by Stan Smith
aliens were leaving.
Your brother went over the top just as the ship left. The sky turned a bright crimson, the air was suffocatingly thick, and the static charge made my hair stand straight out in stiff, spiky strands.
I heard him scream once, a long, agonized wail that degenerated into animal groaning.
He was curled into a fetal position, sobbing and convulsing when I reached him. I thought for a moment that the alien ship’s propulsive field had somehow caught him and temporarily paralyzed him…
Until I looked up.
No, Señor, he is not much better now. Erlinda cares for him as best she can, and he is as comfortable as can be expected. He does not eat much and has lost a great deal of weight.
I do not think he would recognize you, Señor. He barely knows me, and then only for brief moments. I will take you to him, if you insist.
Yes, I think now it is because of what he saw, not the alien ship. He loved her—you must know that.
Oh no, Señor. You misunderstand me. It was not the sight of her, nailed to that metal cross, her womb ripped out; he expected that, I think. That was not what drove him mad.
It was what was on the other cross—the smaller one, next to hers…
Yes, Señor. I would appreciate another drink.
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