Redbrick, Cigarettes, and a .380

“The bullets went like this,” A nine-year-old child traced a three-dimensional line through the air, outlining a trajectory of shot before it pierced through the old wooden door. “If he was ye tall, about six or so feet I’d say, then two of them went right through his head, and this one through his… I dunno, liver I guess.” He kneeled down in front of the door, where most of the old red paint had chipped off, revealing the bowing, splintered, nearly identical blanks beneath. “These must all be the holes from the bullets.”

A teenager leaning against the wall next to the door spat across the sidewalk and into the pitted, neglected street. His faded jersey jacket and torn up Levis reflected the life that the two of them led together. The back of the jacket barely read out the letters LHS; “Little High School”.

“Well gee,” the teenager sneered in a sarcastic manner. “You must be some sort of fuckin’ genius or something. As if the blood all over the sidewalk isn’t proof enough that he’s fucking dead.”

The child sighed and cast his eyes downward, pretending to be interested in the base of the door. “Sorry.” His mumbled apology barely escaped his lips as a whisper.

“No,” It was the teenager’s turn to sigh, as he unfolded his arms and leaned off of the wall. “It isn’t you. It’s just—shit. Patrick’s dead, they did it, and we’re—we’re what, we’re stuck in the middle. Not even. We’re off to the side.” He spat into the street again, ruffling his unkempt, dirty hair. “I still can’t believe this even happened, Kit.”

Kit stood up and kicked a pebble. “Maybe it’s better that we aren’t in the middle, Josh.”

Josh looked at him questioningly. “Huh?”

“Pat was in the middle, and look what it got him.” Kit shrugged, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his tattered jeans.

“Yeah.” Josh leaned back against the wall, not believing himself. He reached into one of the pockets of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one of them with a Bic before it even reached his mouth. He sighed a cloud of smoke.

Kit spoke up, to relieve the pressured silence. “The cops said—”

“Fuck the cops. The cops haven’t done a goddamn thing.” Josh’s face remained neutral as he vocally vented his disgust. “The cops sat around on their asses when Mom was killed in that hijacking, and they didn’t seem to give two shits when Steve was killed by that drunk driver—not that he didn’t deserve it anyway.” The last mumbled parts were laced underneath a heavy cloud of Marlboro: “Drank a lot and fucked Mom’s all he ever did.”

Kit heard it, though. “Shut up! Dad—”

“He what?” Josh kicked off the wall and towered over the child. “Say it! Say he was a good man—I dare you! You never saw the nights that he came home at three in the morning, penniless, and fucking drunk off of his own self-righteous misery! You weren’t even born when he lost the house thanks to his fucking gambling problems! Good man my ass. It’s thanks to Steve that the three of us ended up the streets.” He looked over at the door. “Well… two of us, now.”

Kit sat down and put his back against the wall, not saying anything.

Josh’s cigarette burned a little more as he stared at the ground. “What a cheap-shot moron.”

“At least Pat took care of us.” Kit

“Took care of you, maybe. He left me out in the fuckin’ rain all the time.” Josh took a few steps down the sidewalk leisurely, balancing on one of the many cracks. “Can’t believe that—favored you over his own damn younger brother.”

“I was his brother.”

“Half brother!” Josh scoffed.

Kit stood up. “I was still his brother!” He yelled. “I may not have known him as long as you, or even shared the same blood ties as you did with him, but he still cared for me as if that didn’t matter. He’d have cared for you, too, if you hadn’t been off sleeping with that—that—” he grasped for words in his rage. “—that whore!”

Josh moved faster than either of them realized. In an instant, Kit was lying on the ground with a bruise forming on his cheek, stinging from the blow. Josh could only stand aghast at what he had just done.

He recovered first, looking away. “She isn’t a whore.” He turned around and sat on the curb, pulling something out of the pocket of his jacket and tinkering with it.

Kit sat up, but didn’t stand. “What’s that?” he said, after a while of silence.

“Something to make all of this go away,” Josh replied quietly. “I think it’s time we repaid blood with blood.”

“Josh—”

“What?” Josh turned his head so he could look in his brother’s direction.

“Killing isn’t going to solve anything at all! Pat tried to tell you that, aren’t you going to listen?”

Josh stood, turning to face the boy again. “Killing will solve something! If we don’t do it—if I don’t do it—then who will? Who’s gonna stop these fuckers from killing more people, huh? Cops? Feds? Shit, Batman? Please. That kinda crap only happens in comic books. In real life, you keep getting screwed over until you decide to screw back.” He opened the chamber of the .380 snub nose and twirled it absently. “We got screwed over for the last fuckin’ time.”

Kit remained silent.

“Pat’s dead, Kit! He wasn’t supposed to be a victim! He was too goddamn smart for that!” He closed his eyes and ran a distraught hand through his hair. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Anything at all?”

“Of course it does.” Kit looked at the red brick wall. “But you can’t run off and shoot people. That makes you no better than they were!”

Josh turned his back, and looked out across the street. He sighed in resignation.

“Look, it’s getting late. You should probably head home.”

Kit stood up. “What about you?”

“I’ll be there soon. There’s just a few things I need to take care of.”

“Like what?”

Josh threw his hands up. “Jezus christ, Kit! Just go! If you really need to know, I was going to stop by someplace and get food for us to eat tonight. All we got at home is empty cupboards.”

Kit started down the sidewalk. “Okay, fine. Just…” he looked over his shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Josh eyed him strangely, pretending not to know what he was talking about. “It’s just food. What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Just be home soon.”

“Right.”

///---///

Detective Stone Morris stared down at the faded jacket at his feet. It was soaked in blood, and gripped a small revolver in its right hand.

He heard the grunts and small talk around him.

“This kid went to Little?”

“Huh, My son went there.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. I thought you lived over in West Chester…”

He sighed and shook his head.

“Morris, you got anything?” His partner called over to him.

“Not particularly. Just a morbid reality.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’.” He shook his head as well, but continued. “We found the slugs that blew the kid away, tho’. They went clear through him—found ‘em lodged in this wall here. A few might’ve gone through the door, but we aren’t going to look. One bullet’s good enough to trace the gun, right?”

“Yeah.” He squatted down, and pulling a kerchief from his back pocket, lifted the revolver out of the kid’s hand. He checked the chamber. “Jezus.”

“What?”

“It’s still fully loaded. He didn’t even get a shot off.”

“Goddamn.”

Morris put the gun in an evidence bag as it was presented to him. “Say, wasn’t there another shooting right here just—what, a few nights ago?”

“Sure was. Whatta pain.”

He sighed. “When will kids learn to stop playing with guns?”