SISTER EATS BROTHER

2

Running footsteps thunder through the house as the sound of my kids' laughing voices come closer. Jacob and Clara. They zoom by my open door, and zoom back, chasing each other with obnoxiously loud glee. Our dog and cat, Johnny and Banana, follow them, claws scratching against the wooden floor, barking and meowing.

Where the hell does that kind of energy even come from?

    Their screams grow higher pitched by the second. My eye twitches as I prop my elbows on the desk, ruffling my fingers through my hair as I glare forward at the dark screen of my computer. First the news about Adam, now this shit.

    "Give it back, Jacob, give it back!" Clara screeches.

    Jacob just laughs at her. And Clara screams again.

"I'm busy, settle down!" I shout, stretching my neck to see out the doorway.

    The stomping stops. The screaming stops. And...silence. Slowly, the muted footsteps of the kids grow closer. They glance at me sheepishly as they walk back by my door toward the staircase. Jacob is holding one of Clara's stuffed animals in his hand and Clara is angrily reaching out for it, her lips stretched in a tight line.

    "Give it back," I snap at him.

    He jumps slightly, eyes widening, and drops the stuffed animal on the floor. Clara snatches it up with a smug smile on her face, then leans her head through my door. I have a strict no children policy for my office, with a piece of blue tape stretching along the floor in the doorway. Her feet press against the tape, toes fully passing over it, breaking the rule. I stare, swallowing down my annoyance.

    She's just a kid. Just a kid, just a kid...

    "You're not busy, you're playing video games!" Clara says, pointing at my computer.

    I ignore her outburst, rubbing my eyes with my hands. "Go play downstairs. Quietly," I say, exhaustion creeping into my voice.

    "Sorry, dad," Jacob says, the smile gone from his face.

    "It's fine," I reply, opening my eyes to look at him. But he's already headed downstairs, following after Clara's humming voice. Clara's easy. She rarely gets upset in response to my bad moods, but Jacob is different. He always looks so glum when I address him, whether I'm angry with him or not.

What for? I don't get it. It's not like I'm beating him with a stick or anything.

    I sigh and push myself to my feet, wincing as my stiff joints stretch and pop. Getting old... I walk out into the hallway, hearing the oven beep and pots clatter down in the kitchen, the kids tromping around in their rooms now. My socks pad against the floor as I move, and my eyes are drawn to the pictures hanging on the walls.

    Traditional family pictures. Everyone has them, right? I see Anastasia and I on our wedding day in one of the frames, from nine years ago. She was one month pregnant with Jacob then. Then there's the pictures of the kids when they were born, and as they've grown. Family pictures every other year. Extended family. Cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents.

    And our most recent family picture, three years ago. That was a horrible day for me. The kids were rioting, Anastasia was angry at me for yelling at the kids, and then I yelled at her, then at the kids again to shut them up when they got louder in response to my yelling. They were screaming and running around like tiny little Tasmanian devils, chasing each other and having a good time, squirming out of my arms when I picked them up...and Anastasia was already pissed at me for forgetting our wedding anniversary date.

She hates it when I yell at them. But I can't seem to help it sometimes.

    I look away, my eye twitching in irritation at the memories. My gaze lands on a picture of my parents. An old grainy photo, taken two decades ago. When they were still alive. Neither of them are smiling, and they're touching each other the least amount possible. The photographer probably had to make my dad put his hand on mom's shoulder.

"Good grief," I mutter, shaking my head. Then, to the side, I see the family picture of me, Adam, and our parents. It was taken a few months before Adam ran away. She and I are leaning into each other. She's got a vulpine grin on her face, and her hand is looped through my arm. Mom stands behind Adam, a blank look in her eyes, touching no one. My dad's hand rests heavily on my shoulder. I'm less smiling, more baring my teeth in that photo, and the shoulder that my dad's hand is on slumps with the weight of it.

I turn away, swallowing down the emotions that threaten to spill over, blinking furiously. I hate looking at that picture, but it stays up.

Because Anastasia loves it.