As a sick prank, one of your siblings superheated two red hot nickel balls with a blowtorch, then dropped them onto your back. You screamed and leapt up, but it was too late: you were marked for life.
That’s the stupidest guess I’ve ever heard, Stephen says. My older siblings would fantasize about that, but where the hell would any of them get metal balls or a blowtorch?
I had to try, Mars says.
It’s 11:30 AM. He and Stephen are laying on his floor-bound mattress in a tangle of warm limbs. Disdainful, cool autumn sunlight cuts through the windows to cover them in yellow sheets. The post coital glow is already vanishing. Stephen is growing tense, drawing his limbs in, pulling away from his own nudity.
Mars wraps an arm around his slender waist to buy time. He kneads his fingers into the twin knots of scar tissue on Stephen’s shoulder blades. Both are the diameter of chocolate coins. They are mirror images: deep, circular scar pits that flank Stephen’s spine right above his shoulder blades.
Just tell me what happened, Mars says.
Stephen sighs. It is a near silent hiss. He props himself up on his elbow and turns. In the autumn light, all of the black curls that tumble into his face are moody. Sullen. His thick eyebrows are furrowing together. Mars drinks in the sight of his lithe body angled across the mattress, his impatient dark eyes, and the two wire-thin scars that split his face. He thirsts for an answer.
Take another guess, Stephen says.
You always make me guess, Mars says.
If you’re done, I’m getting dressed. Then it’ll be against the rules for you to guess anyway.
Fine. Mars tests the scars beneath his fingertips. They are spongy. Soft. He knows that the tinder pile of scars along Stephen’s lower back feel the same way. Scar tissue cushions each laceration in a meniscus of bubbly flesh. You had a birthmark removal surgery that went horribly, horribly wrong.
Good try, Stephen says. He pulls away from Mars’ hands. Mars bites his lip to keep from swearing in frustration. He watches Stephen’s chest—laced with lopsided scars that streak from Stephen’s back to below his breast—slide out of his grasp. They look like ribbons. He wonders if next time, he can thread his fingers between them and prevent Stephen from escaping.
We’ve been together two years, Mars says. Stephen dons some briefs. You’re still not going to tell me?
I’ll tell you, Stephen says, slinking back over to Mars’ side, swiping his thumb along Mars’ left eyebrow to neaten it, when your guess is right.
* * *
The Halloween party at Tanya’s promises to be full of alcohol, snacks, and crepe paper streamers. Mars doesn’t like that Tanya always reminds him of the fact that she exchanges postcards and phone calls with his sister more than he does, but Stephen is quick to point out that guilt is a poor excuse for avoiding an opportunity to get smashed.
Okay, Mars says. I’ll tell her we’re coming. But it’s a costume party. You’re going to dress up, right?
No, Stephen says.
Mars rolls his eyes. I’m not asking for a couple’s costume, he says. Unclench. What are you going to tell people when they ask what you are?
Nothing. I’ll say I came as myself.
Really? Mars stirs the instant coffee in his mug. He rearranges his costume jacket, then pops one last stud into the shoulder. You’re going to be that guy for a third year in a row?
I like odd numbers. I’ve been ‘that guy’ since long before I knew you, Stephen reminds him. He ghosts past their chipped apartment door, thumbing through their mail as he goes. Do you want me to tell them that costumes are childish instead? That real monsters don’t dress up?
Mars chokes. Hell, no.
Stephen grins in that thin, subtle way he does—the one that barely creases his mouth or touches his eyes—when he has prodded Mars for a response and received it. The razor-thin scar that stretches from his jaw to his cheekbone grins too. Mars marvels at the way it cuts through the dead center of Stephen’s lips, as if someone folded Stephen’s face in half to find that midpoint before slashing through it with a box cutter.
I didn’t think so, Stephen says.
He is kind enough to throw all of the mail away without telling Mars that his sister sent nothing, even after they glimpsed her in downtown Tuckerton last week when she should not have been home.
* * *
You were attacked by a pair of savage lampreys when your brother took you to the Great Lakes. You barely escaped.
My brother is younger than me, Mars. Stephen zips his paper bag jeans. He didn’t exist until I was six years old.
Okay, so it was another brother. Mars smooches one of Stephen’s scars. You have like, what, twelve siblings?
I did, yes. Stephen nudges Mars away from him. He yanks a slate grey turtleneck on. I’m amazed that we were probably referring to the same brother out of those twelve.
I’m not, Mars says. Out of all those siblings, you only ever talk about one of them. I can’t blame you for that. The others I met always struck me as cruel.
Night cloaks the world outside of their apartment. A pine-scented candle burns low on a bathroom counter, the gutted shell of a cranberry candle mourning next to it. Stephen’s hair is damp from showering. Mars is already dressed in his Halloween costume: a biker outfit that bristles with studs, spikes, chains, and folds of faux black leather. The light is low.
We all play favorites, Stephen says. The two black sheep of the family have to stick together. But your lamprey theory is still wrong. None of my siblings would have taken me anywhere. My family never left the state. We barely left our house. Not that my hyper-religious mother could stop all of us from going into town.
That explains a lot about you. Nothing I didn’t already know.
Like what? Stephen makes eye contact with Mars through the mirror. Their faces are a collection of candlelight orange shapes. That I’m a little unhinged?
That you’re awkward, Mars says, taking Stephen’s hand, and a little lonely. Plus, you’re a gemini.
Stephen laughs, soft. He laces their fingers.
Let’s go to the party before we get distracted.
* * *
Tanya’s place outside Tuckerton is on the edge of the forest. It’s a white-washed house sheltered by pines and mediocre hospitality. When Stephen and Mars get there, cars clutter the driveway. Twenty-somethings in costumes hang over the porch railings and chatter over pulsing music. Black and orange string lights deck the porch.
I want to be tipsy before I talk to Tanya. Or drunk, Mars says.
Don’t do that to yourself, Stephen says. You don’t have a choice in that matter anyway.
Mars pouts. Why not?
Stephen points.
Tanya glides out of the crowd, grinning, a plastic cup in hand. A wire halo floats over her river of blonde hair. A piece of fluff on her angel wings bobs in the party’s currents as she lifts a hand, yelling Mars! You’re here!
Tanya! Mars gestures, shifting planes of liar’s leather and spikes. It’s good to see you!
Volume compensates for familiarity. Mars cannot hear his own thoughts when he spews small talk. Tanya’s ankles wobble, weakened by alcohol. When she turns to wave at another friend, her angel wings bounce. One slides down her back. Stephen’s face distorts with displeasure. The scar that cleaves one of his eyebrows pinches. Stephen keeps his gaze on the wings until Tanya turns back around. His expression smooths to flat placidity.
Dude, why don’t you ever dress up? Tanya says.
Stephen shrugs. It’s not my thing. I’m not a fan of Halloween.
I know. Tanya fiddles with her sheet robe. I get it. Hey, if you or your other half want punch, it’s on the kitchen counter.
I would love that, Mars says. We’ll be right back.
He drags Stephen to the kitchen, threading through throngs of acquaintances and not-quite-friends who bid them hello. The punch bowl is a crystalline skull overflowing with dry ice smoke and scents of sherbert and liquor. Mars shovels dipper-fulls of the elixir into a plastic cup. Stephen leans against the counter.
You were giving Tanya the eye, Mars says.
Her wings are badly placed.
Mars chugs a fourth of his drink before filling his cup again. So, you suddenly care about costumes now?
No. Stephen squeezes Mars’ wrist. Tenderness fortifies his grip. Don’t drink too much too early.
I won’t.
Mars leaves Stephen to socialize with the spirits drifting around him. He finds Tanya on the porch, flirting with a pirate. It is an agonizing fifteen seconds of detached nothing before Tanya notices him, beckoning over. The pirate departs to play beer pong with a squadron of frat boy crayons. Tanya and Mars rest against the porch railing and watch tides of partygoers flow by, crashing together in waves of conversation, ebbing apart due to unseen fissures.
I don’t see you much anymore, Tanya says. Is work kicking your ass? It’s definitely kicking mine.
God, absolutely. Mars groans. I hate working retail. It’s the worst.
Tanya snorts. It always is. You and I love picking dead-end jobs, huh? Her holographic nails flutter over a hole burnt in her robe. At least one of us is succeeding. Congratulations to your sister on getting that fellowship.
What?
Mars’ hand clamps around his cup. It dents beneath his grip. Tanya’s infinity of bleached hair curves against her face when she looks at him. Judgement and broken light reflect from her white costume.
You didn’t know? she says.
No, Mars says, I knew. I knew. But he thinks of his sister gliding through town without calling him first, and all the outdated photographs and stale texts piled between them. Is it ghosting if it is mutual? Loving someone is not the same as knowing them. Mars buries his face in his cup to replace the burn in his face with a burn in his throat.
Of course, Tanya says. There’s no reason for her to tell me before you.
She pats her robe for cigarettes and avoids his eyes and Mars drinks until the emotional stitches in his tongue come loose and all the costumes at the party churn into a quilt of cheap scares and cringes. Meaningless words flow between him and Tanya. Mars recognizes people, but he does not recognize all of the couples. The friend constellations are different. Everyone is friendly but far away. Tanya breaks Mars’ thoughts with a laugh.
You were super awkward around _____ earlier. Tanya hops onto the railing. One of her criss-crossed sandal ribbons is coming undone. Stephen is rubbing off on you.
Around who? Mars fumbles his drink. The pirate?
You don’t remember _____? Mars! Tanya covers her mouth. We all bunked together in summer camp in third grade. You two fighting over who was really my best friend cracked me up. He’s the guy who used to tease Stephen before any of us knew each other.
Mars grimaces. Countless memories of camp and friendship bracelets tether them, yet the sole person from those years that has drifted closer is his boyfriend. He recalls the underfed boy in thrifted sneakers who clung to everyone and insisted on an odd string of homeschool rituals before everything. No one had ever seen Stephen or his scars before. Stephen refused to talk about them. It sent the other children into a frenzy.
So many of us were mean to Stephen, Mars says.
He remembers his sister sliding in an idea with a tray of sandwiches for him and Tanya: why not invite Stephen over? Pineys needed friends too. She insisted that Stephen’s scars resulted from birth defects. She told both of them to cease gossiping about it.
We were all kids. Kids are horrible. Tanya rearranges her bra. I’m glad we’re all on good terms now. You do have to admit that all of the Leeds family drama was addictive for a bunch of third graders. Have you ever met that brother he talks about?
Not yet, Mars says. I want to. His botany hobby sounds cool. He seems like a funny guy too, judging by all the pranks Stephen has talked about. Still, I think he’s unwell. Stephen says he’s told him about me. But… he doesn’t talk to anyone but Stephen. I don’t want to push either of them.
_____ didn’t think his brother existed, Tanya says, because we never saw them together. I didn’t think he existed either. Now I’m sure he’s just sad and mentally ill, like the rest of that family. Stephen really deserves better.
No one sees Mars with his sister anymore either. Which one of them no longer exists? It might be him. Mars pictures his sister’s labmates passing sympathetic murmurs about him behind their latex gloves. To them, he is a shallow concept that must be pitied.
Before Mars can annihilate himself with a tipsy comment, Stephen manifests. He emerges from the crowd with popcorn crumbs on his face. A half-drunk flush is there too. Mars places a hand on the railing, close to his arm. Stephen’s sweater scrapes his knuckles. Relief sutures his mouth shut.
Tanya clicks her sandals together. It looks like the cool kid is here.
The cool kid would love a cigarette, Stephen says.
Me too, dude.
Tanya fishes around her robe again. Stephen is stretching, assessing Mars, when a drunken shout bursts from the crowd.
Hey! It’s a giddy Jason Vorhees, dripping with fake blood and beer. That’s a cool costume! Just wanted to let you know.
Thanks. Mars runs a palm over his jacket. I studded it myself.
Not you, Vorhees says. He waves at Stephen. Who are you supposed to be? Those scars are sick.
Mars’ heart stops. He sees a cigarette still in Tanya’s shocked grip. After a crack of humiliation Stephen’s face is blank; unmoved. Anger tears through Mars’ worry that he is supposed to know this person.
Fuck off, Mars says. You—
He didn’t know. Stephen steals the cigarette from Tanya’s slack hold. He places it in his lips; takes the filter between his sharp teeth. His scars trail to the cigarette. He is all hard edges. Vorhees looks confused. Stephen looks to Mars.
We should go, he says.
* * *
They are too drunk to drive. That does not stop them from aping it. Mars and Stephen share the cigarette in the truck. They inch their vehicle along the road, slow, swerving, squinting into the vastness of their headlights, until they find a break in the trees to park. Pine needles whisper above as they stumble out of the truck. Even now, Stephen moves like a snake, like quicksilver being poured onto fragile ground it must test.
The gibbous moon is heavy.
Fuck that guy, Mars says, again. He crams the truck keys into his pocket. The road next to them is a desolate, sand-lined strip that arcs around the forest. Seriously.
Stephen sidles up next to Mars. He put his foot in his mouth, but he was trying to be nice. I know you’re not mad about that.
I’m one-fourth mad about that and half mad at Tanya for apologizing instead of doing anything, Mars says. She didn’t even correct him.
A barn owl cries in the trees. Moonlight spins dim connections between sand patches and undergrowth. The pitch pines—full of shadows, full of their own zephyrs and voices—are the night more than the sky is. Acorn caps crunch beneath Stephen’s feet.
That leaves another fourth of anger, he says.
Don’t make me think about fractions right now. Mars rubs his eyes. What is it with you and math?
I’m tied up in numbers, Stephen says. Answer me. Where’s the last piece of that anger at?
Again, the owl cries, its raspy hiss echoing around them. Mars crosses his arms. He looks down and mumbles a reply he himself does not hear. Stephen creeps close. He slips past the coat and presses a hungry palm against Mars’ breast. Mars inhales.
Don’t be mad at yourself, Stephen says. Let’s go for a walk.
We’re drunk, Mars says.
Stephen tugs on his hand. His face is fuller than the moon. The scars on his face glimmer. For the umpteenth time, Mars wonders where they’re from. Did Stephen fall onto a bundle of knives? Did a limping Mountain Lion rip him from his bed at night? Did an axe-wielding killer chase him until he fell down a piney embankment?
I grew up here, Stephen says. I know this place. Let’s go.
They enter the pine barrens.
* * *
One of the ancient radiators in your house got really, really hot, and when you were a kid, you tripped and fell against it. It burned your back so badly in two places that you never recovered. The scars grew with you.
You’re not even looking at my scars right now, Stephen says, bemused. This is against our rules. He lets Mars rest his chin on his collar for a moment before pulling away. But that guess is closer than the others.
Wait, really? Mars stumbles to move faster. Stephen lopes over the sandy trail in front of them. When they started dating, they walked for miles and miles around towns and trails, aimless, talking about anything and everything. Work has made that hard nowadays. Mars’ heart throbs with nostalgia, but it is difficult to keep up with Stephen.
Cauterization is a controlled type of burn.
Mars starts. Pebbles clatter against his boots. What kind of wound were they cauterizing? What happened?
No more hints, Stephen says.
Mars bends, scoops up a pinecone, and hurls it. He hears it crash through into the brush fifteen feet away. He cannot see it. The main road is far behind them now. Crooked wooden trail markers point into the depths. A river is running somewhere but they cannot see it. Night ensnares everything. The scent of sap gums up Mars’ nose.
The summer crickets have muted themselves. Mars grew up hearing them, but he does not know if he would recognize them now either.
I’m tired of this shit, he says.
Of what? Walking or our game?
Stephen is pieces of a human body shimmering through the murk. An abstract thing.
Yes, but no, Mars says. I’m tired of everything. He jams his hands into his pockets. I never stopped seeing anyone at the party, or stopped talking to them, but it feels like I don’t know them now. They say things when I see them at work and I just don’t get it. None of us are backing away from each other, but we’re just—standing on two sides of a fault line as the earth splits and watching a canyon open up. I don’t relate to anyone here anymore. Maybe that’s why my sister left, and why we don’t talk. She doesn’t relate to me anymore either. Jesus. I hate it.
His sister is off at grad school pipetting samples and popping bottles over a fellowship. Mars pictures her depositing unwanted memories of raising him into one gel block after another. Sharing happiness with him must feel more like surrendering herself. He slows. Stephen slows too.
I want to leave this place, Mars says.
What’s stopping you?
You.
Stephen’s laugh is ugly. It is a nocturnal call of its own. His pupils hold a ray of moonlight for too long. He looks into the forest with contempt. Burnt branches pass underfoot with the shadows.
If you can get out of here, he says, you should. I’m tired of this place too. But like I’ve said before, I can’t leave.
Because of your brother.
Yeah. The others don’t care about me. But my brother would hate me leaving, Stephen says. We're estranged, but it would devastate him if I left. It's the principle of the thing. It means finally admitting we've grown apart. Like if we don't talk about the candles going out, it's not happening. You get that, right?
Uh-huh, Mars says.
We rarely talk anymore, but he needs someone. Stephen runs his hand through his hair. I know he's self-isolating. He’s paranoid. I'm the only one of our living siblings who acknowledges him. He never gets the love he wants. If I leave, he'll disappear into himself, and then that’s on my conscience. As if it’s my damn fault.
They step foot onto burnt ground. There is a break in the trees. Sand and ash spiral outward before them. The field is black. Sharp tree stumps litter its expanse, broken and split. Pillows of slumbering cinder caress their roots.
Stephen, Mars says. Maybe your relationship with your brother isn't healthy. You shouldn’t feel responsible for him.
No shit. Stephen sighs. No. It’s fine. I’m fine. I love my brother. But he’s needy. He has a temper. He’s a lot to handle sometimes. Stephen rubs the bridge of his nose, looking away from Mars. ...last week, he told me he wanted to meet you. I don’t know if you’re ready for that.
Mars reaches out to grip Stephen’s shoulder before he melds with the pine shadows and drifts away. Wind shakes the trees far behind them. Stephen’s arm is hard but comforting; his gaze is wary but laden with love. Mars tries not to ponder if his sister has found anyone. She would not tell him. She barely knows about Stephen.
I would love that, Mars says, whenever he’s ready. Stephen, let me help you. All three of us can figure something out together. I won’t leave either of you here. I promise.
Promises often turn to nooses. I don’t want you to resent me for trapping you here. Stephen’s hand ghosts over Mars’. Trepidation restrains his touch. I don’t want you to resent my brother for that either.
You’re not trapping me here. This is my choice.
Is it?
It is. Mars runs his thumb along Stephen’s collarbone. I won’t resent either of you. You’re not a curse, Stephen.
Surprise floods Stephen’s face. Gratitude follows guilt. He covers Mars’ hand before kissing him, breath honed with liquor and that serpentine taste Mars can never place. Drunken desperation parts their mouths. Before Mars can delve into their contact, Stephen disengages. He keeps hold of Mars’ hand.
I want to show you something, he says.
* * *
The cabin is depressed, dilapidated, and crisped. Its hard angles bow while its walls crumble. It beholds the razed field in front of it, knowing that ash is its future. Unlike the pitch pines, it will put forth no new sprouts, even if the mushrooms feast on its corpse. Mars hangs back from the doorframe. Looking at this place makes him feel a ruler crack across his knuckles.
Stephen leans in. He braces his hands on the doorframe, exhaling. An invisible weight crushes his back. Here, he is reigned in.
You grew up here, Mars says, disbelief still fogging his brain. I knew you said that your house was small, and your mom was a traditional fanatic of some sort, but I didn’t know it was—how did all fourteen of you live here?
Not all of us lived here, Stephen says, even if most of us did. It was tight. I can say that much.
Mars looks over his shoulder into the cabin. Moonlight creeps through the window, illuminating the interior. No one has stayed here for years. Broken bottles carpet the floor. Graffiti sprawls over the walls. A scorched Bible jacket withers on the floor. Everything is stagnant. A soot-choked chimney pierces the ceiling to the right. It is an open, gaping hole, a door to nowhere. Its cobbles are bleak scales. A giant poker hangs on the fireplace. Mars shifts his gaze to the nearest wall.
Scars cut the wood deeply. They are random, thin slashes that pepper the space around the chimney. Stephen’s breathing is even with effort. He is staring straight ahead, ignoring the right side of the house. Mars does not dare touch him to reassure him.
What happened to the walls? he says.
Stephen’s gaze strays to the scarred wood. He avoids looking at the poker.
My brother. Stephen’s hands are clamped around the doorframe.
In Mars’ mind, the roads of scar tissue along Stephen’s torso align with the scarred walls. They form a magic eye image painted with suffering. A void fills Mars before rage and horror follows it, stealing his voice.
Are the scars on Stephen’s face from hurled silverware? Did hands smaller than his pick up a switch and beat his lower back raw? The poker on the wall possibly found a past home on Stephen’s shoulders. Nothing makes sense but the horror of it all. Stephen’s brother was a baby when Stephen received his scars. He could not have done this.
Mars wonders if Stephen’s mother or now absent older siblings did this instead. If they did, Stephen is not accusing them of such. Mars’ teeth sheer into his lip. He considers the best way forward. Stephen needs him.
Let’s get out of here, Mars says, finally. This cabin isn’t stable.
No. It isn’t. Stephen releases the doorframe. Splinters stick up from the indents where he gripped it. He turns his back on the cabin.
Under the gibbous moon, they admire the field and forest, choosing which black plane to approach.
* * *
Stephen.
What?
Stephen’s whisper is hot against his ear. Mars gathers the courage to speak. Their hands join. Stephen’s head rests on Mars’ collar. The music the forest makes possesses no rhythm and leaves no trace beyond the chill bumps on their skin, but they are waltzing in the field to it as the last of their drunkenness leaves them.
Plumes of ash waft around their sneakers. Their figures are the color of the exposed wood and charred bark of the many trees around them. Mars knows he is about to ruin their aimless pirouetting.
I have another guess about your scars, Mars says. Not your shoulder ones. All the rest.
Do you, now?
Stephen’s nails drag against his scalp. The hard undersides to his jacket studs press into his skin beneath the weight of Stephen draped across him. Mars lets them spin another languid circle together.
You said your brother has a temper, he says. He pretends the timeline makes sense. How much of one?
That’s not a guess. Teeth graze Mars’ neck. He’s hotheaded. It was much worse when he was younger. He’s matured.
Did he hurt you?
The truth lies within here somewhere. Stephen withdraws to look Mars in the face. He cards Mars’ hair between his fingers. Stephen’s pupils are thin; focused. Mars cannot swallow. He does not know if it is spiked punch or moonlight toying with his perception, but it is still Stephen’s face looking at him. Mars knows this studious expression well.
It was an accident, Stephen says. He was scared. He was isolated and confused; he didn’t know his strength. He was a literal child who has learned to be gentle since then. I’ve forgiven him.
Those scars don’t look accidental. Most children don’t hurt their siblings like that, Mars says. He sees a map of Stephen’s scars every time he blinks.
Most children don’t have a mother that calls them unholy, Stephen says.
Oh.
Mars squeezes his eyes shut. Stephen draws him close, slowly. It is a movement that kills questions. There is wind in the distance, but it does not sound like wind. It is buffets of it. Wind pressed beneath leathery wings.
My mother thought I was unholy too, Stephen whispers.
* * *
The distant shriek is piercing. Lonesome. It tears the fine clouds apart without touching them. When Mars hears it, he is back in summer camp, a child huddled beneath a patchy blanket post a round of campfire stories.
Jesus, Mars says. Was that a mountain lion?
I don’t think so, Stephen replies, unmoved.
His tranquility sets Mars on edge. This is bad. They are in the middle of the field. Stephen is tucked beneath Mars’ arm. The cabin watches them from the sidelines, occasionally spitting bats from its orifices. All of the tree stumps are stakes pointing skyward. They accuse the heavens of an unknown crime. Mars’ costume has him sweating.
We should go, Mars says.
Stephen locks his arm around Mars’ waist. His fingertips are cool dots that prick Mars’ lower belly. He’s not going to hurt us. Mars, he says, I need you to listen to me. Our game is ending.
Now isn’t the time, Stephen! I don’t care about our game right now!
There is another shriek. It is closer. It is a sonic knife tip being dragged up Mars’ back. Mars jumps. He sets out, stride quick, but Stephen digs his feet in. For being so skinny, he is strong. A frustrated noise rips from Mars’ lungs.
Stephen! I’m serious!
So am I!
Around them, the pitch pines and oaks murmur. Mars hears the wingbeats now. The forest behind the cabin bends under them. They are soft thunder. Mars’ blood is hot and his face is frigid. Pinecones scatter as he and Stephen grapple, ending up intertwined. Stephen cups Mars’ face, trembling. Their foreheads almost touch, their mouths almost brush. Stephen’s pupils are slits.
Mars, he says. Mars. Do you trust me?
Fuck, Stephen!
Answer me.
The pines are birthing a shadow. It lifts above the horizon, an abstract mix of vast triangles and lines. It resembles a broken tree.
Yes! I trust you! Is that what you want to hear? Mars finds himself quivering too.
Then listen to me. Stephen kisses the edge of his mouth. His shaky hands rove to Mars’ lapels. Don’t run. He’s not going to hurt you. I promise. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.
What are you talking about?!
A scream splits the sky. It is the sound of a pig being skinned alive, or a cat being eviscerated. Mars is frozen: immobile as his blood sublimates with fear. Stephen, calm, looks up. Mars does too. When the immense shadow crosses the moon, he screams.
Don’t run! Stephen grabs at him.
We have to go! We have to go! Mars yanks on his boyfriend’s arm. The shadow is turning. It releases another scream. Stephen stumbles but does not sprint. Mars curses. Involuntary tears streak down his face.
What the hell is that? he says.
My brother.
No lie shows in Stephen’s face. His curls shroud the scar on his brow. Heartbreak and confidence keep his back straight. He is one desolate pinprick in this moonlit charcoal expanse among many. This is his home. Mars wants to vanish.
You’re insane. Mars backs away, prying Stephen’s grip from his jacket. Stephen’s face is pained.
We can’t all be sixth children born on sixes, Stephen says, as wretched as that is. Some of us have to be the thirteenth. Mars shakes his head, stumbling back. Ash stretches between them. A root catches Mars’ boot. The world spins. He sprawls on the ground, trembling. Dirt sticks to his palms as he crawls backwards.
The shadow descends, unfurling an unholy menagerie of shapes. A whip tail. A long face. Crescent hooves. Four-inch claws that tip knobbly, lithe arms. Thickets of scales. Horse legs. Moon-catching, intelligent eyes—the twin pair to Stephen’s—fixate on Mars as the shadow lands, and when it bows behind Stephen, stretching its wings, they are briefly Stephen’s too.
Please, Mars. Stephen is raspy. Desperate. I love you. I’ve told him so much about you. Don’t leave. He just wants to meet you.
Mars’ larynx is sand. He wipes his face, staggering to his feet. Stephen’s brother makes a discordant selection of distressed noises. Stephen hugs him, muttering into his goat-like ear. Their embrace lasts ages. The more Mars looks at the brother, the more chimeric he appears. All of Mars’ guesses about Stephen’s scars—his musings on surgery, on molten metal, on Mountain Lions, on murder—die at the feet of this towering demon. Mother Leeds seared away Stephen’s wings, but that matters so little now. The youngest Leeds eclipses her. Mars stiffens when Stephen pulls away from his brother and looks him dead in the eye.
Are you going to introduce yourself? Stephen says.
It is the first time Mars has heard a wobble in his voice. It is fear, but fear of mundane loss. Mars knows it. There is something recognizable here, in this field of emptiness. The Leeds brothers wait, the younger sibling skeptical, the older petrified. They stand together the same way Mars and his sister did for the first photograph in ages: unsure. Attempting reunion.
Stephen extends his hand. In a lab somewhere, Mars’ sister is marveling at her own fields of agarose gel, making notes on barren tissue that will grow no more. Here, in the barrens themselves, second chances and saplings spring from destruction.
Mars glacially, hesitantly, takes a step forward.
Samir Sirk Morató (they/them) is a scientist and an artist. They would love to camp in the Pine Barrens one day. Some of Samir’s work can be found in The Hellebore Issue #5, Color Bloq’s RED collection, and The Sandy River Review 2020 edition. Their Twitter is @bolivibird; their instagram is @spicycloaca.