>"Unwanted."

>The words fall from your father's lips like they were 20 tons apiece

>His face is stern and hard; carved out of granite and limestone, weathered by whiskey

>"And that's all she'll ever be. A burden. Hold her arm out," he commands

>Jacob is still

>You tremble all over, fear tracing cold fingers up and down your spine

>Tears swell up in your eyes, but you can't look away from Dad's hard stare

>Be strong

>Be brave

>Your brother puts his hand on your shoulder while Dad sucks on his cigarette

>Smoke tendrils — midnight black — wisp up into a cloudless sky and evaporate into the sunlight

>"No," Jacob says, his voice clipping hard in his throat

>He's nervous, standing besides the car, parked at the rail yard

>"You don't need to hurt us. We learned our lesson already," Jacob says

>You look up into your brother's bruised face

>His jaw is set hard and stern — just like Dad's

>His eyes burn with heat and anger

>And despite the fear and trembling in his words, he's still Jacob

>He's still his father's son

>"What's the matter with you?" Dad rises to his full height, standing at eye-level with Jacob. His ears stick straight up like pillars. “You were always a good boy, not like this runt here." He motions to you with a half-assed shrug of his shoulders. "First I catch you two with my gun…" he lifts his greasy work shirt up a little to reveal the pistol tucked in his waistband “…and then I catch you two trying to run away?" 

>Dad jerks his chin to a pile of old clothes, two backpacks, and a gleaming aluminum baseball bat sitting besides his rusted sedan

>"You got something to prove?" He asks giving Jacob a hard look

>Your brother doesn't answer

>Dad scowls harder, his lower lip trembling as rage boils and churns in his guts

>"You think you're some kind of man?" He asks again

>Your mind is cast back to the last time — in the kitchen — when Jacob said he 'was a man'

>The blow your father dealt him still makes your heart skip

>After a silence, Dad bends down to your pathetic height, curving his gnarled spine

>You're just 14, Jacob 20, and even for a girl, you're small, thin and delicate

>You're trying to be strong, but you can't help the tears

>Dad's expression is cold

>His dead eyes look directly through you

>"Roll up your sleeves. Hold out your arm."

>Jacob grips your shoulder tight

>You know what's coming next

>Dad holds the cigarette lighter from his car up to you so you can see

>Its coils glow angry and red with trapped heat

>"Dad," Jacob starts, looking down at you. “Don't. She didn't do anything wrong. I was the one who came up with the idea to run away. I made her do it. If you have to punish anyone…" 

>Jacob's courage falters as he looks down at the hot lighter, still bright orange

>"Punish me. Not her," he says with a hard swallow

>Dad squats down and roughly grabs your thin arm with a fierce scowl, still chewing on the end of his cigarette

>He rakes back your sleeve, exposing your thin, brown fur

>"Don't worry," he says. “You'll get yours. You two wanna act so brave? Thinkin' you two can just run off?"

>You're shaking something awful

>Jacob's hands dig into your flesh

>You try to focus on his presence and not your dad ringing his heavy hand around your delicate wrist

>"All you'll ever be is a burden," Dad says to you

>"Be strong," Jacob says in a whisper

>Your eyes slam shut

>You jerk your head to the side and grit your teeth

>Dad slams the lighter onto your arm, just below your shoulder

>The pain hits you like a fucking train, searing into your fur and then your tender flesh

>You can hardly hold back a scream

>Your heavy feet stamp into the dirt as dad lazily twists the lighter against your fur

>The scent of gravel

>Of dust

>Cigarette smoke

>Of burning fur

>You suck these in deeply and let them pollute your young lungs

>You want the cancer

>Anything to produce an absence in you

>Void the soul

>Cash the check

>How do you disappear completely?

>What would Samurai Outlaw do right now?

>Dad's grip on you tightens and an anguished scream rakes itself out of your chest

>Samurai Outlaw would fight back

>Your brother's baseball bat

>You could make a break for it

>You could… stand up for yourself

>For Jacob

>Move it

>Move your FUCKING FEET

>Fuck

>Your arm is starting to feel numb as the pain resides

>Dad releases his vise grip on you 

>When your eyes unglue, you hesitantly look down at your arm

>There's a ring of singed fur where the lighter was pressed against your tender flesh

>Beneath that your pale skin is bright red and oozing blood and pus

>It looks boiled over and ugly

>You try delicately touching it, but draw your hand away when even the slightest probing sends shockwaves of agony through your body

>"Your turn," Dad says between his smoke

>He grabs Jacob's arm and shoves his sleeve upwards

>"We're not done — not yet."

>A train whistle sounds over head

>You stand on railroad ties, facing the tunnel as if it were the barrel of a loaded gun

>"When I was your age, my father used to take me out to the tracks and make me dodge trains until I could barely move." Your Dad takes a long swig out of his bottle

>Jacob stands off to the side, watching you with nervous eyes

>"And I know you two been out here. I know all kinds of shit you two been up to. Jacob been bringin' you out here so he can jump ties, just like his old man. But not like you."

>He spits into the dirt and mashes it with his heels

>"You ain't blood."

>You stare straight ahead as a train whistle shrieks in the tunnel

>An advancing light begins to burn in the fathoms of darkness

>The sun on your fur glazes you in a nervous sweat

“I-I'm sorry!" You cry

>You're a coward

>The worst kind

>Without your brother you're not even a coward

>You're nothing

>A train horn drowns out your pleading

>Dad can only laugh in sharp fits

>"Everyone's always sorry but nobody wants to own up to it." He takes another heavy pull on the bottle. “Now, I want a good clean dodge. No bullshit. No jumping too soon. You may be a bitch but I ain't raise no cowards."

>Jacobs voice reaches your ears

>"You're not a coward, Sam. C'mon, just like we practiced. One good jump. Then I go. And then we go home. Okay? Just a good dodge."

>You can hear the hurt and worry in his voice

>This isn't like those other times

>This is under the eyes of that bastard father.

>When you look over, he's standing next to Dad, his mouth set in a hard, determined line, as if to say 'I know you can do this.'

>You can feel the ground start to tremble as the train presses little earthquakes into the tracks

>It's getting closer

>That small bulb of light is now stretching its limbs

>Growing like a beam of sunshine shot through the darkness

>The horn blares

>The train rolls on

>Surely the conductor must see you standing there?

>What does it matter? It'll take miles to stop

>Vomit rises in your throat and you start to choke

>You're a coward

>A gut-puking coward

>The horn shrieks again

>You force the vomit back down into your gut

>You can't move

>Oh fuck

>You can't…

>…Can't even think straight

>The train blows out of the tunnel in a hurricane of steel

>It's barreling forward

>"GET READY!" Your brother calls

>You can barely hear him

>Or the train

>You can't even feel the ground shaking anymore

>All you feel is that rush taking over your head

>Blood pulsing in your temples

>Heart racing in the thin cage of your chest

>Knees knocking one another

>And always the train racing against the tracks

>Draining fuel, chugging thick tendrils of black smoke

>Unstoppable…

>And the warm blood rush

>And your brother shouting “JUMP!"

>"JUMP!"

>JUMP!

>You feel the heat burning off its front, hear the ear-shattering blare of its horn, see the worried face of the conductor

>Its horn shrieks one last time

>Everything goes quiet

>And… You want it to hit you

>You want that oblivion

>J U M P

>With your eyes shut tight, you pretend you're Samurai Outlaw

>And this is your tragic end at the hands of a diabolical villain

>But you're too scared to even die, aren't you?

>Too much of a coward to let this train hit you

>And yet, you can't move

>"MOVE!"

>Unwilling in life to stand up for yourself

>Unwilling in death to die

>You'll exist in a temporary stasis

>Just a few simple feet of track between you and oblivion while the train bolts forward, so close it begins sucking air from your lungs

>"SAM!"

>Jacob leaps…

>…Throws his full, protective weight at you…

>…Lunges forward, onto the tracks…

>…Knocking you to the other side…

>…Sending you crashing into the dirt

>Your father starts forward, and for the very first time in your entire fucking life, he looks scared

>Jacob sits up on the tracks

>His amber eyes meet yours with the most worried kindness you've ever seen

>And all you can see is relief spreading across his face, for just a fraction of a second

>His mouth starts working to say something, forming shapes and letters and syllables borne out of love

>And, as if he was never there to begin with, Jacob is gone in a storm of steel

>The train rolls on

>The cops ruled it as a suicide

>But you know it wasn't

>When the nice human investigators came to your house, you followed along with what Dad told them

>"W-W-We tried t-t-to stop h-h-him," you stammered, leg pounding anxiously into the air as you sit at the kitchen table

>You've never been tall enough to reach the floor

>You tried not looking them in the eyes. Somehow, you thought, they'd know it was you that killed him

>You washed up

>You brushed your fur

>You put on some of Jacob's clean clothes (they smelled like him; they made you feel like he was still here to protect you)

>Had to look presentable for the officers, after all

>You tried talking loudly but your voice only came out in squeaks

>And in the back of your mind, sitting at the freshly cleaned table, you can only hear one word on repeat, over and over again, a nauseating carousel of unbridled and unkempt self-hatred: “murderer"

>"We're deeply sorry for your loss," the investigators say, almost in unison

>But it's not that scripted, forced kind of sympathy either. They exude kindness

>One of them claps you softly on the shoulder, his deep blue eyes meeting yours

>Those eyes are drunk on starlight and concern, half closed, as if pressed down by the investigator's heavy, troubled brow

>"Listen, if you ever feel like you need to talk to someone…" the friendly investigator produces a pamphlet from his back pocket “…Just call the number down here." He points to a long telephone number with his pen

>You take the pamphlet from him with trembling little hands and look it over

>It seems to be about loss and grief

>The number is for a free counselor

>"The state offers resources to families like yours."

>Your dad's eyes are hard and set forward on the other officer, who seems to be regarding the kitchen with a modicum of disgust

>"So you're saying he didn't leave a note?" The other officer asks, curious

>"Nope, no note," Dad returns in a calm breath. “Just up and got himself killed on those tracks"

>Jotting quick notes, the officer continues his assessment of your kitchen

>"How about his mother?" He holds an expectant breath as he meets Dad's gaze

>"She's gone," Dad says sharp enough to cut the officer's throat. “She was a cheat. Up and left. That's all that happened."

>The officer nods and mutters something to his partner, still scribbling notes with a free hand

>Dad's eyes flick to the open notepad

>A scowl contorts his features. "What, don't you believe me? My own son is dead and you're— you're-"

>"Standard procedure. I just need to document all of this for my report, Mr. Garlen." He jots a sentence shut and stares with disdain back at Dad

>Dad nudges you with his feet

>You understand his language

>The unspoken gestures

>All the language he makes out of violence

>He wants you to say something

“J-J-Jacob was a-a-always talking about… it… but I n-n-never thought he'd a-a-actually g-go through with… it…"

>God, you liar

>You're worse than Dad

>You know you got your brother killed

>Dad knows

>You want to hop up on the table and scream from the heavens 'YES! I WAS THE ONE WHO GOT JAKE KILLED! IT WAS ME!'

>But you shrink further into your brother's old hoodie without saying a damn fucking word

>The other, kinder officer, nods in approval. “Jesus, nobody should have to go through this. Nobody." He rises from his seat. “Got everything, Clemens?"

>'Clemens' follows suit

>"Yeah, I think that should do it." His eyes sweep the kitchen one last time.

>They linger on Dad, and his mouth falls open, almost as if he's about to say something

>Then his eyes flick over to you, shrunken in your seat, feeling like the smallest thing in the world

>He levels his pen towards you

>"Actually… Samantha? Can I speak with you in private?" He says

>Dad raises an eyebrow

>"What for?" He huffs

>Whatever semblance of pleasantness he put on was slipping down his face in the form of sweat

>The officer gives Dad a hard stare

>"I just want to speak to her." He turns back to you and smiles sympathetically. “Is that alright?"

>…

>This might be your chance

>You could tell this officer everything

>All the years of neglect and abuse

>All the endangerment

>The scars and welts on your body and arms

>You could get out of here

>But you'd be getting out alone, wouldn't you?

>No Jacob anymore

>Not after you killed him

>You don't deserve anything

>Somewhere, deep inside, you fight down the urge to go back to the tracks yourself and hurl yourself in front of a train

>If only you weren't such a goddamn coward

>Like the bug that you are, your eyes flick towards Dad

>His ashen face is cold with hatred

>You know exactly what he's trying to say, all without ever having to utter a single word

>'Don't make it worse for yourself'

>You look back at the officer, who waits expectantly

"N-N-N-No. I-I don't t-t-think I can t-t-talk a-anymore about thi-this," you say, throwing your face to the side to try to hide the lie in your eyes

>The officer frowns a bit, and then bites down on his bottom lip a bit

>"Well, if you ever want to talk to us, you have our card. And if you ever need to… talk… to someone, just call the number on the back of that pamphlet. Okay?"

>You can't even look him in the eyes

“O-Okay."

>The two officers turn and thank your dad

>"And again, we're deeply sorry for your loss," 'Clemens' says, before tipping his hat and heading out the front door

>It bangs shut, leaving only you and Dad in silence

>Dad watches as their car rolls on down the block and disappears around the corner where the streets have no name

>He turns to you, and you can see the fire in his eyes

>You push back from the table, the chair squealing in protest

>"Don't you run, boy," Dad says. “Not this time. Not this time."

>'Boy'?

>"That's right, 'boy', because you're going to pay back what you stole from me." His voice begins to break in a slurred staccato. “You're going to give me my son back, you bitch." 

>And for once in your life, you can see tears welling in your father's sunken, bloodshot eyes

>They saturate his unwashed fur and burn a path down his cheeks

>You can't be Jacob

>Jacob was too much like Dad

>And you're nothing like that. But you can use what Jacob learned. You can be tough and strong and brave

>You think

>Dad advances forward

>"You bastard son of a bitch," he says

>You try to stand at your full height and puff out your meager chest

>"And you ain't even my kin," he sobs loudly

>He enters the kitchen and pushes the table aside

>"Well, you smarmy cunt. One day you're going to pay back what you owe. You're going to pay me back-" his voice breaks. “-One way or another."

>Your eyes shut tight and you tremble, still trying to hold yourself as tall as your brother once was

>But you're not him

>You're not brave or strong or fierce like Jacob

>You're Samantha- no, SAM Garlen

>You're weak, spineless, and you deserve everything that's coming to you

“I-I'm sorry," you whisper, though you don't think Dad can hear you through the cloud of rage

>Your fingers reflexively clench onto the pamphlet the cops gave to you like it was some kind of life raft in a terrible storm

>And then the pain comes