The Banshee Brothers

The Banshee Brothers1

The house is so quiet. The street is only filled with the whispers of crickets and the rustle of grass. Doors are locked and I lurk in the shadows, waiting. I’m just waiting for the day to begin so that I can go and get breakfast.2

A screen door in the distance slams shut and two boys emerge from the dark into the light of a street lamp. I recognize them from school. I only know one of their names.3

I watch the youngest, head down, walking away down the muddy street. It tears at my heart-strings violently. His older brother Micah doesn’t move; doesn’t go after him. He’s been defeated. Their father screams and slams doors. A broken bottle is clutched in a fist and his gray eyes glow with anger.4

Neighbors peer tentatively from their newly painted windows which are dolled up in lace. They don’t dare move from their hiding places to give the poor broken boy a reassuring hug. No one dares to touch their sad scarred bodies. The immense fear holds them back.5

Micah couldn’t hide the bruises on his tired face yesterday, and now mama’s crying more than ever, and he’s at fault. Daddy’s screaming obscenities on the front porch again, all out in the open. It’s such a disgrace. So much anger lives behind those walls, bubbling until it erupts. No one cares that much.6

All of a sudden I see them running full speed down the street. Their arms are keeping pace with their legs. But only just. They’re racing the wind for one minute of freedom, and screaming like banshees. Daddy has the car racing after them, and no track star of his could outrun his pride and joy pick-up.7

He skids to a halt and storms toward the Banshee Brothers. He slams Micah to the pavement and brings his fists down, one after the other. I cry out as Micah scrambles away but only a whimper escapes my lips. The little boy is dragged down with Micah. Little boy couldn’t let go fast enough when he clung onto his brother and daddy took him down. Mama’s crying for her angels to flee, but they’re too weak to fly. Their wings are still furled.8

No one raises a finger. Grab a phone. Dial him help. I would if I could, but I can’t. I’m invisible, he’s not invincible. Blood has seeped into the gutters and the sun knows it. It peers over the hills to get a final look at such sweet, helpless children; their wings finally opening up in the breeze. The feathers are exposed and rearing to go; to catch the wind and escape from this hell-hole.9

And at last, (but too late), sirens blare help. Mama knows only one thing. Silver bracelets will make this day complete.10