[ WP ] You are 16 , living with your parents , a man claiming to be your long lost brother shows up at your door with a gun , he slowly says , `` They ... are not your family ''

`` I'm so proud of you, do n't forget that.'' 
 
 Mom only ever says that when I win prizes. Which is great news for me, the pride of my school, my family, the boy who will grow up to become the finest doctor to represent the Walt household. There's a lot of love to go around our house. 
 
 So when the mailman rings our door my mother and I go hand in hand. 
 
 It's our Spring Magazine, Women's Weekly. My Top Gear. Mom glances over the separated magazines I clutch. 
 
 I remember the backhanded fury I received when she uncovered the stray Playboy tucked underneath the Walt pile. It was a terrible mistake, of course, mom and I know this is a sin, that my missing molars were a small price to pay for my dirty soul. But I am clean now. 
 
 She's satisfied. We thank the mailman as he rides off the musty road, and mom takes her magazines with her to the restroom. As her door clamps shut, my heart clamps too as a draped figure saunters down my pathway. He holds a scroll in his hand.. a map? 
 
 A lost tourist. Normally my mom and I talk together but if it's just a tourist, I'm sure we can overlook this. 
 
 I greet him with a cheerful but snuffled hello. He does n't offer me courtesy. But he does glare at me, with his uncomfortably rabid eyes. Grey, turbulent beads. Perhaps not so friendly. 
 
 `` Do n't call for that lady.'' 
 
 How unsettling. 
 
 `` E, excuse me?'' 
 
 He does n't blink. 
 
 `` Do you mean my mother? 
 
 `` Do not call for that woman. I am your brother and I'm here to help you.'' 
 
 He's must be out of his mind, and I do n't like this situation one bit. Coming out alone was a regrettable mistake. I squawk out for my mom. 
 
 This man does n't like this, his expression contorts into subtle anger. 
 
 `` You're living with a bitch. I'm your brother. I'M YOUR BROTHER.'' 
 He pulls out a gun and aims it at me. 
 
 `` Just come with me. Whether you like it or not, you're coming. Shoot now or talk later.'' 
 
 I'm wailing now. Some neighbouring faces appear in my peripherals. Some dialing for help, others observe. 
 
 Flush. 
 
 `` Who is it?'' 
 My mom's footsteps twist the mood. The man's impatience bares itself. 
 
 `` SHE IS NOT YOUR MOTHER! OUR MOTHER IS DEAD AND SHE TOOK HER FROM YOU!'' 
 
 The neighbours come out of hiding. Nobody can miss this now. 
 
 Mom appears from the corridor into the light of the terrace entrance. Her face is shrouded in a sense of unease. She recognizes this mysterious man. 
 
 They stare at each other. Eyes grey as winter, motionless as the icecaps, still in the vastness of the Antarctic. 
 
 A pistol produces itself from the flaps of my mother's dress. She aims it at this man's head. His expression remains still. He is prepared for death. He was as soon as he strolled into my home. 
 
 Bang. 
 
 He collapses on the ground. Blood trickles down his body from the puncture in his torso. A clean shot, perforating his lungs, embedded into his burning flesh. My brother gurgles on his own blood, writhing on the ground, dying. 
 
 His gun skitters across the ground, like the tears that scamper off my face. 
 
 `` I know.'' 
 
 The smoke from the barrel of my gun floats up, disappears into the air. I put my pistol back into my pocket, and I shut the door behind us. 
 

