Asa is an unwilling sensitive with a fear of mirrors and anything reflective.
Amy is an unwitting empath.
Together they are responsible for murder.
THE SHIPPY SIBLINGS are rarely alone, despite living as secluded orphans on the remains of...
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I LIFTED AN ABANDONED mug off the counter and ran the faucet. Tepid water spit as I swiped the inside with a sponge, washing away the faint coffee stains that ringed the glazed bottom. The dry field burned gold outside the window in the late afternoon sun. From my spot at the kitchen sink, I could see the barn, a hulking, ugly, half-rotted thing. Bushy weeds grew on the soft roof shingles in staggered patches. Small black shapes—swallows, I figured—flitted in and out of the exposed rafters. They'd go like that until dark.
"One, two, three..." I whispered the seconds, waiting for the thoughts to come. It happened this way, anytime I stared too long at the whipsawn hay barn, its paint peeling in scabs off the hewn board and batten siding. The steeply-pitched wagon shed attached to its outer wall glared at me. The door stood open on a broken top hinge, creating an asymmetrical void I couldn't help but acknowledge. An undeniable line was drawn between the distant, constant hum in the rear of my mind and that barn. Whenever we locked eyes (because there were days I swore it watched me too, a wild, stalking animal), the hum swelled, clogging my ears with static.
Then the images came.
Violent snapshots. Blood. A knife. A kid-goat entangled wire, ribs lacerated and heaving. More blood. Maggots wrestling on a carcass—the goat, maybe? Blood. A rope. Booted feet carved rows in the sand. Rewind. A goat. Light flickered, and I saw myself smash the mug in hand. My shaky fingers searched out the jagged handle from the belly of the dirty sink.
Once I had it, I stabbed myself in the eye.
My grip flexed on the coffee mug. I shook my head to free the...thoughts and carefully set the cup far back on the counter, away from possible accidents. I shut off the faucet. The lightbulb in the ancient Frigidaire Cindy had insulted earlier that morning, winked at me as I snagged a can of soda off the shelf and kicked the heavy door closed again.
In the living room, Asa sprawled on his back. The shag carpet under him flattened around his outline. One arm was slung over his face, hiding him. His fingertips were black. The television was on. Muted. Multi colors flashed silently, illuminating the shadows near the two-tiered, metal TV cart. I climbed over my brother, stepping awkwardly to avoid the pieces of paper strewn like buoys.
"Is that for me?" Ada asked without removing his arm.
"Nope."
"You said you were getting water."
I sat on the couch, a long, low piece of furniture smattered in oversized mustard and orange paisleys, and tucked a barefoot under me. "Changed my mind," I said, cracking the aluminum tab to sip peppery bubbles.
Asa lifted a sheet of paper and blindly smacked it against whatever part of me was within reach. A kneecap. I hesitated. His thin frame was a forgotten pencil about to roll under the couch. I took the paper.
