Flash Fiction: Chasing the Dead

His brown eyes locked onto me when he walked through the front door, so dark with despair. The harsh glow of the entryway light bleached his olive-toned skin. He was a wasted version of his former self.

My family was seated in a circle, dressed to the hilt as they opened Christmas gifts, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Didn't they hear him come in?

He continued to hold my gaze, his mouth drawn down at the corners, like he wanted to cry but couldn't. I wanted to jump up from that circle and run up to him, but I couldn't. I wanted hug him and tell him that I loved him and ask him why he left us the way he did.

But all I could do was sit in that circle and stare at him with my unspoken and unanswered questions. He finally broke the eye contact and walked down the dark hallway that led to our childhood bedrooms.

Don't leave! Please don't leave!

I tried to get up and succeeded in maneuvering myself into a crouched position. That was as far as I got. Something held me in place, and invisible force that I wasn't quite tangible.

He was gone. The dark hallway taunted me, so final and unforgiving. It had swallowed my little brother whole.

I looked at the faces of my grandmother, parents and surviving siblings. Then I looked at my own family. That invisible force still held me in place as they continued opening gifts and chattering at each other.

They knew and had chosen not to see, as always. My soul felt blistered and raw. There was no escape, not for me.