes met his, and for a moment it felt like time froze.
"When did you become so cringe?"
He laughed, flashing me a smile I hadn't seen directed at me since we were kids.
"I love you too."
***
That night, I couldn't sleep. I just stared at the ceiling. My chest felt light. My mind, quiet. This is what peace feels like, I thought, turning onto my side. I hope it lasts.
But if I've learned anything about how the world works, peace never lasts.
A sound interrupted the silence. Subtle. Wet.
At first, I thought it was a leaking pipe—that's happened before. Nothing serious, but something Dad should know about. I checked my phone: 2:03 a.m. Later than I expected.
I climbed the stairs. That's when I heard it: a floorboard creak. A dull thump. Like something was shifting weight back and forth.
The house was still.
Too still.
Maybe I was paranoid. But it wouldn't hurt to check.
The sound came from the hallway—Jackson's hallway.
He should've been asleep by now. Mom would be furious if she knew he was up.
I crept toward his door and raised my hand to knock.
That's when I heard it.
A gurgle. Soft. Wet. Choking.
My heart pounded into my skull. My thoughts blurred, crashing over each other.
Before I realized it, I had turned the knob. The door creaked open.
His bed was empty.
My stomach dropped.
"Jackson?" I whispered.
No response.
I scanned the room. It looked normal—until I saw it.
A dark trail smeared above the headboard. Leading upward.
I stepped closer, and something hit the tip of my nose. Wet.
My body froze.
At first, I dismissed it—maybe allergies, maybe my imagination—but then the smell hit. Metallic. Sharp. Pungent.
Blood.
Another drop landed on my cheek.
And against every signal my brain fired in warning, I tilted my head upward.
But she…no—it—wasn't Mia anymore.
What clung to the ceiling was a warped silhouette wearing a borrowed face. Limbs twisted, curled, and multiple from her body, originated from her shoulders, hips, even her stomach. They all twitched with erratic energy, and every joint bent in inhumane angles that leave scars on the eyes.
That same smile — delicate, too soft, too serene — bloomed across her bloody lips, just as it had when we spoke in the convenience store. It was almost tender. But her eyes shimmered with something far darker than delight: euphoria. Bliss. A terrifying ecstasy that lit her features with an unnatural glow.
She looked like she was in love, a stark contrast to the blood that stained her skin and her ripped clothing.
And then I saw him.
Jackson
He was suspended—his body hanging motionless in the center of the room, the shadows barely concealing the truth. One of her limbs, long and sinewy, had coiled tightly around his neck, holding him in the air like he was nothing more than a discarded toy.
His feet hovered just above the floor, toes limp. His arms hung by his sides, slack, lifeless. His head tilted slightly, not from choice, but because his body no longer had the strength to hold itself up.
His shirt, pants…. Body was turn to pieces, chunks of flesh torn off from bite marks, holes in his chest and arms from being impaled by something.
The world around me faded.
No thoughts. No movement. Just the sound of my own heartbeat, pounding like a drum against my skull, so hard that I thought for a moment it might crack.
This wasn't happening.
This couldn't be real.
But this was real
Jackson was gone, and that thing had taken him.
Once I was able to wrap my thoughts around what was happening, the first thing that came was vomit. Mine. All over the floor. Acidic. Violent. But even after, I didn't move.
Couldn't.
My knees buckled, causing my body to hit the floor lifelessly as my arms fell to my sides. My chest rose and fell in sharp and unnatural hitches. My instincts screamed at me.
Run.
Fight.
Move.
But my body didn't listen, like it was frozen in time. Like one of those nightmares where you can't move. You're just stuck watching the horror unfold in front of you. The only difference is that this is real.
Too real.
I heard only the sound of her laughing. It rang out, sweet and hollow. She was watching me again, head cocked slightly to one side, her smile stretched just a little too wide to be human.
"You look just like he did." Her voice floated across the room, eerily calm. "Right at the end. So full of fear. And grief." She sighed, dreamy. "It's intoxicating." Her voice swelled up with ecstasy as a few of her limbs rubbed against her cheek in delight.
She stepped toward me, slow and almost elegant. But I wasn't focused on her anymore.
Something shifted.
It was small. Imperceptible. A pulse—not in the room, not in my body, but beneath it.
A tremor behind the ribs. Like someone breathing their last, and leaving part of themselves behind.
A warmth flickered in my chest. Faint. Grieving. Sorrowful.
And just as quickly as it came, it vanished—like an ember swallowed by wind.
I gasped. I don't know why. I didn't know what had just happened, only that something had. Something important . But I couldn't understand it, not yet. Not here. Not like this.
She didn't notice. Or maybe she didn't care.
"Poor Lance," she whispered, stepping close enough for her voice to chill the skin of my neck. "Now you'll never forget me."
She leaned in, forehead nearly touching mine, that smile still carved into her face.
"Good."
Then, she was gone. Leaving Jackson's tattered body in the process. As I regained my ability to move, I crawled my way to his body, stared into his eyes and remembered what they once looked like.
Those nights crowded around mom when she sang her song. The lyrics I could never forget.
"Please don't take my sunshine away." I could still hear her voice whispering in my ear.
But the sunshine that once existed in his eyes—sparkling in anticipation for his mother's affection, was replaced by eternal darkness.
***
Five days after the death of my younger brother, I stood spiritlessly at the back of the crowd. It was his funeral, held outside. Nobody talked to me, nobody will even listen to me.
His body was torn to shreds, the room swimming in blood when it happened, but nobody believed me. As I stood I could clearly see his disfigured body as they closed the casket above his head. I saw it all happen.
But I'm the crazy one.
In the end, everyone just saw his body as untouched, untampered, with no identifiable cause of death. He was one of the faded, and I was admitted almost immediately into therapy. I never talked to the therapist though. He could never get it. What I saw, what I felt—was real.
Nobody remembers Mia either. Just like in the room that night, she vanished without a trace in the mind of others. To them, she never existed. When I tried to bring up events she was involved in, they fill the gaps seamlessly with information that aligns with the end result. I wrote it off as some kind of magic or ability she enforced on the people that knew her. Why I still remember her is unknown to me, but my best guess was that it was because I saw her kill him.
My younger brother.
Five days after the death of my younger brother, I stood alone at the edge of the cemetery.
Most of the mourners had left. A few remained by the parking lot, offering quiet condolences and empty hugs that never came my way. I didn't care. I barely heard them. My focus remained fixed on the casket, now closed and lowered, with a name I couldn't stop replaying in my head.
Jackson.
The wind stirred. A leaf blew past my feet. Then, behind me, I heard it.
Click.
A lighter flicked. Failed.
Click.
Again.
Click.
This time, it caught. A flame sparked, followed by the faint sizzle of tobacco. I turned.
There, leaning casually against the trunk of a crooked oak, stood a man. Middle-aged. Cloaked in black, the ends of his coat brushing against the dirt. He lit a cigarette with calm fingers, eyes shaded beneath a low-drawn hood.
I stared. He stared back.
Then, he spoke.
"They don't believe you, right?"
The words hit me like a slap.
"What did you just say?" I asked, voice dry and broken.
He took a drag and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift between us like a curtain. "You told them the truth, didn't you? About what happened to your brother. But no one listened."
I swallowed hard.
"Who are you?"
He smiled faintly but didn't answer the question. "People like us... we see things we're not supposed to. And when we talk about it, the world labels us as unstable. Delusional." He gestured toward the grave. "But I believe you."
"Why?"
Another drag. Another long pause. Then, he said, "Because I see it in your eyes."
I blinked.
He stepped forward, just enough that I could make out the sharpness in his features. The tired creases around his eyes. The strange calm that surrounded him like a second skin.
"You stand here alone, helpless," he said quietly, "but there's something burning in you. A fire barely bottled. A scream that hasn't found its voice yet. Like a storm waiting for permission to tear the sky in half."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a black card. Minimalist. A number. A symbol—a flame encircled in silver ink.
He held it out.
"Call this," he said. "When you're ready. But know this—if you do, there's no turning back. You'll be leaving behind your life, your plans, your comfort. Everything. All to help others who are still lost... like your brother was."
I hesitated.
"What is this?" I asked.
"An opportunity," he said. "And a choice."
"What do you want from me?"
Another smile. This one didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Not much," he said. "Just everything."
I looked down at the card. The paper felt warm between my fingers. Heavy. Like it knew things I didn't.
"And if I don't call?"
"Then you live your life. Or try to." He turned, his boots crunching softly in the grass. "But you'll always feel it, won't you? That ember in your chest." He tapped my chest with his finger.
My head snapped up. "How do you know about her?"
He didn't stop walking. He just raised a hand as he walked toward the far end of the cemetery.
"Call the number, Lance," he said. "When you're ready to stop standing still."
Then he disappeared into the trees.
The card remained in my hand.
My chest felt tight—grief still raw—but beneath it, something stirred. Not peace. Not closure.
Something sharper.
Something terrifying.
Vengeance.