Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Naja Marie Aidt

  His father would get tanked at this bar whenever he had money in his pocket. It looks the same. Just as smoky, dark, and filthy. He and Jenny would sometimes get a cola whenever they marched up here and waited for their old man to be coaxed into going home. They always sat beside the door. The bartender’s name was Vladimir. He was a gentle man, who asked them about school and told them stories about his childhood near the sea. His father had been a fisherman. He would raise his eyebrows and laugh, so that you could see the black spaces between his missing teeth; the stench from his mouth was overwhelming, rotten, disgusting, like shit. He told them, “Mind your schooling, no matter what. Education is gold.” Sometimes he gave them crackers and salted almonds from the drawer under the counter. Fatso used to help them drag their father home. Their old man was silent and withdrawn whenever he got piss drunk, his legs would fail him, and his breathing sounded like a bellows, but he wouldn’t say a word. You weren’t supposed to get in his way, don’t say anything, don’t be a pain. “Be invisible,” Thomas whispered to Jenny, and so Jenny learned to be invisible too. In the mirror on the wall behind the bar he can still see Andrea pacing back and forth. Invisible as a ghost. Like stars in daylight. Andrea pacing back and forth, back and forth. The bartender turns up the volume on the music. Thomas is sloshed. He watches the young blonde girl in the mirror, eyes transfixed. A man comes up beside her. Thomas wheels around. Through the tall window he sees the two figures clearly. At first he doesn’t believe his own eyes, but there’s no doubt: It’s Luke. Luke runs his hand through his thick mane of hair, Luke kisses Andrea on the cheek, Luke pushes the glass door open with his back and steps into the bar, followed by Andrea in her white, loose-fitting clothes, her purse slung over her shoulder. Thomas quickly turns his back to them. They sit next to the door, near where he and Jenny usually sat. He observes them in the mirror. They’re leaning across the table, talking, and so close that their foreheads nearly touch. Then Andrea fishes something from her purse and discretely hands it to Luke, after which he stands and leaves. The whole transaction takes, at most, two minutes. Andrea lights a cigarette, leans back in her chair, stretches her legs, kicks off her sandals. For Thomas there’s no doubt: that was either money or drugs that just passed between them. He drains his glass. So that means Luke is involved in drug trafficking. And now, when he thinks about it, tries to think, despite his inebriation, it becomes clear to him that Mingo must’ve paid Andrea for drugs—he’d clearly scored a fix—and that she probably then called Luke, who came to claim his share of the money. His thoughts whirl swiftly now. Because that means Luke’s a criminal. And his father’s last job, or whatever the hell it was, might’ve been drug-related. Maybe Jacques began pushing illegal narcotics in his old age, maybe that’s why he got nailed for such a long sentence. Thomas sits numbly on the narrow barstool. Or was it actually Luke’s job? Maybe his father was just playing along? Did he take the fall for Luke? Or did Luke threaten him to silence? Did Luke betray him? Does this mean Luke was the one—and here Thomas almost forgets to breathe—that Luke was the one responsible for Jacques’s death? He killed my father. His thoughts race dramatically, he sucks hard on his cigarette. Vodka pumps through his bloodstream, anesthetizing him. But his brain leaps in every direction at once. He sees his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Looks at his cracked lips, and the huge sweat stains under his armpits. Luke, during their hike, telling them about Jacques’s shirts of Egyptian cotton. Jacques and Luke reciting poetry to each other while keeping an eye on their fishing lines, their blanks, their reels, the sea gray and calm. The old man knocking someone down, lifting a blunt object above another’s head as Luke flees. A backyard, a stairwell, a long room. Luke aiming a pistol at someone. His father in handcuffs. Thomas is immersed in his images: Luke with his caramel-colored eyes, Luke with his heart tattoo, his sword, his brawny biceps, his flexing muscles, handing a joint to Thomas as an owl hoots. Here he’s on the ladder painting the façade, here he’s ransacking the store with uncontrollable rage, here he’s carving that fucking currency sign into the door of Thomas’s apartment. Luke, Luc, The Kid. Thomas gulps two bottles of sparkling water in rapid succession and gorges on a handful of chips. Then he pays. Andrea’s gone. It’s hot outside. He can smell himself, rancid sweat, old smoke. Silence above the drunken noise from the bar. He thinks he sees Luke turning down a side street, and races after him. And when he reaches the corner: another glimpse of Luke, turning down another side street. But when Thomas gets to that spot, he doesn’t see him anywhere. For a moment he doesn’t know what to do. Maybe he’s hallucinating. He turns around. Wanders aimlessly through his old neighborhood, and his thoughts pound maniacally in his head: If Luke knows about the money and thinks it belongs to him, then Luke’s the one who wants it, there can be no doubt; he’s the one responsible for the break-in, the letter, the rape. Thomas stops, gasping. If Luke raped Patricia. If he . . . wearing a mask, gloves. Patricia on the cold floor. Gloves that he also used during the break-in at the store, so meticulously planned and calculated. He understands everything now. Luke didn’t want money for helping to fix up the store, it wasn’t enough money for him; he has other plans. His secretiveness. The dangerously unpredictable, the wolf-smile, but also: smiling, handsome Luke surrounded by all the women on Kristin’s and Helena’s patio. The scent of jasmine drifting over the fusty, bitter earth. And his own desire for that scent and Luke’s smooth, strong body. Hatred churns in Thomas like a tornado. He deliberately seduced me, he thinks, and he seduced Patricia too. She’s got his number, she kissed him on the mouth when they said goodbye that Sunday out in the country, he’s helping her move. He raped her. His hatred is so intense that Thomas almost can’t contain it. Sweating profusely, he tramps through the streets with his long, furious strides. It’s 10:00 P.M., Friday night. He’s still so drunk that he’s not afraid. He passes his old school and stares into its dark courtyard; the enormous linden tree is still there, the benches along the wall. He walks past his father’s apartment building and studies the darkened windows; there’s a light on in Mrs. Krantz’s place. A squirrel scoots across the street. He thinks: I’ve seen through him. He feels something resembling joy. He pushes on. He knows he’s half-crazy. An odd, pure feeling of seeing everything from a new perspective. He’s floating above the world. He looks down at it, his eyes clear and sharp. And then a faint but niggling sensation that he’s out of sync with everything. But now, again: I’m holding the long end of the fucking stick. At last he finds himself standing before the new store. He sits on the stoop. He checks his cell phone. Jules left a message: “Hope you’re okay, buddy, give me a call.” Patricia writes: “The cat’s at Kamal’s.” He roots around in his pockets for his key, then unlocks the door, trips over the doorstep, and tumbles over the big cardboard box with the lamp inside. There he lies moaning on the newly varnished floor. He’s hurt his knee.

  Thomas texts Patricia: “Was Luke the one who raped you?” Patricia responds: “What are you talking about?? Are you drunk?!” He doesn’t reply. He sits on a stepladder, his head in his hands. He chugs water from the bathroom tap. In the back room he glances out at the courtyard. A silver willow glows ghostly white next to the clotheslines. The pleasure he’d felt at figuring everything out slowly leaks from him. What remains is a cold loneliness. He can’t tell anyone about this. Here he sits in his newly occupied property, which he has haggled, stolen for himself, purchased under-the-table, and if he confronts Luke himself? Thomas closes his eyes. The silence is dense, quivering. If he confronts Luke himself? He can’t handle the thought. He touches his sore knee, rubs it through the fabric of his pants. A cold, cold loneliness. Cold as death. “He sets his pack on us he grants us a grave in the air.” Luke set his pack on us, played his sick game. Set his pack on the entire family. But especially Thomas. He yanked him around the menagerie, made a mockery of him, probably amusing himself, observed Thomas at a distance and amused himself. Thomas glides down the wall into a seated position, and leans his head against the win
dow. He thinks: Maybe I can beat him to it. His telephone rings.

  “Sorry I’m calling so late,” Luke says with his deep, calm voice. “But there’s something I want to talk to you about. Can we meet?” Pause. “Are you there, Thomas?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you at home?”

  Thomas doesn’t respond.

  “You’re at the store, right?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I walked past a little while ago and saw the lights. I’ll be right over. Two minutes.”

  Thomas can’t move. Two minutes. He can’t even run away. Terrible panic. He’s going to kill me. Not until Luke’s fumbling at the door does he clamber to his feet. For a moment he considers ignoring him, but then he’d just smash the door down, just as he smashed the door during the break-in; there’s no way around it, and in the middle of his tense fright, the flicker of hatred, there’s also a sense of relief—a kind of release, for now everything will come to a head: not just his relationship to Patricia, but also the uncertainty, the fear, and the relentless guilt. Maybe he will cease to exist, and even that seems like a welcome freedom. But a moment later the thought’s replaced with a very real dread of death. Luke raps on the door again. Thomas reluctantly lets him in. Luke shakes his bangs from his eyes. “Hi,” he says. “I brought a six pack.” He edges past Thomas and stops in the center of the store. “These floors have really turned out great. How many coats did you say it was?”

  “Five.” Thomas stands behind him, ready to defend himself if Luke should turn and charge him. Luke’s fast as a snake. But Luke doesn’t turn, he continues into the back room. “Isn’t there a chair in here? Bring the stepladder with you. I’ll sit on that.” Thomas arranges the stepladder on the floor beside the window and drops into the chair. Luke removes two beers from a bag and pops the caps with his lighter. “Want a smoke?” he asks. They sit with their beers and their cigarettes. A short silence. Thomas’s heart thumps so hard in his chest that he’s certain Luke can see it. The painter’s lamp floods the room with bright white light. They regard each other. Hard shadows slant across Luke’s face. “I have something I want to tell you,” Luke says. “I’ve actually wanted to tell you this for a long time, since right after Jacques’s was buried, but of course I didn’t know you back then . . .”

  “Before you say shit about anything, there’s something we need to discuss,” Thomas says, his voice low. It’s as if there’s no oxygen in him. He inhales sharply through his nose.

  “I think it’s best that I start.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s serious.”

  “Not as serious as this.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Luke sips his beer. “Let’s settle it then. Rock, paper, scissors?” He extends his hand.

  “What are we playing for?”

  “Who gets to talk first, of course!” Luke smiles. “Two out of three?” Thomas looks directly at Luke, who appears to be calm still, but also nervous. His eyes wander. Thomas raises his hand, and the tips of Luke’s fingers briefly graze his. They play. Luke wins the first round with scissors. Thomas wins the second with rock. And in the third and decisive round, Luke wins again, covering Thomas’s stone with his paper, grasping it and squeezing and chuckling. “You’re too drunk! Winning is impossible when you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk.” Thomas pulls his hand back.

  Luke’s laughter subsides. Again the intense, pulsing silence. Thomas recalls the sensation he felt when the enormous body seized him in the basement the night Jules and Tina visited. A huge zombie body, and it feels as though he can hear its heavy breathing nearby, ready to snatch him and crush him in its embrace. He can almost hear the resounding voice shouting at him: Who’s there? “Well,” Luke says. “This is a little hard for me to say. But . . .”

  Here it comes, Thomas thinks. He’s going to confess, and then he’s going to jump me. He crouches forward, ready to defend himself.

  Luke glances at the floor. “I figured you wouldn’t believe me if I just told you. So I’ve brought some . . . hmm . . . some evidence with me.” He pulls a crumpled-up slip of paper from the breast pocket of his short-sleeved shirt.

  “Evidence?” Thomas doesn’t understand. “What?”

  “Just look at it,” Luke says softly, thrusting the document at him. He cocks his head. Thomas is handed a sheet of thick, yellowed paper. He unfolds it. It’s obvious what it is: a birth certificate. Issued almost twenty-three years earlier. Luc Dupont. Born the eighth of November. Mother: Rose Dupont. Father: Jacques O’Mally. Thomas rereads the last part. Rereads it again. Father: Jacques O’Mally. So he was right after all when he thought Luke was his brother. He looks at him, indifferent. “What am I supposed to make of this?”

  “That. That . . . because,” Luke says, eyeing Thomas. As though sucking him in with his velvety-smooth eyes, his face both disarmed and vulnerable. “Because Jacques is my father. We’re brothers, Thomas.” A shy little smile spreads across his face. “I’m your brother.”

  Thomas stares at him. “So what?”

  “And Jenny’s my sister. It’s been so hard for me to say this and . . .”

  Thomas glowers at Luke. Luke nods. “I couldn’t say it. But tonight . . .” Thomas thinks: Yet another way to manipulate me. Yet another sick maneuver in his game. Thomas stands abruptly, filled with a sudden, mad rage. “Stop!” he roars, startling Luke. “STOP FEEDING ME ALL YOUR BULLSHIT!” Quick as lightning, he grabs Luke and yanks him up, pulling him close. “Haven’t you done enough already? Huh? Who do you think you are? Haven’t you done enough?” He gives him a jerk. “So you want a little brotherly love to prance around with? Do you think I’m stupid, Luke?” Luke stares at him, frightened. “I saw you tonight with that little pusher-chick,” Thomas snarls. “I saw her handing you money, you miserable shit. I’m very aware of what you’ve got going on.” He shakes Luke hard, then shoves him away. Luke stumbles backward. “So that’s how you earn your ‘big money,’ huh? I knew there was something wrong with you. You’re nothing but a dumb fucking loser, just like your mother. And your ‘father.’ Ha!” Again he shoves Luke, forcing him back.

  “You don’t understand,” Luke whispers.

  “I sure as fuck understand!” Thomas hisses. “Stay away from my family, you psychopath!”

  “But Thomas,” Luke gives him a confused look. “All I wanted was to tell you we have the same father. Is that so bad? I haven’t asked you for anything. When he died, when they told me he’d died, I asked that you and Jenny not know anything about me. I wanted to tell you myself.”

  “And you suddenly wanted to communicate something, huh? Normally you like to tell me things in quite another way.” Thomas raises his arm threateningly. “Quite another way . . .”

  “But,” Luke takes a step closer, “it’s not my fault that Jacques got my mother pregnant. It was random. It was . . . fate. I didn’t know until I was twelve.” Another step closer: “But he took care of me. He helped me . . .”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “But he did.”

  “I don’t give a shit!” Thomas roars. “And the two of us,” he points at Luke with a trembling finger, “we’re not brothers. You got that? You’ll get nothing from me, nothing!”

  “But I’m not asking you for anything.” Luke seems to be on the verge of tears now. He walks dejectedly over to his birth certificate and scoops it off the floor, puts it in his pocket, and sits down on the stepladder. “Why are you so mad at me? It’s not my fault. There’s no reason for you to hate me.”

  Thomas is suddenly at a loss for words. He parks himself in the chair opposite Luke. “No reason for me to hate you?” he says, low, almost inaudibly. “I can fucking assure you that I have a reason.”

  Luke looks at him, bewildered, then fingers a cigarette from his pack. “But why?” He lights the cigarette with the blue lighter, his hands trembling. “What have I done to you?” Thomas drains his beer. He regards the young man w
ho’s calling himself his brother. He feels sick. He recalls that constricting feeling he had when the two of them sat on the bench in Kristin and Helena’s sunroom. “We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we / two, / We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.” How pathetic. He was trying to give him a sign, to explain how they belonged together, to seal their brotherhood—the day before he raped Patricia! And what he said when they returned to the city, about his father not understanding him, that Thomas got on his nerves, and Thomas cried afterward, his shame and despair. It’s sick. Luke has been a monstrous bastard the entire time, and as his brother it’s even more vile and disgusting. Contempt swells and swells in Thomas. Luke says: “I was always by myself when I was a kid. I dreamed of you a lot, of you and Jenny. I used to imagine what you were like.” Thomas is close to retching. “Did you really see me with Andrea tonight?” Luke glances at him, a sad look in his eyes. “I’m really sorry about that.” At that Thomas leaps to his feet, shouting and screaming: “Now you admit it, huh? You fucking rapist!” Luke regards him, puzzled, but now there’s also something uneasy in his eyes; he wants to say something. But Thomas gets right in his face, screaming. “Was it hot raping my girlfriend? Huh? Did you enjoy it? Did you feel big and powerful? Was it fun sending that letter to my sister, or ransacking my store? What is it that you think you deserve, Luke? Tell me. But when it comes right down to it, maybe you don’t have the balls. Maybe you don’t know how to do anything else but stand there fencing with your fishing pole and reciting stupid poems? Is that all you learned from your beloved father? That’s great, Luke, great! Catch a little fish and stammer a little poem. Fucking recite fucking haiku, and then go out and fucking destroy my life!” Thomas approaches Luke, and Luke gets to his feet, lurching backward a step. Thomas towers over him, feeling immensely powerful; he moves closer, so close to Luke’s face that he notices his almost vaporous heat, the scent of his skin. “But apparently you’ve also learned how to rape,” he hisses. “You’re much worse than Jacques. All that money you’d like to get your hands on—he hid it well. And it doesn’t seem like he hid it for you to find, because if that were the case, he would’ve told you where the money was, don’t you think?” His voice grows louder and louder. “But maybe you thought you could just pick up your prize later? Was that what you thought? That’s what you thought, right, Luke? That’s how you treat your ‘father’ and ‘brother.’ Fuck you!” Luke’s face is dark and emotionless now. He squints in that way of his, his eyes glistening and repulsive. Thomas looks at him, at the body he’s desired and dreamed of. It’s just flesh now, malevolent flesh, his disgust is total. Thomas advances and wraps his hand around the back of Luke’s neck, pulling his head close: “But there was just that one little problem—that I beat you to it. I beat you to it, Luke. Too bad. You’ll get nothing. I’m not sharing with you. I’d never dream of it.” Thomas breathes rapidly. He’s hot, his muscles tense. Luke’s face is so close that it blurs into a pale oval, his irises dark stains against white. With a swift motion Thomas lifts his right arm, draws it back, and punches his clenched fist with all his might against Luke’s jaw. Luke tumbles backward. “Get out! And don’t show your face around here again!” Thomas kicks at him and manages to land a blow to his thigh; he kicks again, but this time Luke gets out of the way. Before Thomas knows it, Luke has him pinned to the floor, and is sitting on top of him with his hands clasped around his throat. He’s young, and so strong that Thomas doesn’t stand a chance. He restrains Thomas’s arms with his knees, pressing them against the sides of his body. Thomas tries to get a foothold on the floor, but his leather soles slide on the smooth, newly varnished wood, and no matter how much he struggles to free himself, Luke doesn’t budge. He snarls at Thomas, spitting words between his teeth, his jaw already beginning to swell, red and shiny: “So you’re accusing me of screwing your girlfriend? You mean like this?” Luke makes sexual gestures, driving his groin against Thomas’s. “You think it was like this?” He drives again, and Thomas manages to slip one arm loose. He goes for Luke’s eyes, but Luke jerks his head back. Thomas squeezes his fingers into Luke’s chin. Luke releases Thomas’s throat with one hand and again braces Thomas’s arm under his knee. At the same time, he presses Thomas’s head against the floor with the other, holding his sweaty hand over his mouth and nose. And then once again he’s clutching Thomas’s throat. “So I fucked her and got her pregnant? If that’s what you think, then that means she’s going to have my kid, Thomas. Have you considered that?” Thomas gasps for air. His feet skate helplessly on the shiny floor. Luke stares at Thomas with pure hatred: “You know what I see when I look at you now? I see a real shit. You think I want a shit for a brother?” He jerks his head. “Ha! No! My mistake! Who the hell would want you for a brother?” Luke bares his teeth, then laughs brusquely and hysterically. “Nobody! Nobody wants you!” He laughs hysterically again, then tightens his grip on Thomas. Thomas’s chest heaves and heaves. Luke stops laughing. Thomas clutches his own thigh, pushing off, using all the strength he can muster to shove Luke’s knee away with his elbow, and actually manages to free his arm, and now the other arm. He tears at Luke’s arms and hands to get them away from his throat. And when he finally succeeds, he goes after Luke’s face and eyes again. But Luke leans over Thomas and pushes his cheek into his. His voice is unbearably close: “Because you have no honor, Thomas. You don’t even know how to take care of your girlfriend.” Thomas hammers on Luke’s back, punches his ribs with his fists, grips a handful of his hair, thrashes about under him, but Luke won’t be moved. Instead he presses his cheek deeper into Thomas’s. The sharp cheekbone, the swollen jaw. “It’s no wonder Patricia left you. You’re not a real man, Thomas. And you know what?” He lifts his head and gives Thomas an ice-cold stare. Thomas feels weak, his skin prickly, and his head’s light as a balloon. Still he tries to shove Luke off him with his free hand, but he doesn’t have the strength. “I hate your perfect shitty life and your tiny ridiculous stores. Who the fuck cares whether a wall is painted white or gray? You can take it all and shove it right up your sorry ass.” He squeezes Thomas. It feels as though his eyes are going to pop out of his face, as if they’re pinned on stalks. Thomas’s throat gurgles. “You don’t give a shit about your own family,” Luke hisses, “and now that I think of it, I almost think I hate you.” He nods, smiling grimly. “I do, Thomas. I do hate you!” Thomas can barely breathe now. He lashes desperately with his head, rips and punches Luke’s arms, but he can’t wrest himself free. “I fucking hate you.” Luke hocks a wad of phlegm onto Thomas’s face. At first it’s warm and soft, but it quickly turns wet and cold. Thomas wriggles in Luke’s grasp, his arms pawing for the floor, and one of his hands miraculously finds the ladder, and it falls on the two men. When the ladder connects with Luke’s back, he briefly loosens his grip on Thomas’s throat, and Thomas uses the opportunity to rip Luke’s hands away. Gasping for air, he throws Luke off. He tries to get up, and whirls onto his side, but Luke grabs him again; they roll around on the floor: Luke knees Thomas in the groin, and Thomas twists Luke’s arm over his back, Luke bites Thomas’s right ear, and Thomas screams in pain. Then Luke’s sitting on top of Thomas again, his hands around his throat, but this time Thomas’s hands are under Luke’s; he tries to pry them off as best he can, and Luke isn’t able to tighten his grip as much as before. He can’t quite stop Thomas from breathing. They’re close to the wall now. Thomas’s head bonks into some empty cans of varnish, which the workers left behind. They skitter around noisily between them. “Was it you?” Thomas’s voice is hoarse and thin. “Say it,” he croaks. “Was it you? Did you do it?” Luke laughs. Opens his mouth and smirks. His battered jaw looks grotesque in the bright light, bluish-red, abnormal. “Was it me?!” He drops his head back, grinning. He glares at Thomas with a demented expression on his face, an evil clown, madness in his wide eyes: “Rock, paper, scissors, Thomas! I win! Give up. It’s too easy beating an old fuck-up like you.” Thomas’s anger g
rows again now, and maybe that’s why he’s so inattentive for one moment, a short, short moment that allows Luke to get a better grip. And now Luke’s able to squeeze his hands tighter around Thomas’s throat. Thomas gurgles, the pressure behind his eyes is unbearable. He kicks his legs and thumps Luke’s chest, claws at Luke’s face, is almost lucky enough to jab a finger into Luke’s eye, but Luke’s fast and moves out of the way. Desperately Thomas tries to find something to strike him with. His hand smacks against a can of varnish, it’s empty, and then another can, also empty, and now he hears something rattling around, in this one here, a screwdriver. He snatches it up. Luke says, “How was that again? You didn’t want to be like Jacques, right? Now look at yourself.” He sneers. “And now you feel bad for yourself. Oh, how awful for poor little Thomas.” Thomas holds the screwdriver in his hand, out of sight, beside Luke’s hip. He’s making raspy, squeaking sounds. Luke’s voice becomes distant and indistinct. Thomas’s vision is going black. And with his last remaining strength, Thomas makes one single, sudden movement, swiftly raising the screwdriver and sinking it into Luke’s throat. It penetrates his skin surprisingly easily and disappears into his flesh. Luke lets go of Thomas, and clutches his throat. For a moment, his eyes are shocked and lucid, and then comes the fear of death. Horrible rasping and clucking sounds escape him. Thin jets of blood pump from him and splash across Thomas’s face and torso with each beat of his heart. Warm blood drips into Thomas’s mouth and he pushes Luke off, then with some difficulty he scrambles to all fours. He coughs and coughs, deep sounds rising from the barrel of his throat; he gasps and spits, his throat is dry and raw as sandpaper. Another coughing fit and he’s about to throw-up, hoarsely gulping for air. He clambers to his feet, wobbly. Luke’s lying lifeless on the floor of the well-lit room. Blood has stopped gushing from him, but it’s pooling around his body now, a large red flower. The dark, polished floor, the red flower. The bright light on Luke’s face. The bruised jaw. His wide open, dead eyes. Thomas is terribly dizzy. He struggles to breathe. In and out. In and out. Come on. In and out. His heart thumps. Oxygen fills his lungs. He slumps over the figure on the floor. He hugs Luke close: his blood smells metallic, fresh. Thomas buries his face in Luke’s greasy hair. He can feel his own hot breath.