"Mom! Selphur brought a dead bird into the house!" Screamed 14-year-old Miah as she bolted out of her 12-year-old brother’s room and into the kitchen, where their mother was preparing dinner.
Moments later, Selphur appeared, cradling something in his hands. "It’s not dead! I’m going to fix its wing—it’s just broken," He said, holding out the small bird wrapped gently in gauze. "See? It’s still breathing..."
Their mother, Arina, glanced down at the fragile creature, her expression unmoved. "It’s going to die before you can help it. There’s no use pretending it has a chance," she said coldly. "Put that thing outside. I don’t want it near the food."
"But—" Selphur began to protest.
"No buts," Arina snapped.
As Selphur looked at his mother, he couldn’t help but notice how much she and Miah were alike—in both attitude and appearance. The same sharp blue eyes, matching blonde hair, and that unmistakable air of superiority. They were practically mirror images, cut from the same cold, unyielding cloth.
Cursing under his breath, Selphur stormed outside and tossed the bird away, too frustrated to care anymore. "Why does no one ever believe I can help?" He muttered to himself as he trudged back to his room.
Once inside, he dropped onto his bed, only then noticing the blood smeared across his hands. Too angry to make the trip to the guest bathroom, he wiped them on his jeans instead—dark streaks staining the black fabric across his thighs.
Selphur opened his desk drawer and pulled out a book titled All the Facts: Chemistry. His mother had always pushed him toward college or university, proud of his above-average grades. Miah, on the other hand, was rarely expected to amount to more than a waitress, with D’s in nearly every subject.
Selphur had always dreamed of becoming a scientist, but his mother insisted on a more “respectable” path—a doctor. Not wanting to disappoint her, he made sure to study both his medical textbooks and his secret stash of chemistry books for at least an hour every day.
He opened the book and flipped to a page marked with his scribbled notes—one detailing chemical and mineral reactions. What fascinated him most was the section explaining how firecrackers worked: potassium nitrate, charcoal, and sulfur for the fuse, with a blend of potassium perchlorate and aluminum to create the flash powder.
It always amused him how the element he was named after—sulfur—could be so volatile, so dangerous. He often found himself wondering: What if someone swallowed a firecracker fuse and it was lit? Would they explode? Or would nothing happen at all? The thought lingered in his mind until his mother’s voice cut through it.
"Selphur! Miah! Dinner’s ready!"
Selphur snapped his book shut and stood abruptly, the quiet groan of the chair legs scraping against the floor echoing louder than it should’ve. He was just now realizing how little he'd been eating—dinner only, most nights—and the hollow feeling in his chest wasn’t just hunger anymore. It was creeping weakness, like his body was giving up piece by piece.
In the kitchen, he dropped into the chair across from Miah. Neither of them said anything. They just started eating—fast, like animals fighting time. A silent, desperate contest.
As Selphur raised the last bite to his mouth, something warm slid down his upper lip. Blood. It dripped onto his plate, soaking into the bread. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t care. He shoved the food in anyway, chewing through the metallic taste like it wasn’t there.
“I won. Again,” he said through a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You really need to stop making dumb bets with me.”
Before Miah could respond, their mother’s fist came crashing down on the table with a thud that made the whole room flinch.
