Sick

Rehabilitation

Matt had never felt such a heavy lead weight in his gut, or a more throbbing headache. Sitting in the cold metal seat of the execution room, everything was monotone, blurred and still. The smell of salt and grief was heavy, but God knew if it was from him or the wailing family beside him. He almost felt nostalgic; memories of waiting outside his middle school's office as, once again, Allen was being reprimanded. Harmless boyish fun, leaving tacks on his teacher's chair, drawing penises on the chalkboard, nothing worrying. But Allen was an overachiever, not in the same way Matt was or their father was proud of, but he took pride in his work. By high school Matt's brotherly duties included picking up his half-brother from sheriff's departments for shop lifting and making excuses as to why he wasn't home for dinner yet again. The Canadian wasn't particularly religious but he prayed every night without fail for his brother, somber mantra blocking out the sounds of bottles shattering and drunken rage downstairs. Neither boy had much in this world, but they had each other. And their father, Francois. 

The French man was dreary at best while sober, he certainly wasn't a model parent, often spending on his vices rather than food for his sons, but drunk he turned into something of a demon. He held tender adolescent skin to the rusted elements of their stove, shouting and blaming Matt for the death of his dearly beloved Joan. And when Matt's eyes were dusty and dry, no more tears able to fall, no more bile able to be forced out of his stomach, he turned to Allen. The American boy was his shame, the bastard child of a drunken affair with a raven haired native woman, the boy's birth driving his wife to suicide. Allen was weaker than Matt, smaller and yet to fully grow into his body, but he fought back with twice the strength. The boys stopping attending school, stopped meeting with friends and stopping trusting anyone but each other. Until Francois's bank account ran dry, the power went out, and for once Allen's deviant skills came in handy. They started small, pick pocketing sleeping people on empty trains, taking fruits that had rolled off store displays and the like, and then Allen came home one frozen afternoon with a hundred dollars in cash.  

"Where did you get this?" Matt had asked, but Allen only shrugged, shoving the crinkled notes and coins into a tin box under their piss soaked mattress. "Al, where did you get it?"

"Places. Don't worry about it, it's enough for at least three weeks of food."

"Did you steal it?"

"Some of it yeah."

"And the rest?"

Allen paused, drumming his fingers on the wood floor and biting his lip.

"A job. You know like-I thought cause it's snowing, I could shovel people's driveways and make some money."

Matt had excepted that answer, it was a good idea, much safer and legal. But Allen kept coming home with more and more cash and there was less and less snow. 'Odd jobs' his brother shrugged,  but Matthew wasn't buying it, especially when he come home to their father's rough hands around Allen's throat and condom wrappers scattered on the floor. Matt didn't pray that night. What God would hear him over Allen's screaming and the thud thud thud of the master bedroom walls. They needed to leave, but as always, Allen had to think bigger, and Matt for once, couldn't have agreed more. At the tender age of sixteen, the boys had graduated from petty theft to murder.

"Al-God-We've gone too far now! He's gonna start rotting and someone will smell. Jesus, they'll lock us up and throw away the key-"

"Shut up, Matt. No one will find out, I won't tell and I know you won't either." Allen was kneeling over the bloated corpse of their father, reeking of alcohol and rat poison. Neither had closed his eyes, already so grey and milky, but Matt didn't want to touch him and Allen wanted him to see.