The Predator

I sigh, a thin cloud hovering in front of my face before it vanishes.

I've watched Jordan fall over his feet so many times today it's starting to rub. The urge to protect grows a little thin in the light of all the blunders my little brother manages to make. But it's not easy to protect with only hands you can see and feel anyway.

I sigh again, my spectral form hovering a few inches above the hallway's floor, bubblegum and dirt lurking in dark corners where the janitor doesn't bother with.

Jordan has managed to get through the doors of Harville High without tripping. Shocking. The days when I was there to catch him are long gone. I helped that kid when he busted nearly every day. He dropped things, broke bottles of liquor our drunken father loved to relax with. He never took kindly to his relaxation being taken away.

I was nearly as big as Dad, so it was my job to keep him away from Mom and the kids, including Jordan.

He plods through the hall, awkwardly avoiding the large groups that linger outside home rooms. Their constant giggling used to drive me mad until I realized, hey girls are okay. Jordan hasn't reached that point yet. Not yet.

His locker swings open with a protestant screech. He glances around nervously before swinging his backpack into the space, digging into it for something I can't see. I hover closer, peering over his shoulder. A shiny barrel comes into view. This is new. Well maybe not all that new, as we are in America, glorious land of freedom.

Jordan stuffs the gun into his inner coat pocket, before casually shutting the tin door.

Too casual for someone as uncool as my brother. I groan: my idiot sibling must be dying to meet his big bro.

I used to watch about true crime, got pretty heavy into it. I'd stay up late loading up on coke to keep my mind alert, all the while watching documentaries on everything from ancient horror to modern crime. I never realized the effect the shows may have had on young Jordan's mind. And now the school was going to pay the price, just like I did.

I follow him through the doors of Miss Hutcherson's class room. History, Jordan's favorite. Won't happen here. I float above his desk, watch him shift uncomfortably the whole period. His pencils roll around listlessly, falling with a clatter to the ground. Instinctively, I bend to pick a blue pen up, my fingers passing right through the object. What a pain. I cuss loudly, no worries, they can't hear me.

Sometimes, through some glitch in the matrix, I feel the roughness of sweater as I pass through a random student, or maybe the cold of the flimsy lockers. Not something I can rely on though.

Jordan's sweaty palms lose the pen again; this time the girl across from him picks it up. With a smile, she hands it to him, their fingertips touching briefly. Jordan blushes a bright red. A first. I let out a cheer. Again, no response to my jubilant outburst.

I slump into the empty seat behind Jordan; at least I can still sit in a chair, even if I can't feel it.

A few more nervous classes later, the lunch bell rings, summoning students to the cafeteria doors for a few more moments of chatting, blissfully unaware of the predator in their midst.

The girl walks over to my lone brother. She sits her food next to his. Well than again, Jordan isn't bad looking. Takes after his brother. She tries to start a conversation but Jordan mumbles about number two and disappears. You gotta be kidding me. The prettiest girl in his range of existence tries to hit him up and Jordan ignores her.

I float after him as he pushes open the bathroom door. He checks the stalls before pulling out the gun, putting on a few poses in front of the mirror like the sick kid he is.

Everyone moment increases the pressure building up on my gut. I watch, the deja vu eerily pushing itself onto the stage. Except now I'm on the killers side, on the right end of the gun. My reincarnation, manifesting itself in my kid brother.

Jordan steps out, stepping stealthily out into the open. A predator, stalking his prey. His breathing is quick and shallow, betraying his nerves under his solemn exterior. e The cafeteria. The target. He pushes open the swinging doors, and the first shot rings out, an all too familiar sound. I hadn't been the first. I'd heard the shots before the killer targeted my home room.

Screams erupt from the hundreds of teens who have gathered, a place of safety from off the streets, where gangs preyed on the tender.

Not anymore. I watch helplessly as several boys fall before my brother's blind desperation. It's his way of making up for a wrong. But two wrongs don't make a right. The girl rushes out toward the bathrooms and Jordan points the gun. But his hand trembles for the first time in the last minute. Then it steadies and the girl falls.

Alarms sound through the school, adding chaos as doors slam shut and shouts pass from one desperate soul to another.

The next few minutes last an eternity, but thankfully the teachers have caught on and all the doors are locked. Jordan passes a boy, passed out, a bullet wound in his chest.

My brother is human, and this proximity is too much. He rushes for the bathroom but dozens of terrified faces scream as he enters. He leaves and forces the gym door open.

Jordan retches into the gym bathroom's sink. Exhausted, he supports himself by leaning against the wall, enjoying the coolness. I breathe onto his face, hoping to cool him down. Nothing. He straightens and stares at his reflection for a minute.

Heavy footsteps are heard on the stairs outside.

Jordan tries to raise the gun to his own head but I can't let him. One last prayer and the tips of my fingers brush the gun, diverting the bullet into wall. The door swings open and the cops rush in. One has just passed his injured son in the hallway. The cold fury in his eyes is unmistakable as he shoots, even as my brother raises his arms.

My brother's body collapses but his specter remains standing, surprised at this turn of events. I slap my forehead. Always getting in trouble. I float over anyway, exhausted.

"Hello little bro."