by Bernard James

Bo sat up front with daddy. Julius rode in the back with me. The dirty rag tied around his arm looked black in the moonlight; all that blood mixing in with the dirt. It was too dark to see his eyes, but my memory was fresh. More than the shock of having been shot, his nonsensical words and vacant stare resulted from a different kind of trauma. To be sure, the bullet hole in his arm was a problem, but the scowling woman in the blue kerchief—the one standing on the edge of the crowd, curses leaking from her blood-red lips—she was our primary concern.

Daddy hit a bump. The car groaned, and so did Julius. I had my arms around him, but he was too heavy. Too big. He was practically lying in my lap, his damaged arm hanging lifeless at his side. He stank of vomit, and sweat; blood, and strong perfume. I imagined it rubbing off on me, the curse of the one who’d worn it, somehow seeping into my bones. I shivered, and tried to hold my oldest brother steady, but it was a battle I was going to lose. (More …)