What he doesn’t seem to understand, as the streetlights blaze by us, fake stars hanging low, too low–what he doesn’t seem to see is the trap he’s laid for himself. He talks about plans for the future, jobs he might have, money he wishes he had. He talks as though the world hasn’t already discarded him somewhere, as though he isn’t scrounging through the bloody scraps just so he can live long enough to scrounge some more. He doesn’t comprehend, no matter how hard I try to reach him, no matter what I say. I tell myself he doesn’t understand, anyway, because that’s better than the alternative; that’s better than thinking he knows perfectly well what sort of awful cage he’s built, and that he doesn’t care.

Because goddamn me, I care. I can’t help but care. He’s my brother, after all.

Look at him: six foot three of lanky, lean muscle under dark skin dotted with scars and blemishes. One hundred and eighty pounds of bad ideas, all churning beneath a mind constantly on fire–between the drugs, and the mental illness, I wonder aloud how he sleeps at night.

He says, with a distant sort of grin that makes me think of blown fuses, that he doesn’t sleep at night. I believe him–there’s a weariness in his eyes, a weakness in his face that wasn’t there before all this started. I tell him, as we pull into a McDonald’s drive-through on Christmas Eve, that we need to talk about the things we went through as kids. I’m hoping he can get some of the toxic stuff out of his system; I know it’s toxic because for years it had been poisoning me, too, and I can still taste copper in my mouth, sometimes, when I wake up from nightmares. I know it’s been poisoning me because I’m still angry, and what scares me most about him, what terrifies me about my brother, is that I know he’s angrier than I’ve ever been. The rage, the bitterness drives me, but consumes him–it eats him alive, contorts the muscles beneath the acne-scarred skin of his face. You can see it, when he’s mad. You can see how he destroys himself, little by little, kindling for a fire he can’t possibly put out. Not anymore.

He says he doesn’t want to talk about it.

I insist. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, gives me a glare that glitters in the faded light of the old McDonald’s sign, and says fine before puffing his smoke out of the open window.

Fine, he says. Order our food, and let’s talk.

The woods are deeper than we thought; the thrill of trespassing is almost outweighed by the fear of how far we plan on going, but he refuses to slow down. He hustles over fallen trees and across the leafy forest floor with an excited, eager pace; I’m not fast enough to keep up properly. It takes me longer to traverse the treacherous terrain–where he wants to leap over the little creek, and does, I don’t think I can make it and insist on finding a bridge. The day is sunny, and warm, and the sunlight stipples in beautiful patterns of glow and shadow, which is something I want to stop and appreciate anyway.

Come on, he says. Get across. There’s more stuff over here.

No, I tell him. I can’t make that jump.

Yes, you can. Come on. Don’t be a wuss. Come on.

I stop listening long enough to canvas the bank of the creek–that leap is at least four feet across, and I don’t trust myself to make two. He hates me for that, hates me for slowing him down, I know, but I’m just as stubborn as he is, in my own way. We are the complete opposite of each other, and this is the first time I’m realizing that, meeting his angry, excited stare on the other side of that creek. There’s a long silence, then, and without saying a word I keep moving along the little, snaking strand of water in hopes of finding, at the very least, a lower bank on the other side. He grumbles to himself and mirrors me. Even if he does hate me, he doesn’t want to go on alone.

That’s something else I’m finding out about my brother: he hates being alone, even more than he could ever hate me. Even if I’m the last person on Earth he’d want to spend time with, even if I am too slow and too cautious, that’s better than being alone. I don’t understand at this point why that is, but I don’t care, because right now I don’t want to be left alone either. These woods are the biggest place I’ve ever been in, and every step feels like another mile away from the safety of our backyard. I can’t even see our backyard anymore.

Finally, there it is–the opposite bank dips low, and an almost inviting little platform of earth sits about a foot above the burbling water. Perfect. Before I can talk myself out of it, I haul myself into the air and land on-target, seizing hold of an outstretched root to keep steady. Before I even get a chance to recover from what I firmly believe to be a near death experience, he thrusts his hand down, right in front of my face.

Come on, he says, breaking our cease-fire. Come on. We’ve got to keep going.

There’s more.

Even though he agreed to talk, and even though we’ve escaped the recalcitrant McDonald’s employees who didn’t think they’d have to work on Christmas, he stays quiet for a while, nibbling on a fry. It isn’t until I start to speak up that he finishes the damn thing and looks over at me like a cornered dog.

It’s in the past, man. It happened. We can’t do anything about it, he says.

From what I can see, I tell him, it’s still happening. I want to tell him he’s still angry, still on fire, but he wouldn’t listen if I did. He doesn’t think he’s angry. He doesn’t remember what happens when he gets mad, I guess.

Nah, man. I gave up using most stuff. I still smoke weed, he says, but that’s just to keep me calm. Don’t tell mom, alright?

I agree not to tell her on the condition that we actually talk, because I need this as much as I think he does. I realize that, now; I needed to hear him apologize, more than anything. This entire thing is probably more selfish than I’m willing to admit, but this is the first chance I’ve had in years to speak to him with any kind of clarity.

Fine, man. What?

You did try to kill me, you know, I tell him. Maybe we ought to talk about that.

It’s a screaming fight between us, by this point. There are, by my count, at least two holes in the wall and three broken glasses scattered across the kitchen linoleum, but that doesn’t slow me down in the least. I’m pressing his buttons, getting him wired up even further. I want a fight. I want an excuse to pummel his stupid, sneering face in.

I’m tired of it, I shout at him. I’m tired of the goddamn drugs, and the fucking useless stoners you drag over here every goddamn night. I’m tired of driving you around. I’m not doing it anymore.

Fuck you, he screams. Screams. The words tear out of his throat in a ragged squeal. He sounds, impossibly, like an abused, out of tune electric guitar. You stupid faggot, he screams. You don’t get to tell me what to do. This is my house, too, and I’ll do what I fucking want.

No you won’t, I inform him. One last button. One–

But before I can even press it, he’s on me, and I’ve dropped my guard long enough to let him in. I’d planned on socking him one before he could get close, but the next thing I know his hands are around my neck and I can’t seem to get him off of me; those damn fingers are wrapping around my throat, and I can’t pry them free. I can’t breathe, I can’t see straight, he’s bearing down on me like a storm and all I can see are those awful, glittering eyes, full of hate.

He means to kill me, right there on the floor of our kitchen. He means to murder me over this. I pushed him too far, I realize. The shadows are stalking into my vision, and things are blurring in and out of focus–no matter how hard I punch him, or struggle, he won’t let go. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to–

Then my mom is there, screaming at him to let me go, too afraid to physically intervene because for all we know, he might jump on her too. He’s screaming right back at her, crying now, tears of rage streaming down his blemished cheeks, but his hands are loosening, letting me go. Sweet, impossibly sweet breath rushes back into me, too fast, too fast for my bruised throat and I cough, hard and loud. God, it hurts. It’s beautiful, but it hurts so damn bad.

It’s the threat of calling the police that finally chases him, still shouting and screeching, out into the road. My mom comes back to check on me, helps me up off of the floor and starts pulling glass out of my back. I didn’t even notice it was there until she yanks bloody pieces out of me. I’m still trembling. He tried to kill me.

I still have nightmares about that, I tell him. I still wake up gasping for air, sometimes.

I don’t even remember that day, he says. I woke up in someone else’s house.  Besides, you nearly killed me a couple times, right?

I never meant to, I protest.

Same thing.

Would it have bothered you?

He doesn’t answer, just looks at me as though I’m a moron and then takes another drag of his cigarette. There’s another silence. There we are again, I think, opposites: him in a hoodie and those damn JNCO shorts they used to make that looked like flared out capris, and me in a collared shirt, jeans and loafers. Me, never having smoked a day in my life and him on his third cigarette.

We’re like a mirror, I think. One of those trick mirrors at a funhouse, where you see a version of yourself that’s only vaguely like the one staring into it.

He breaks the silence with you left us, you know.

I know, I said. I had to. You guys were killing me.

Yeah, well, he says.

Yeah, well?

Yeah, well, it only got worse after you left, he says. I did what I had to do.

I’m standing outside of a Gamestop, entire states away, when my mom puts him on the phone. He’s been crying; his voice has this odd shiver to it that nearly makes him incomprehensible.

I just got out of jail, he tells me. They locked me up for using heroin.

Yeah, I tell him. Mom said as much. It’s a week before I come home for Christmas.

Well, I’m not using anymore. They’ve got me on probation. Maybe I used once, but please don’t tell Mom, okay? I haven’t done it since. I promise. They’re testing me every week and I miss you, man. I’m better. I’m going to be better. I’ve taken so much money. I’ve fucked up so bad, man. You still coming home? Maybe we could spend some time together. Go get a drink you know? Ijust miss you. Ijustmiss you. Ijustmissyouplease–

The words are running together, snarling up as he descends into another bout of sobbing and I tell him he needs to calm down, that I don’t hate him, that everything is going to be fine. This is a day after I spent an hour yelling at my mother that I don’t want to come home if he’s free, because he’s just going to torment me again. He’s just going to take everything again. Now I’m promising him everything will be okay, that I’m not utterly terrified of everything he does.

Calm down, I tell him. Please. Everything is going to be okay.

I wish I was like you, he says. I wish I could be like you.

Something twists inside me. This isn’t right. This isn’t our place. We’re opposites. We can’t be like each other. I take great comfort in the fact that I am nothing like him, sometimes, and I assumed he did the same.

Now he’s crying and telling me he wants to be like me. I tell him he’s fine as he is. I tell him he’s okay, and that I need to get off the phone before it dies. He tells me he loves me, and hangs up, and I instinctively touch my throat.

Did you mean that? I ask him, as we pull onto another highway, headed back toward our grandmother’s house. Everyone else is asleep; this little late night run is entirely my and his doing. Did you really want to be like me?

Man, he says, I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it. I just want to eat and go to bed.

It’s Christmas Eve, I tell him, as though he doesn’t already know. Are you not excited?

I stopped caring about Christmas a while back.

Oh.

Then he looks at me, and sighs, and leans his head back on the headrest, closing his eyes. He doesn’t say anything else until I turn into the little neighborhood where my grandmother lives, a little hovel on the tail end of Denver, North Carolina.

I’m sorry, he says. His eyes are open again, and he looks more alive than he has in years; there’s a quivering sincerity in his voice. I know I fucked up, man. I’m sorry. I’m sorry as hell. I hope you can forgive me.

I can’t, I realize, not yet, but I don’t say that. I just pat him on the shoulder. For that brief instant, he’s my brother again, staring hard at me from the other side of a burbling creek. My opposite, but my equal. My mirror.

Then he looks away, and I can tell that moment is over; the way he goes quiet and lights another cigarette tells me all I need to know. He’s climbed back into his awful cage again, and the trap he’s laid for himself springs anew: we go back to talking about his schemes to survive, all the way until he finally proves himself a liar, and falls asleep on the living room floor.