Bloody Knuckles

by Ryan Krause

flap, knuckles, martyr, capsule, chalk, wreck

This was not the game Joey should have been playing against Frank. They should have flipped a coin or raced from point A to point B. Frank was taller and fatter. His hands were 15 pound weights. This was not the game Joey should have agreed to. But he wasn't going to give up now regardless of the color his knuckles. They had become gray marbly slabs of beef. The thought zipped into his head, was he going to be able to even hold the playstation controller had he won? He didn't care. He was in too deep to deny himself now. And Frank ALWAYS hogged the playstation. Joey was going to make a name for himself once and for all. A martyr for all youngest brothers around the world. THWAP! Frank gave Joey a good one, and smiled afterward. He knew it hurt. Even his knuckles did after that one. He didn't feel guilty though. He was paving Joey's path to manhood. He was giving him lessons in strength. Doing his baby brother a favor. It was Joey's turn again. Pausing for a second he looked Frank dead in the eye, breathed in (thinking how raw the tops of his battered hands felt. He knew if he would go on much longer, his bones would mash into cornmeal causing his hands to be little wingflaps for him to fly away to a home that didn't have an abusive older dickhead brother.) Breathing out, he felt his feet melt firmly into the floor. Cinderblocks. The floor a pool of tar. SHWONK!! This was it. Frank retracted his elbows into his sides at 16 miles per hour, and shrieked like a horror movie. Joey couldn't help himself from apologizing, "Oh my god I'm so sorry!" Frank cussed him out, and told him he hit a nerve ending. Good excuse Frank, goooood excuse. Frank called him one more name and rubbed the nerve ending spot over and over, then whimpered into his bedroom. Chalk one up for younger brothers everywhere!