THE ART OF BURNING

XIV: FATHERFUCKER!

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CAIN

            I'M THE FIRST PERSON that Rachel sees, and she does not look nearly as happy to see me as I am to see her. She screams when she sees me, and, behind her, hardly audible over her scream, echoes the pitter-patter of little footsteps jumping down the porch steps two-at-a-time.

           I know. It's shocking. Imagine seeing me and not being happy about it. I can't believe it, either!

            Seeing Rachel after all those months of trying to convince myself that she's dead is inexplicably earth-shattering. This is Rachel but it isn't; this is my sister but it isn't. It's not the Rachel I've always known, intelligent and determined and sweet and awkward. This girl is something . . . something else. The bones are all there, but the skin is entirely different. It's like seeing the ghost of someone you knew in a past life; it's like walking through your childhood home years later, seeing the same foundation done anew.

            Everything about her seems completely normal. She's wearing a headband; God, she never goes anywhere without one on. It looks like a strip of fabric cut out of a pair of blue jeans, tied into a bow on the side of her head. Her hair's the same shade of midnight, still as unmanageably curly and frizzy as it's always been. Her eyes are the same shade of hazel; her freckles are in the same spots they've always been in. She's even wearing a horribly Rachelesque outfit: a pair of white flats with cute little bows on them, a pleated skirt, a Space Camp t-shirt in an innocent shade of light blue, a jean jacket covered in pins and patches. She looks like what she is: a little girl thrust into a harsh world completely alone.

            She marches straight on into the living room with that stupid angry walk she does—her body tilted forwards, her hands curled into fists at her sides, her face all scrunched up and angry and red. She jams a finger into my chest. "YOU!" she yells, spit flying. "Get out of my house! Get out get out get out get out get out GET OUT! I'll beat you! I'll kill you! I'll—I'll—I'll—"

            Family reunions, amirite?

            But it's at that moment that I realize that Rachel isn't angry to see me. I'm still wearing the fucking gas mask. She can't see my face through it. She has no idea who I am, and why would she have any reason to suspect that I'm me? For all she knows, I'm a stranger in a gas mask chilling in her living room uninvited. Besides, she's gotten tunnel-vision for me; she hasn't even realized there are people behind me. She hasn't seen our dad.

            "Rachel." I grab onto her hands, trying to calm her down. "Stop it. It's me, your beloved brother."

            "Cain?" Rachel takes a step back. She no longer looks murderous, just a little pissed-off. "What the ever-loving fuck are you wearing?"