Haunting visions plagued the backside of his cold eyelids. He rocked back and forth, curled like an unborn child, trying to escape.

“Please no,” his ragged breath whispered to no one. The little girl was crying, soul-broken on the floor, only he could hear her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t fix it.” His sister’s door slammed and the man they were told to call father emerged, walked slowly out into the stifling heat of the night roaring, “shut up,” back into the void.

The rumble of the soon to die Chevy was followed by lights bouncing around the seven year old boys room as the water-stained ceiling began to leak.

“I’m so sorry, Sister.”

By Amy Koenig