Some nights are worse than others. Some nights, I wake up alone in the dark with a cold chill settling upon me, seeping into my flesh. Other nights I toss and turn until I wake with a half-remembered image of my brother Aaron's face. In my dream --it's always the same one-- he's lying prone on the floor, his head tilted back, mouth hanging open. He reaches for me, and as he does, his fingers stretch, new joints appearing, allowing them to bend and twist until they manage to grasp me. On good nights, I don't dream at all.
Nobody but I knows what happened to Aaron, because I never told them. The events behind his disappearance are a secret I've kept for over twenty years. Our parents died believing that he had run away from home, that he was out there somewhere, alive. I thought it better to let them think that.
They might have been half right.
Nobody but I knows what happened to Aaron, because I never told them. The events behind his disappearance are a secret I've kept for over twenty years. Our parents died believing that he had run away from home, that he was out there somewhere, alive. I thought it better to let them think that.
They might have been half right.
