Monday
I’ve always had a little brother, haven’t I? He’s eleven, between Kesley, nine, and May, thirteen. I remember when mom and dad brought him home from the hospital. “Isn’t he adorable?” they asked as they showed him to me. When I look back at that day, why can’t I see what he looked like as a baby? All I see is his face now, that hideous grin plastered on his pallid skin, his shock of black hair, unable to be tamed by my mom’s brushing. She’s trying again now with a stronger comb, but he won’t let her. He bites her hand, drawing blood, then runs away, shouting curse words far beyond his age. I hate my little brother.
Tuesday
I’ve always had a little brother, haven’t I? At eleven, he’s the youngest of my mom and dad’s three kids. He has the same hobbies he’s always had, killing squirrels, sticking his hand in his pants, spitting boogers in mom’s hair. I remember when mom and dad took him home from the hospital. He was a little bundle of . . . well, whatever he was, all wrapped up in a blanket. My mom said he was cute, but I don’t remember if that was true. I remember my dad sitting me down and telling me that this was the last kid that he and mommy were going to have, that there was some complication that hurt mommy when he came out. I was glad that mommy and daddy weren’t having another kid. I hated my little brother.
Wednesday
I’ve always had a little brother, haven’t I? My only other sibling. David, no, it’s Danny. No, that’s not it either. Why can’t I remember his name? He was always mom and dad’s favorite. They would skip my ballet recitals to go kill neighborhood animals with him. I’d see them chasing a dog, armed with knives, as I trekked home in my ballet shoes, a trophy in my hands. They wouldn’t even acknowledge me. They’d just keep chasing the dog with Damian, no Deven, no. . . God, I hate my little brother.
Thursday
I’ve always had a little brother, haven’t I? He and dad are at it again. It’s bath time, but of course he refuses to get in the tub. “I’ve never had to take a bath before. Why do I have to now?” he’s screaming at dad. He’s taken a bath before, hasn’t he? Somewhere in my memory, I would be able to dredge up an image of him being dragged screaming and kicking into the bathroom by my mom and dad. Wait, not my mom. She died in childbirth. I vividly remember my dad sitting me down and telling me that mommy wasn’t coming home. That she had had a complication delivering my new little brother, that it was just the three of us. I remember screaming, “I hate my little brother!”
Friday
I’ve always had a little brother, haven’t I? It’s always been just the two of us. Mom died in childbirth, and dad was never around. We’ve lived here in this house alone for the last eleven years. It hasn’t been easy. I’m sure I’ve made a lot of meals for him and me so that we didn’t go hungry, but I can’t seem to remember many of them. Right now, I’m preparing a roast from the neighbor’s cat that he killed. “Tomorrow, I’ll bring over one of the kids from down the street, and we’ll have a real feast,” he snarls, his eyes rolling back in his head. I love my little brother.
About the Author
Maxim Volk (they/he) is a queer horror author from the Midwest. They write horror, erotica, and all the filthy little stories in between.