It had been ten months since Mike had died, but the pain was still fresh. I thought of him several times a day, every day. He hadn't spoken to me, if that was what it had been, since Ian and I confessed the truth of our feelings for one another.

Ian and his family threw a party for me on the day after my birthday. I felt Mike's ghost the whole time. My parents were there too, but Mom seemed preoccupied and Dad wouldn't even look at me. By the end of the party, after the few friends that had been invited left, everyone was emotionally drained. All of us were aware that Mike would have been thirteen, too.

Dad wasted no time in leaving for home as soon as the last guest vacated. Mom, clearly distressed at my father's refusal to acknowledge me, refused to go with him. He didn't argue with her; he just left. I found myself indifferent to his actions. I had been pulling back from him for quite some time, and his departure simply reinforced that separation.

Mom came to me immediately after he left and swept me into a tight hug, murmuring in my ear that she loved me, she always would, and nothing I had done or could do would change that. I returned her embrace. In the months since her return from the hospital, my mother had been unwaveringly supportive and loving despite the fighting she and my father engaged in. I knew from what I overheard during their arguments that she was my advocate when their heated words turned to me and my existence. Momtwo gave my mother a ride home a short time later.

Ian and I took off on our bikes for the park to meet up with Matt and Mark Voit. We had made plans to play basketball. I would be the shortest player there at five-foot-two, six inches shorter than the other boys. It didn't really make that much of a difference, though, because I was faster than they were. We found the twins were waiting for us when we got there, watching some older boys play.

"Hey guys," the dark-haired Matt called. "We'll get half the court in a few minutes."

"Hi, Matt. Sounds good," Ian replied.

"Ben, are you okay?" Mark asked. He had lighter hair than his brother.

"My dad," I sighed by way of explanation. Both Matt and Mark were aware of my father's apparent antipathy toward me.

"I'm sorry, Ben," commiserated Mark.

I shrugged. "Nothing you can do about it."

Ian put his arm around my shoulders. I smiled slightly when I met his troubled gaze. He squeezed me tightly before releasing me.

"It's not right," Matt complained. "He's your dad. He's supposed to love you."

"He used to," I carped bitterly. "Before I killed Mike."

All three of my companions turned serious eyes on me and spoke at the same time.

"You didn't kill Mikey!" shouted Ian.

"That's bullshit!" yelled Matt.

"Fuck that shit!" blurted Mark.

The three of them traded amused glances before returning their attention to me.

Ian spoke first. "Ben…"

"Look, guys," I interrupted him, "I know I didn't kill him, but my dad acts like I did. Can we just drop it? I don't care anymore, anyway."

Matt and Mark nodded and sighed. We had remained close once I got my head back on straight following Mike's death. Ian's birthday party was the turning point for my "recovery," if you will. We'd played football in the snow and froze our balls off, but when we got back to Ian's for hot chocolate, they asked me how I was doing. I told them the truth. I told them about my mom flipping out and my dad becoming an ass. They listened to me for hours on end at times and they never became angry or impatient with me. When I couldn't or didn't want to talk to Ian, Matt and Mark were my lifeline. The only thing they didn't know was that Ian and I were together.

All yours, guys," called one of the older players as they left the court.

Basketball tended to be a brutal affair when the four of us played, not because we were malicious, but because we were so uncoordinated. Their elbows landed on my head or hit me in the nose, and I ended up tagging them accidentally in the groin. It was an unspoken rule that we played until someone couldn't go on any longer or we got tired. That day's game ended with no serious damage to any of us. We said our goodbyes and split up to go our separate ways.

As the one-year anniversary of the accident drew nearer, I became more and more withdrawn. Even Ian sometimes complained that he couldn't reach me. It took a concerted effort to pull myself back and spend time with him without becoming overwhelmed by the emotions welling up inside.

School ended. My grades were decent but nothing spectacular, and they were noticeably lower than they had been the year before. My father became enraged and verbally brutalized me for over an hour because of it. He stopped only because mom came home.

On the first anniversary of Mike's death, dad came home from work and went straight to the liquor cabinet. Knowing that this could lead to nothing good, I packed a bag in case I had to leave quickly. I hid out in my room until mom got home. The arguing started instantly. Dad made no secret of his feelings.

"Ben! Get your ass out here!" he barked.

"Steven, leave him alone!" Mom demanded. "He didn't do anything."

"Shut up. It's his fault Mike is dead and you know it!"

"No, Steven, it is most certainly not his fault. You're drunk. Now is not the time to discuss this!" Mom was trying to defuse dad's mounting anger and having little luck.

"Ben!"

Heavy footsteps coming down the hall told me my welcome had worn out. As soon as the door opened I darted from my room and out of the house. The garage was still open and provided access to my bike. As the front door of the house opened, I was pedaling as fast as I could to get away. I had no idea where to go, but I knew I couldn't stay at home. Ian would make me welcome, but I didn't want to endanger them should my father go searching for me.

I rode out of our neighborhood to Elyssum Avenue and turned south. It was close to six-o'clock, so I rode fast down to Eleventh Street and turned west until I came to the cemetery. The sign at the gate told me the place closed at sundown so I had about an hour before they'd kick me out.

When I arrived at Mike's grave, I sat in front of his headstone and studied it. It was just as I remembered it last time I visited. How long ago was that? Six months?

"I'm sorry, Mike," I whispered as tears filled my eyes. "I'm not a very good brother to you."

I half-hoped his spirit would return to me and speak, but I heard nothing.

"What am I going to do, Mikey? Dad blames me for what happened. He hates me. I can't go home. I could go to Ian's but Dad would find me there.

"Am I to blame?" I wondered aloud. "Everyone tells me that I'm not. Even you told me that, and dad… he said it to, but I guess he changed his mind."

I paused, hoping to hear Mike's voice. All I heard was the rustling of trees and their new leaves in the evening breeze.

"Mike, I still miss you. I wish you were here so much. Everything would be better. Mom and dad would still love each other. Dad would still love me…"

I trailed off as my throat caught. Tears came to my eyes, but I held them back. Crying didn't do any good. I sat quietly, letting my mind range free. Memories of my twin often entered my consciousness, as did memories of Ian. I missed my boyfriend too, but I knew I couldn't go there. My father would be sure to find me, and with the alcohol, he was capable of anything.

"The park is closing, son," a man said from behind me. "You'll have to leave now."

I was amazed that the time had passed so quickly. I didn't turn to face him, instead turning my head part way and nodding in acknowledgement.

"A few more minutes and then I'll head out."

"Okay. Thanks, son."

I spoke to my twin's headstone as the man walked on.

"I don't know what to say, Bro. You know how I feel. You know what's happening. I hope you're happier where you are then I am here. I miss you. I love you. Bye."

I rode my bike down the street to a fast food place and got some dinner. While I ate my hamburger, I tried to figure out where to go for the night and decided to call Matt and Mark. Maybe I could stay at their place. Their father answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Um, hello, Mr. Voit? This is Ben Foster. Can I speak to Matt or Mark, please?"

"Sure, Ben," He said pleasantly. After calling to one of the boys he asked, "How are you? I haven't seen you in a while."

"I'm okay. It's still hard. Today is… It's been a year."

"Oh, Ben, I'm sorry." The sympathy in his voice was real.

"Thanks."

"Here is Mark. It's good to hear from you, Ben."

"Thanks. It's nice talking to you, too."

I heard the phone change hands and Mark answering his father.

"Hey Ben!" Mark said in a disgustingly cheerful voice. "Whassup?"

"I won't beat around the bush, Mark. I need a place to stay for tonight."

"Why? What happened?" My friend's tone was sure to alert his father that something was wrong.

"Shhh! Ask your dad if I can stay over and I'll tell you then."

"Okay. Hold on." He lowered the phone. "Dad! Can Ben stay over tonight? Yeah, but it's not like we have anything planned. He wouldn't have asked. Okay." He put the phone to his ear again. "Dad says okay, but I'm pretty sure he knows something is going on. You haven't asked to stay over since Mike, uh, died."

"I know."

"Is it bad?" Mark asked quietly.

"I'll tell you when I get there."

"Ben…"

"Bad enough, Mark."

"Okay," he sighed. "How long `til you get here?"

"I'm down on Eleventh Street right now…"

"What are you doing way down there?" Mark asked loudly.

"Jesus, Mark, shush already! I'll tell you when I get there. It'll be about fifteen minutes."

"Okay. See you then."

"Bye."

Twenty minutes later I stood at the front door of the Voit home. Matt opened the door just as I got there, having seen me ride up.

"Dad wants to talk to you, Ben," Matt informed me. "He heard Mark."

"Fuck. Maybe I should leave."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Mr. Voit said from behind the door. "Come in and sit down, Ben. You'll be here for a while."

Mark caught my eyes guiltily, but I shrugged, indicating I didn't blame him. I took a seat on the couch. The brothers sat on the loveseat as Mr. Voit stood in front of me.

"Ben, what's going on?" The man asked in a soft voice.

"I'm n-not sure it's s-safe," I stammered, suddenly anxious.

The admission was painful. It told the Voits that all was not well in our family.

"Why isn't it safe, Ben?" He queried.

"My dad and I don't get along very well," I murmured as I dropped my eyes to the floor.

"Do your parents know you're here?" The man quietly demanded.

"N-no."

"I'm going to call them and tell them. I have to let them know you're safe, Ben."

"No!" I barked, staring at the man, wide-eyed. "I can't go home! Not tonight."

"I need a reason, Ben," Mr. Voit said sternly. "I'm not going to help you run away from home if you're in trouble."

"No. It's not that…."

"Then what is it, Ben?"

I dropped my eyes again. "I told you today was the one year anniversary of Mike's death, right?"

"Okay…"

"Dad blames me for it. He's drinking."

"Ah. Boys, get Ben set up in the spare room. Ben, stay here for a second." He waited for his sons to leave the room. "Ben, has he hit you?"

"No. I left before it got that far."

He nodded to himself.

"Is there anyone I can call?" He asked.

"Can I make a call? I have to let someone know that I'm okay."

"Sure. Have you eaten?"

"Yes, thanks."

Mr. Voit went back toward the bedrooms while I made the call.

"Hello?"

"Are my parents there?" I asked.

"Your mom is," Ian replied.

"Okay. Don't let her know I'm on the phone."

"Sure."

"I'm okay. I won't tell you where I am so you won't have to lie, but I'm okay for now."

"That's good to hear. Thanks for calling. Will you call tomorrow?"

"If I can."

I glanced behind me and saw the Voits were still in the back of the house.

"I love you, Ian."

"Same here. Someone's waiting on the phone so I have to go."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

I gently placed the phone back in the receiver, and silently wondered what else could go wrong.


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