The Boy with Words for Skin

Chapter 7: The Walk Back

We walked in silence past the houses, their windows glowing. I wondered what everyone was doing behind their closed curtains doing. Maybe eating dinner, maybe watching TV, but definitely trying to not think about the creepy kids at 407 West Marshall Street.

When we made it to Center Street, I looked further down the road. I could see the Sutherlands' house. I thought about Brandon and wondered what he was doing right then. Did he think about us often? I would bet he did. He had almost been one of us, after all. But The Man with the Accordion Legs had spared him. Why? Why Brandon? Why only Brandon?

That was when I realized Boy was crying. He barely made a sound. He was trying to hide it. 

I knew I needed to say something, but what was I supposed to say? Sorry you're such a freak that even your own parents can't love you? Sorry that you're stuck with an older brother who can't even stand to touch you?

I cringed.

I wasn't any different than Mom and Dad. They couldn't stand to look at him or touch him and neither could I. If anything, I was worse because I still lived with him.

I stole glances at Boy as we walked in silence. We made it the part of the road that cut through the woods. The shadows from the tree branches jumbled together. They looked like they were about to swallow my brother whole.

No. There was nothing that could be said just then. So, I took a deep breath and put my hand on his shoulder.

It felt good to finally touch him again. The longer I'd put it off, the worse my guilt got. And the worse the guilt got, the harder it was to touch him. But I'd done it—finally—and it felt like part of me had turned into air.

Touching him had the opposite effect on him, though. He stopped walking. His shoulders went rigid and his hands balled into little fists. He looked as hard as stone.

He's hurt. He's scared. He doesn't know what to do or think, I realized.

I moved in front of Boy and looked down at him. Had he always been so small? My eyes stuck to the top of his neck. It didn't make me feel queasy like before, not even with the shadows of the branches slipping back and forth across it like dirty water.

"Boy," I said. "I'm sorry."

His stone-like stance crumbled and he lunged at me. He threw his arms around my legs and squeezed. His body shook against mine as he sobbed.

Before the Transformation, when my brother used to cry, I'd pick him up and hold him. I loved him then, and I still loved him—even if I'd almost forgotten how to.

I pulled free of him. He thought we were done, that it was time to start walking again, but I crouched down and pulled him into my arms. I lifted him and held him against my chest. He put his arms around me and squeezed. His neck pressed against my collarbone.

Touching him, even feeling his stump against me, wasn't as scary as I thought it'd be for all those months. I was ashamed of myself and thankful for him. Having him in my arms again felt so good. It soothed an ache in me that I hadn't even realized was there.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into the air where his ear should've been.

He took a shaky breath. "They hate us."

I knew they didn't hate us, but whatever they felt for us it wasn't love. You don't treat the people you love like that. But how was I supposed to explain that to a seven-year-old when I didn't even quite understand it myself?

"We scare them," he said. "They think we're monsters."

I shushed him and squeezed him tighter. The only thing I could think to do was keep holding him and start walking. So, I did.