—THAT’S A DAY WE’RE NEVER GETTING BACK

 

Reunion

We’re in the middle of nowhere, everything barren, flat and spread out like a used dish towel, a few dumb souls standing next to a crumpled RV.

My oldest brother has driven all this way to Dakota, and he unlatches a storage unit in the back of his pickup where a set of AK47s sit gleaming like metallic baby seals.

My brothers each select one, but I can’t move my arms because my bones are disintegrating by the second. 

I still remember Vegas, the rat-a-tat, the chaos, the random slaughter.

“Grab a fucking gun, Lenny,” my oldest says, as if it’s that simple—a choice.

When I say I won’t, No way, he calls me a Fag. 

It’s been years since I’ve heard that slur, but it still stings as do the bullet casings that pop off around me as my brothers shoot at nothing just to at shoot something, our parents or failed ghosts maybe.

When the quiet hits and the smoke rises, my eldest says quite seriously, “I miss killing people,” his eyes fixed on something in the distance.