That night, standing in the darkness and looking down at my brother in his bed, I didn’t do it. I didn’t try to kill him. I didn’t even touch him. I just stood over him, watching him sleep for a time, and the pieces of the plan simply fell into place. I remembered that day I tripped him. The day I hit Carter with that stick. The police. The funeral. Our neighbors. And I knew exactly what I was going to do.
It took effort, but I pulled my attention off my sleeping brother. But I didn’t leave his room. Not right away. Instead, I moved to the far corner, where I knew he kept his lacrosse equipment. As my fingers wrapped around his crosse, I thought about what my father had said at dinner. I pictured him in the stands, feeding on the sympathetic glances and the words of condolence from all the other parents like some parasitic vampire.
I pulled the stick out of his nylon bag without making a sound. With it in hand, I snuck out of his room and down the stairs. I eased the front door open. The cold night air cut through the white T-shirt I wore to sleep. It probably glowed under the moon but I guess I didn’t really care. Or maybe I wanted to get caught. I just don’t know.
Like a ghost, I moved through the night. I wandered down the street, looking at the dark windows of our neighbors. I imagined them waking up in the morning, having breakfast together. Talking about their days. Sharing their triumphs and fears.
As I passed each house, I stopped feeling like the specter and felt more and more like the haunted. These lives that surrounded me hurt. They seemed so perfect. So blessed compared to mine. They scraped and clawed at me every day, every smiling face, every loving hug, every look of pity. I just needed it to stop.
Up ahead, the biggest house in the neighborhood rose at the top of a steep, perfectly manicured slope. I knew that the Clarksons lived there. Their boys, Eric and Billy, were star athletes. Presidents of their classes. Their father a successful lawyer. And their mother, Mrs. Clarkson, the biggest busybody in the neighborhood.
Eric’s new car, a blue BMW, sat parked against the curb. He’d just gotten it when Hopkins offered him a free ride to play lacrosse. He was my brother’s rival in all things. So I smiled as I reared back and swung the lacrosse stick at the driver’s-side window. It struck the glass and bounced off, barely leaving a scratch. I lashed out, slamming the stick into the glass over and over again. My mouth opened and I let out a howl like nothing I had heard before. I just kept swinging and swinging, harder and harder. I turned the stick and used the end. When the window finally shattered, I fell forward, my shoulder slamming into the frame. Beads of glass rained down to the pavement and I started to laugh. I couldn’t stop. My entire body shook as the sound just crashed out of my chest, filling the night air.
The car alarm shrieked to life, harmonizing with my manic laughter. I felt so high. So invincible as I left the stick in the front seat and sprinted all the way home.