Nothing, Except
by Sierra Franschman
My brother was terrible at spinning stories.
Alika would stumble on the words, and he always forgot something about the story halfway through the telling of it. He mumbled, and he never looked at me when he spoke. But his stories always had dragons, princesses, and magic. Most importantly, all his stories had happy endings, sometimes for the monsters who were chased through them.
I was six years old, and I never noticed that in his stories, nothing bad ever happened to the knights and princesses. Only to the monsters.
Monsters like us.
Birdsong rang through the trees as we walked, and Alika sang Doris Day. “Dream a Little Dream of Me”. Over the shoulder of the valley, trucks roared past, and he fell silent until they were gone.
Doris Day’s melody was starlight and love. But his voice was smoke and fire. He changed the lyrics into frightening, twisted things.
Every song he sang was a lesson; every story was a warning. They told me that no-where was safe, and that he loved me. That I could always trust him, only trust him. That we had nothing, except each other.
I believed him, heart and soul.
Sometimes, I would ask him why they hated us. And he always said they didn’t. He said they’d done a bad thing, an awful thing, and we hate them now. We hate more than any-one. It makes us strong, he said. He never stumbled on those words.
I would go quiet, and soft. I would ask him if he would ever hate me. And Alika always said he would never.
He’d get the look on his face that meant he was going to make himself laugh, and he’d say he couldn’t hate me. He’d say that if he could, he would have by now. And he would laugh, because he made jokes like that.
I’d say I didn’t hate him either, and a rare smile would dimple his cheeks. I was his little sister, more than a decade younger than him. I was his responsibility. He worried enough for any parents we could’ve had. But we didn’t have any—
-- Hurt --
Sometimes, in winter, we’d go to a city, to gather supplies. But I was never allowed to enter them. Alika’d disappear into the steel-bright heart of the city, and return with food or clothes. I never asked him what he did, but I’d see him hide something gray-black and metal out of sight. Something with a trigger, and death hidden in its muzzle.
I asked him why he had it, and he told me a story about monsters, knights, and princesses. It had a happy ending, but not for the monsters. Not for the monsters like him. He wouldn’t allow himself to have a happy ending.
I stumbled as we walked. My boots were too big, and I was constantly tripping. My brother caught my arm, steadying me. He was abruptly silent, and still. He didn’t let go, and I knew something was wrong. One hand hovered near his waistband, where the metal thing nestled. His eyes were black, black, black, and they wouldn’t meet mine.
Suddenly, amongst the birdsong and crickets, I heard it, from the road. No tell-tale roar of the engine, no burnt-rubber smell. Just the soft crunch of gravel beneath slow-moving tires, and silence pregnant with expectation and—
-- Fear. Silence and fear, Alik hurt, Alika --
I stifled the scream clawing up my throat at the memory. My brother placed a finger against his lips.
Hunters.
We stood, in the golden dappling of light, as white-winged butterflies flitted about, and robins sang above us. Everything was beau-tiful, and terrifying.
The shadow of the silent Hunters vanished from the leaves by the road.
Alika turned away. I sank to the ground, tears blurring my vision. He ran his hands through his hair, one after the other, and swore. I choked a little. He never swore.
Alika saw me amongst the clover and dewy flowers, his eyes black as coals. He knelt, pushing tears and hair away from my face.
“It’s okay, Leilani,” he whispered. “They’re gone. Everything’s okay now.”
I cried into his shoulder.
The sky darkened into nighttime. We rested on a small plateau of dirt and tree roots on the wall of the valley. It smelled of growing things, and the wind rustled the emerald-glazed leaves. We sat with our backs against trees in the darkness. He sang a lullaby of daydreams and happiness, in his fire-smoke honey voice.
I knew the happiness in his song wasn’t real. I could tell he didn’t mean it, that something was wrong. When I closed my eyes, he stopped singing. I heard him rise and take two steps. I asked him where he was going, rubbing my eyes with my knuckles.
“Nowhere,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
“Don’t go. Not right now.” I was afraid, and it was dark, and he always protected me.
He was all shadows. “Leilani, go to sleep.” Though he hid it, I could tell there was something amiss.
“Are you getting bad again?” I asked, quiet as a mouse.
He said nothing, and walked away.
I bit my lip, tears sliding down my face. He wasn’t supposed to be like that, wasn’t supposed to be hurt any—
-- More. Blood and tears. Shouts, banging, clanging and silence. Silence
silence silence. Alika, always there for me. Home, rended and bloodied,
Alika hurt –
I didn’t like to remember.
They’d done a bad thing. And we hated them. We hated more than anybody.
I huddled under my jacket, listening to Alika’s footsteps. I fell asleep trying to stoke the flame of our hate to keep me warm.
The next day, Alika had gotten so bad that we had to go go go, move on out. As we travelled through the valley, the sadness slunk away from Alika. He always had to move when he got bad. Staying anywhere too long made him remember, and remembering made him sad.
I picked a flower, and he wove it clumsily into my hair. He cooked our lunch. He looked into his backpack at our shrinking supply of food and frowned, but he said nothing. He carried my meager possessions. I rode on his shoulders when I got tired, and he even laughed once or—
--Television static and radio noise. Alika never used to laugh. Rich house,
home but not really. Empty, so empty. Alika was so empty all the time. Doris
Day on the radio. Crooning, antiseptic and bandages. Dream a little
dream of me, perhaps perhaps perhaps. Alika’s eyes closed won’t open won’t --
I fell, screaming. I always tried so hard not to remember. Alika kneeled in the wet grass, murmuring nothings, stroking my hair. Calm hurt calm hurt; I was ripping in two.
“Hush, Leilani. I’m fine. Look at me. Please stop screaming. Leilani, listen to me.”
He held my face with his hands, forcing me to look at his eyes. So serious, so dark. My tears ran over his fingers, quicksilver.
“Leilani. You need to be quiet now.”
Suddenly, I was. The world was quiet, and he was in it.
He was in it. Black hair, and a crooked nose; a serious mouth and too-big hands. My brother. My family. I had nothing, except him.
I threw my arms around him. But imme-diately, I knew.
Hunters’ sirens fractured the world into blue-red flashes.
“Run,” he whispered.
I lurched away into the trees of the valley, fear lodged in my throat. I tripped and fell—always those boots. I scrambled to rise, the wet earth sucking at me.
Alika yanked me up by the collar of my too-big jacket, and we ran. Shots from Alika’s gun rang through the night. I stifled a scream for every shot. Bang bang bang, his face lit by the blue flashes. I collapsed, sirens wailing—
-- Alika was sad, but he never cried. We had a big empty house, a chest
of shining toys, pretty clothes and a family, but he wasn’t happy. He didn’t
hide the misery, but we didn’t see. And then Daddy saw and didn’t
understand. Couldn’t be frustrated without being angry. Daddy screamed
and shouted and whispered, doing hurtful things with closed hands.
The knight was a monster, plot twist. Depression isn’t perfect. We were
supposed to be perfect. Mommy’s Doris Day on the radio, to drown it
all out. Soothing, crooning. Don’t worry, sweetie. One day Alika will
understand. Ignore it. Forget it. Black eyes closed and nose bleeding and
childhood shattered, broken, gone. Alika had been dead dead dead --
The memories always found me. I didn’t like to remember.
I listened, with my eyes closed. Silence.
It’d never been quiet, when we’d been travelling. Crickets, bats, and birds. Gunshots. But now, silence. Silence and the soft beeping of machines.
I opened my eyes to see a Hunter, beside my bed. He was asleep, sitting up. My blankets were scratchy. The Hunter had wrapped me in these blankets so I wouldn’t get cold. I remembered that, from yesterday. In between the fear and screaming, and losing Alika again and again, there’d been this man, and blankets.
The Hunter wore a badge, worn shoes, and a dark blue uniform. The room was all pale tile and fluorescent lights. It smelled too clean.
There was no window, but I knew anyway. I was in a city, like the ones where Alika the Monster came out. Like the one we’d had a home in—
-- The home his heart had stopped in. So much dread, I’d been so alone.
My small hands over his heart, feeling nothing nothing nothing…
…Then everything. I remembered quick, unsteady heartbeats under
my fingertips. That home, that city. The one he’d taken my hand in,
lying on the floor all bruised. He’d asked me in a croaking, bloodied
voice to run with him, run away. This city, like the one where I’d said
yes yes yes.--
I sat crisscross applesauce, and watched the sleeping Hunter. He had stubble and a weak chin, and hadn’t showered in a while. He was slouching in his chair, his face loose and relaxed. He wore a gold band around his ring finger. A much-tattered friendship bracelet encircled his wrist.
I wasn’t afraid. Alika always came back for me. Always.
The Hunter sat forward, rubbing his eyes.
“Hey, kid,” he said, low and slow. “Don’t be afraid. You’re not in trouble. Your brother can’t find you. You’re safe now.” He smiled at me, with his wide mouth and weak chin.
I stared, my eyes black as Alika’s. I heard footsteps, and I was afraid, then. I did not scream.
Two people stood in the doorway. They were sleek and refined, the woman’s hair pulled into a handsome updo, the man’s suit perfectly tailored. His black-jeweled cufflinks shone. Her blouse and jacket were straight from the runway. They were perfect monsters, and good at hiding it. I did not scream.
We were perfect. We did not scream.
“Leilani,” she said, her rose-petal lips forming my name crisply and evenly. Not how Alika said it, slurring the middle bit. Not like Alika at all, with his old Walmart jacket and his small smiles.
I did not scream. We were perfect, perfect.
Everything was wrong. My world spun.
The three of them wanted me to tell them where Alika was. They wanted something they said was justice, but I didn’t think it was. The room spun. I needed him.
I nodded, overwhelmed, their words reduced to incoherent babble. I did not open my mouth because if I did, I would scream and the world was too fragile.
Perfect, perfect. We were perfect.
The borrowed refrain schooled my actions into puppet-like docility. The man and the woman took my hands, one each. We left that room, that building. The man stared down anyone who got in our way, and they were soon out of it again. He had power and money, and everyone was afraid of him. Everyone.
The blue H on the facade loomed above as we walked through the parking lot. A sleek limo idled by the curb. My hand disappeared into the man’s huge one. He smelled like aftershave and dry rot. The woman was asking me if I wanted to go home.
The sky was bruised the dark-purple of a black eye, the sun limping into the day. A lonely wind blew past. I tripped over my boots.
“Leilani, answer me,” she said. Lay-lawn-ee, she said my name. Not Alika’s Le-lannie. Not Alika at all. Only the eyes. The black eyes, all bruised like the morning.
“He isn’t bad,” I whispered, though my tongue felt thick, my ears rang, and my lips felt broken with the un-rightness of everything. “He’s hurt. You hurt him. You did a bad thing, Daddy.”
I stopped walking. “And—we hide. And hate. We’re not—” I took a breath. Held it. “Mommy, your home isn’t my home. Anymore.”
We’re all perfect, monsters.
The man swore, but he always swore. He’d never touched me, only everyone else. I looked up into her painted face, the painted sky. Everything was flat and starved. Fragile.
I took another breath. These would be words of war, my words. But the war was mine, and we were all perfect monsters in a storybook anyway.
I just wanted a happy ending.
“I want Alika.”
War words.
My father’s eyes went narrow and angry. He spun, and hit me across the face. My mother looked up-up-up, and I fell down-down-down. He kicked me once, twice.
I did not get up.
He shouted. How ungrateful I was, we were supposed to be perfect, how could he have two children who were such disappointments. My mother was humming a soft, low song under her breath. Doris Day. Her eyes looked broken.
He heaved two bestial breaths, and I knew he was going to kill me. I curled into myself, and waited.
He looked down at me, the only one he’d never hurt.
Something inside him slumped, and he turned, slowly, and walked away. My mother stumbled after, saying things, pleading with him. The music was gone.
Their sounds were lost in the wind.
The pavement beneath my forehead was my entire world, for an eternity. My nose bled, and there was a cut in my lip. I listened to my breathing.
Someone took my shoulder and turned me over so I faced the sky. Alika was there, alone. Looking down on me. Blood filled my mouth, running the wrong way up my nose. My eyes watered.
He told me I could stop screaming, though my voice had long since faded into a rasp. He had dirt on his face, blood on his lip, and far-away daytime stars haloing his head. He scooped me into his arms and carried me away.
Not perfect, I told him. We’re not perfect, Alika. Not not not.
He smiled one of his small, sad smiles, and kissed me on the forehead.
Hush, Le-lannie.