Colin, During the Dark Ages.

My brother could hibernate through anything. Even the nights of unmitigated fury that expelled itself in blasts of white, frothy spittle from the corners of father’s lips. He was a cocooned worm nestled in the bed at the back of my room while mom held the cheap aluminum door, maintaining our homeostasis, shut. On the other side my father, a wounded creature Hissing, crackling, Insane. would bang until the vibrations shook my very breath. Colin never really understood being fourteen and scrubbing out the night’s fury that stained the carpet in crimson ponds. The smell of a bucket of warm pink soapy water and the red that never really washed out He would not understand the game I made of it blood spot, ink blot test This one looked like a butterfly, And this one A father and daughter, And this one a bottle of pills. This boy who brought home matted and framed pictures from kindergarten Crayon colored pleasant family, crayon colored pleasant home