wouldnât rather be in Florida with a ton of friends than in our living room?â Liam asked without a trace of his usual flippant sarcasm. âIâd rather be anywhere in the world than here. Admit it, our home life sucks.â
He said those words with such intensity, implying that our house was an awful place. Our parents were busy, sure, but we were a happy family, goddammit. And why was he talking about this? I thought we had an unspoken rule: lighthearted music-video banter only.
âOur lives arenât that bad. Look at everything we have,â I objected, rubbing my slashed-up arm through my ratty blue cardigan, as Iâd taken to doing when uncomfortable.
Liamâs eyes drilled into me in such a way that my gaze drifted to my blanketed feet. Then he slowly looked around the room. It had been redone the year before when Dad had gotten sick of âliving in a pigsty.â The creamy walls had been repainted to conceal the smudged handprints near the light switch. The wooden floors were kept neatly swept, and the area rugs were no longer stained by Kool-Aid and muddy shoes. All the furniture actually matched (spring green) and so did the vases (earth tones) and the picture frames that lined the mantel (silver).
Liam focused on the center photo, my parentsâ wedding picture, and said coldly, âDad redecorated this house so he can pretend he has the life he wants. Heâs miserable. Momâs miserable. Itâs only a matter of time before the whole thing falls apart. I bet theyâll be divorced within a year.â
My jaw dropped so low my internal organs could have tumbled from my mouth. âYouâre fucking crazy! Where would you get an idea like that?â
Liam glared at me. âI pay attention. Theyâve been fighting in silence for two years now, ever since Mom said she wouldnât consider moving us to Texas for that job Dad wanted to take. Shetried to make it up to him by going back to work to finance this home-makeover crap, but they havenât been happy since. They hardly talk or touch each other. Itâs so obvious.â
As much as Liam wanted to convince, I wanted to deny. I didnât want to think about the dinners weâd had since the kitchen had been remodeled, how we barely spoke, Dadâs graying head bowed, Momâs jade eyes focused on some invisible yet incredibly absorbing thing outside the kitchen windowâ¦
âMom and Dad are fine! Everythingâs fine!â I insisted, tugging the blanket up to my chin like I could hide behind it the way I did when watching scary movies.
âWhatever! Iâve been stuck in this house with them while you had Stacey. I canât ignore it like you do by sitting in your bedroom with your headphones on, slicing your wrists or whatever!â
My skin went cold. He knew. The little sneak had noticed. Feelings of betrayal replaced the concern I had about my parentsâ marriage. This was worse than Stacey ditching me for boys. Liam had violated my most private act. And Iâd been treating him like an equal, like a friend.
âFuck you.â I flung the afghan to the floor.
I didnât even make it out of the living room before Liam shouted, âNo, fuck you! Youâre gonna face it. Youâre not gonna abandon me like you did when we moved.â
I felt a slight twinge of guilt, but then the remote hit me in the shoulder blade. I whipped around in a blind rage, found the remote, and hurled it back at Liam. It would have cracked him in the cheek if he hadnât caught it.
The La-Z-Boy rocked violently as he leapt up and lunged across the room, trying to slap me with the remote. I knocked it out of his hand and it skidded across the floor, bouncing off the metal grate in front of the fireplace. His hands flew for my throat and I attempted to knee him in the groin. He deflected my kneewith his own, but it threw us both off balance and we went tumbling to the
Learning to Kill: Stories