Brother Again

by Manasvini Krishna

ometimes, ghosts are more real than people. I cannot write my perfect, beautiful, perfect brother out of my system. His laughter sounds in Mama's daydreams, laced with dancing froth. For half a second, she wishes it were I--the fat, dark, nerd cradling his social anxiety--who was dead in his place. The thought creeps slyly out of her eyes, and then she blinks it away and we both smile at each other.

Blood is thicker than water. I need to bleed, to prick myself and see red bubbles and feel his presence in me. I want the bastard gone. I need to be exorcised.