Excerpt - One Degree

This is the first excerpt from "One Degree" that is getting published next month in a local literary magazine...very excited!

      I take the long way home that afternoon and continue to think about what Sonya said. As I approach Miami Court, I gaze down the tree-lined street. This is exactly the path Mark took on his bike three years ago. The curve of the brick road, the steep curbs, the battle-worn telephone poles—these are things I might never have noticed if they weren’t so tied up in all the changes that have taken place. Even our house looks different. It’s more beaten up and broken down than any other house in the neighborhood.
      Granted, my parents are usually busy rushing here or there for Mark’s rehab or working to try and scrounge more money together, so that neglect is obviously going to take a toll on the house too. The lawn mowing and trash are supposed to be my responsibilities, but most of the time I don’t see the point. They never seem to notice whether I do the chores or not.
These days I can drift in and out of the house like a benign spirit, a being everyone is aware of but doesn’t quite register enough to be truly bothered with. It’s more than fair, though, after what I caused, after all I’ve put them through.
      Without ever inviting it in, I also felt the weight of lethargic acceptance enter our lives: a house-guest that was quite noticeable upon arrival, that drove me to the point where I couldn’t bare it staying another moment, and yet now it feels as much a part of the family as any member does. It’s hard to imagine our family without this nameless presence. So the grass grows high and wild, the trash collects by the side of the garbage cans for a couple weeks at a time before dad finally gets angry enough to do it himself or the neighbors complain and do it for us.
Before entering, I pause on the front porch and take another good look at the neighborhood. I have lived here all my life, and my heart sinks whenever I arrive home.
I shake away that feeling and turn the knob to enter. I’m a professional at walking in and out without anyone ever sensing me. It’s usually easier to be invisible. The looks people give me, the sympathy or pity, even the offers of help or support only make me want to be farther from everyone. If I just stay away from people, just keep from contacting anyone else, maybe I won’t feel so bad all the time. Maybe my feelings will lessen if I’m not constantly reminded of what I’ve done. What I’ve caused.
Mom has tried to talk to me over and over about the accident and how it could’ve happened to anyone. “It wasn’t your fault, Karl,” she says. “You’re not to blame. You know we love you, and Mark still loves you too.”
      I laugh inside. Mark does not love me, and her words only make me feel worse. The more she checks in, the more she tries to help, the more she just refreshes the images from that day. I used to wake up screaming Mark’s name as I relived the scene, over and over in my dreams. The crash, the hospital, that beeping, droning machine.
      Silently, I drop my bag by the front door and walk into the family room. Mark is watching TV in the makeshift recliner Dad had modified to get him out of his wheelchair. I feel a strange tinge of excitement about the idea of Mark going back to school. The potential of some normal element returning to his life creates an almost unwelcome glimmer of hope that I can’t help but notice, regardless of how often these kinds of hopes have been dashed in the past.
I cautiously round the corner and, in a move that’s completely forbidden, I speak directly to my brother, standing between him and the television. “Hey, Mark.” The words barely escape from my lips. It’s a hoarse and timid sound. “Do you need anything?”
      He just ignores me. We haven’t really spoken more than two-word sentences to one another in forever. I know I’m walking on dangerous ground, threatening the truce that keeps us in separate spheres even when we’re in the same room, but I need more information about what’s happening, what could be happening soon. A force stronger than my fear or guilt, the last shred of hope I possess, keeps me in the room.
      Wheelchair bound or not, he still has a nasty temper, and his arms have gotten stronger and stronger. When he does lash out and get a hold of me, it leaves a mark. I warily press on. “Hey, I heard Mom and Dad are thinking about letting you start classes again in the spring? That might be pretty cool.”
      Mark glares through me and at the TV. He begins muttering under his breath. His rant grows steadily in volume and intensity until he looks up and I finally hear, “Yeah, great times ahead in the cripple classes at junior high. No sports, no girls, no friends except the retards and rejects. That will be awesome! Maybe I’ll make it to prom and be homecoming king in high school as well… Fucking loser! Go waste your time somewhere else, asshole.”
      I stand for a moment as the feeling that Mark has punched me in the stomach washes over my whole body, and then I slump out of the room.


http://www.amazon.com/One-Degree-Matthew-Alan-ebook/dp/B00CPS7MTW/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=8-1&qid=1385824701