His mother was his hero. Sometimes he hated her for that.

 

In the mirror, his father's face–high cheeks, raptor nose, hazel eyes–but the rhythm of his life's music was his mother's heartbeat.

 

He'd been a tough teen while he was figuring himself out, back when she was just some mother thing and not her own person. She was the one place he could be: angsty, aggressive, angry. For no particular reason. Other than the whole being-born-in-the-wrong-body thing, at least.

 

He was a surprise, an accident, she'd say with that sideways grin of hers. Not to demean him, but in celebration. He saw it for what it was: a serendipitous collision of the cosmos that resulted in him, his siblings, his mother's whole life. 

 

That's where she was a hero. Even when suffered, she was intentional. She fancied herself a jackass, not very pretty to look at but steady, hard-working. To a fault.

 

Back when he'd been just two pink lines on a stick, his mom had made a decision that both destroyed and saved her life. 

 

His mom had been a bit feral, to be expected, all things considered. Choosing his dad, his actual genetic father, though, had been a surprise to everyone.

 

But when Mom made up her mind to do something, she did it. Against all odds. In pain. Contrary to what people expected of her, she was loyal.

So she'd been all in, with the baby, his father, and later, a couple of siblings.

 

His father couldn't have been more opposite. Quiet, stoic, much older, broken by great trauma. His dad made poor decisions when he drank. 

 

Poor decisions like mistreating Mom. Not that he'd ever hit her. He didn't even yell too much, but he suffocated her. When all his mother wanted was someone to talk to about dark and beautiful things, Dad suffocated her with his distance, apathy, lack of ambition. With his insatiable needs. With his weaponized silences. He suffocated her with his threats to just curl up and die somewhere.

 

And then one day, he almost did. The stroke was relatively mild, but it made all the worst pieces worse. The drinking got steadier. The emotional abuse got worse. Mom was as single financially as she'd always been in every other way.

 

But his mom was an ass, in the best ways possible. She had committed.

 

The kids were just adults when their dad died, much later. After, his mom had taken a seasonal job in Tennessee. It was work, but it was the closest to her dream life she'd ever get–a trip to nowhere. Nature. The woods. Stillness. After setting up trust accounts, settling their debts, she bought a tiny, tattered fifth wheel, kissed them all goodbye, and went on one first and last adventure.

 

On a windy mountain road, a cool evening, the buck was just doing what bucks do–walking them home.

 

His mom was his hero. Her life, maybe not the fairy tale she'd deserved, had been the one she'd chosen. 

 

And though she was gone, her heart still beat in his.

 

Much like his mother, he, too, was all in.

 

Which is how he found himself on this quiet suburban street at the witching hour of morning, worn Converse rhythming on the well-maintained concrete, his mien casting a long, lanky shadow across clean-cut lawns, one of his mother's favorite bluegrass murder ballads keeping time with his steps. Country music is one thing he couldn't forgive her for, but he accepted the earworm like a promise.

 

He knew the door would be unlocked, because he'd been told and because some men fancy themselves too powerful to be a victim.

 

Some men would come to know themselves the monster.

 

He lifted a hand, surprised at its steadiness. There wasn't a hint of tremor: he was certitude embodied. With a soft click, the door handle turned and he stepped stealthily into a darkened foyer. Millennial gray laminate flooring made him want to hurl. Mom would have. The thrice-divorced man whose home he now occupied kept it tidy, perfected, a magazine spread for the parties, people, and pretty girls he hosted.

 

Sometimes keeping up with the Joneses wasn't about living beyond one's means–it was about masking.

 

He pulled the door closed, crossing toward the staircase. While his steps were measured, he didn't seek to silence them. All of this was inevitable.

 

He placed a steady hand on a white bannister, eyes rolling over the photos on the wall, stalling as if he were 13 again and pretending not to care about the paintings in the art museum his mom had dragged him to. Instead of Judith Beheading Holofernes, he was greeted by crooked grins and mismatched baby teeth. The cartoonish grins made him smile unexpectedly, and he smacked a hand toward his face as if to backhand the smile away, settling for a rub at his muzzle where a five o'clock shadow should be.

 

The pictures dated themselves, what with the fashions, but they'd been digitally altered to enhance the color and dull blemishes on those formerly freckled faces. He knew those eyes, just loosely, a passing connection. Some of those children were adults now. All of them weren't okay.

 

These were the photos he hung on the wall to tell the world what a good man he was. A strong father. A white-picket-fence-man. The photos, like the rest of the house, gave the illusion of cleanliness. Of goodness. Of Millenial gray and freshly whitewashed bannisters.

 

It's how he was able to get the others, too, the trophies whose photos didn't hang on the walls.

 

He reached the landing. Chucks were softer now on plush gray carpet. Six, seven strides brought him to a half-cracked door where a sliver of dim blue alarm clock light beckoned.

 

Into the bedroom where the man lay prone, an aged arm tattoo flexing beneath his cheek. He wore boxers and socks and the intruder cringed as he settled down near the foot of the bed.

 

It was only a moment but he was certain eternity passed again before the man's subconscious picked up on the unexpected presence. He rubbed a groggy eyeball furiously, before jerking toward the headboard, his face stark in the blue glow as he struggled to make sense of the shadows.

"Hi, John," the intruder said, a calculated tone.

 

John cursed out questions and the intruder saw a subtle eye shift toward the bedside table.

 

"You won't need that tonight, John." The older man took a breath, his face inflamed, beads of sweat coalescing along his salt-and-pepper hairline in their best impression of the dewy lawn outside. 

 

"Who are you?" John interrupted, and this frustrated him but drew him back to the present, the present where both of his parents were dead and he knew a truth that shouldn't be.

 

"What do you want?" He was stalling. Both of them were.

 

"I know what you did to those boys." 

 

"What boys?"

 

The intruder cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. He mimed lifting a wrist as if to look at a watch, though both men knew there wasn't one. Yet, time was of the essence.

 

"I have an important meeting in Tennessee, John."

 

The intruder reached into his hoodie pocket, finding cool steel. John tensed. 

 

"The girls? Do you mean the girls?" There was a tension in his voice, an admission, a growled confession. "They were mistaken. I was help—"

 

Down the street a graying old dog sprawled comfortably. In her dreams, she was lithe and the squirrels were plenty. As she chased, carefree, a little rodent dropped its acorn and, as if a grenade, a small explosion drew the pup back to her old body.

 

She woke with a huff, a deep sigh, before rolling on to her belly, resting her head between her paws.

 

The second crack, another gunshot, some near distance away, set her in motion.