Keep Away From Children

I can hear him across the street, muttering to himself. I quickly get up and turn on the television. He won’t like it if he sees me reading. He says it’s dumb. I hear the door creak open, and he stumbles in, managing to slam the door anyway. I can tell he’s drunk by the way the sound echoes towards me with each step he takes, with each move he makes to reach me. I wish I had a book to bury myself in. I wish he would just skip over me. Just go to the kitchen and get a snack, or have a fit in his room. Anything but seeing me.

He reaches my room. I manage to look at him through the corners of my eyes, hoping that I seem to be mesmerized by the television, like he is. He looks worse than usual. His eyes are fiery, and his lips smile a lopsided smile as he sees me, thinking I’m in my own world. I wish. His lips part to reveal teeth that make me squirm. Hear it comes. The beginning of the storm. I cringe. I think he’s realized I couldn’t care less about the TV.

“Watching the news, are ya Katie?” My insides squirm. How could I forget? I look straight at the TV, and can’t help but let escape a small sigh, as the weather forecast is told right before my eyes. He hates the news. This is the storm. This is it. My heart folds itself, shaking. He’s going to kill me now. He smiles that smile again. A shadow of doubt is cast over me. Why isn’t he doing anything?

“Katie.” He slurs my name. I hate the way he says it now. “Can you keep a secret?” My eyes widen in surprise. A joy comes over me. A joy I can’t stop, I can’t control, as it washes over my whole body and overspills as tears peak from the corner of my eyes. A secret? Me? His secret? He hasn’t asked me that since…since he was ten. And then the doubt seeps in. He only asked. It could be a joke. A dirty trick, to get me angry at him. I try to take the smile off my face, but I can’t. It’s plastered on to me like a disease. I can’t do anything but nod as I realize he’s waiting for an answer. His lopsided grin widens. He turns around. Sadness emerges. It was all a lie. He’s going with his friends now. It wasn’t ever anything.

He’s taking something out of his pockets. He’s turning around-the hope returns-and he looks at me straight in the eye, before tossing a small box to me. I look it over.

“Over sized match box?” I question, knowing he’ll think I’m stupid. He grins. He grins? Since when has he grinned because of one of my jokes?

“Yeah…I guess...” He mocks. I feel hurt. I should have known. He’s not really going to tell me what it is. “You can call it that.” Then he turns around, and walks out the door. I try to take it all in-but five seconds later he’s back, shouting “Don’t tell the folks!” then he slams the door shut. I don’t think. I just listen to the noise of his heavy footsteps going down the stairs, turning left, and out the door.

Then I sigh, and slump back, grabbing my book from a nearby shelf. I pretend to be emerged in it, as if someone were still watching me, waiting to catch me doing something I shouldn’t be doing. I try to read a few lines, but I can’t. My thoughts keep drifting up to the box sitting on the carpet, staring at me.

Come look at me. It says. Don’t worry, this is just between us. I won’t tell your big ol’ brother. I giggle, but manage to pull away from its voice, knowing it wouldn’t be right. He’s done things like this before. Wanting me to hide his bottles of liquid without telling me what’s inside it, stuff like that. I’ve always done it, willingly or unwillingly. I just thought maybe this time it might be something more.

I remember the times when we used to share secrets about everything. Who we had a crush on, what our parents said, what made us really scared. And then-I can hardly remember this-when we used to play. Play about anything mostly. Or, as he got older, talk. Talk about whatever kinds of things entered our heads. I guess he was too cool to do that stuff now. Now the only kind of secret I got from him was one with a threat in it if I ever got it in my head that I should tell our parents. And we never talked anymore. Only a string of words that never matters anything to either of us.

He sometimes jokes that he still plays with me. You’re the target Katie, and my fist is the arrow. It’s a good way to practice shooting. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun with this little game, aren’t we Katie? But those games leave me with bruises, and half an hour of explaining how I got them to my parents. Recently, I’ve been wishing I had a little brother. But that he stayed little. That he never grew up.

Katie, what’s wrong, are you too chicken? I almost jump in my chair. The thing that has been gliding across the back of my mind has finally emerged at the front. That stupid little box. I walked toward it, dizzy with curiosity. Maybe a little peek wouldn’t hurt? Of course it wouldn’t, Katie. Come on, look at me.

With a shaking hand, I lift the lid, thoughts racing through my head. I’ve never done anything like this before. The lid topples to the floor. I look at the small cardboard tubes, curiosity not satisfied. Guilt and reason pushed to the back, I read the directions on the side. There’s a warning too, but I don’t read that. My brother wouldn’t. The directions seem easy enough.

My dad’s lighter seems to glow from his jacket pocket. Somehow, I don’t think he would mind much. Snatching it quickly, and after several attempts, I manage to light one tube. I grin. This could be just what I need. Just what I need to get my brother to notice me again. To be as cool as him. To be at the top of the world, holding his hand.

I yelp back to reality as a scathing pain reaches my finger. I touched the tip. I quickly put it in my mouth as it instructs, ignoring the pain. I inhale the smoke, and instantly cough it out, my throat burning. I put it in stubbornly. I can do anything my brother can, and he did this. The horrible feeling enters my lungs again. I cough, my head spinning.

I puff again, and again. My stupid asthma. Getting in the way now. I’ve had it since I was born, seven years, and I get asthma attacks a lot. The doctor said it would get cured, but it never has. I am still determined to finish it, my lungs seem to be tightening, I can’t breathe well. I puff once more. I can’t breathe. The realization shocks me as my world turns black, and the last words I can faintly see, scribbled on the side of the box are: Keep away from children. The black is closing in, but I stubbornly manage one thought-Cool. My brother ignored the warning too.