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I'd always been the younger sister, the one he watched vigilantly over, but lately I'd been wondering...Well, no. That was just insane. Brothers just don't feel that way towards their sisters, do they? All the little compliments, his smiles and the frequent embraces we traded, it all had to be innocent, didn't it?But truth be told, I rather wished they weren't. After all, were we not siblings, I'd have jumped Sean long, long ago. He was tall, athletic but not heavily muscled, and with dark-brown, shoulder length hair that he was always careful to style into place. Left untamed, it had a tendency to curl; I liked it better that way, longed to run my fingers through it, but he thought it made him look like he was wearing a bad powdered wig. And at an even six feet, he towered over my diminutive 5 feet and six inches.Holding the note, I started up the stairs, following the carpet of red petals. I wondered briefly how much this gesture had set him back; red roses are hardly cheap, and. In Houston, where he’d made a name for himself, Ben’s enemies would cross to the other side of the street seeing him coming down the sidewalk. Here, in the house of his birth, he was no braver than the thin waif of a girl who’d yelled out the truth that afternoon. ‘Where’s that bottle?’ the voice of his mother’s demand stormed down the hallway. Since compromise was the middle name of cowardliness, Ben took a pitcher of well water and filled back the bottle to the proper height, washing the outsides with a dry cotton towel until the glass container appeared untouched. The liquid’s color stayed unchanged, a blood red ready to burn the evil out of the most stubborn child – a punishment cloaked as a good deed, the same as his Deacon father preached the devil out of the lowly sinner whether the devil resided there or not. Ben hurried back to the porch and handed the bottle to his mother. He looked out and across the fields to shield his eyes from any questions, then resumed his place.
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