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blood-soaked, walking corpse girl.

October 14 th , Last Year
     
     
    I remember my brother as a skeleton. My lasting memory of him is as a corpse.
    Ally’s thirteenth birthday was a costume party. After months of vying for her attention, we got the invitation. We showed up drunk after sneaking shots of whiskey from our dad’s liquor cabinet. We thought it would help us be comfortable.
    He was a skeleton. I was a zombie. Twin deadites. We scared Ally’s sensitive friends when we arrived. Some of them were dressed as fairies and Disney characters. Princesses before teenage years turned their costumes slutty.
    Ally was not a princess; she was a ghoul. Face painted white and black around the eyes. She wore a black Spandex suit decorated with bones. The princesses were scared of her celebration of death. Brian and I were in love.
    I was also jealous. Two skeletons made a lovely pair.
    Still muddled from the alcohol, we said hi to the dead girl. It was the first time we spoke to her. We were trying not to slur our words.
    When we all paired off during a game, Ally picked Brian. She picked her skeleton mate. I was stuck with a fat fairy.
    When it’s your birthday, you’re allowed one birthday wish. I stole Ally’s: I wished for Brian to go away.
    A couple weeks later, I got my wish.
    It’s funny how a girl can change things.

Brock
     
     
    The sun’s about to set and my dog hasn’t come home. I shake his food bag and whistle. Only my echo responds, sounding weak and scared upon its return.
    I wait until dusk to sneak out through my window. For the past year, the town of Silver Creek has enforced a bullshit curfew: no kids on the street after sundown. They’re turning us into reverse vampires.
    Immediately after Brian disappeared, my parents were strict about keeping me in their sight at all times. As time passed, however, they’ve become more distant and less attentive. Still, it’s not like I can just strut out the front door as the sun’s going down.
    A trio of matching children screeches by on tricycles, racing to get home before sundown. A speeding driver nearly hits them. I think of the advantages of having speed bumps in my neighborhood, but after a few steps, I don’t really care. A breeze starts up, rustling fresh grass cuttings around my feet. The sun has set, and there’s no more orange hue; everything’s gray. Behind me, one of the tricycle kids screams. I stay focused on finding Brock.
    I step in some remnants of fake blood from earlier today. The blood has dried into a crystallized candy-slick. I’m thankful that it doesn’t get on my new school shoes.
    An owl hoots overhead, comical and ominous at the same time.
    When Brock runs away, I find him in the usual places: terrorizing Old Hilborn’s cats or down by the drainage pipe near the creek. I walk by Hilborn’s place, and he’s sitting on the porch, all three cats secured on his lap. Instead of loose and saggy, old age has pulled the skin on his face tighter around the eyes and mouth, exposing black-rimmed teeth.
    He’s a living corpse.
    He brightens up when he sees me walking past, and his faded eyes open wide. He beckons me near his porch.
    “Finally, God willing! I’m covered in pussy!” He cackles at his joke, his laughter deteriorating into a hacking fit. He holds two cats over his head in a callous “Y.” Dangling from the scruffs of their necks, the cats look more annoyed than pained. I walk faster. Hilborn mumbles the pussy joke to himself and laughs again.
    The wind kicks up, and I zip my black hoodie. Down by the stream, the wetlands grass grows above my head and dry enough not to upset my allergies, which I’m thankful for as I crash my way through it. I leave a crushed trail so that I can find my way back.
    Or so someone can find you .
    I quickly push the sinister thought away.
    I enter a clearing, surrounded by grass and a concrete wall that supports a drainage pipe. A small trickle empties into the stream.
    I see my dog.
    A