The Last Piece of Fried Chicken

by

Nathan Pettigrew

My brother tried to take the last piece of chicken when I was six, and I stabbed his thigh with a fork.

I’d believed that story for years until my brother set the maid’s blue Chevelle on fire with smoke grenades.

He fled in Mom’s station wagon, and Mr. Dave from next door tried to do his best with his tangled gardening hose.

I was ten, had never been questioned by cops, and the two interrogating me outside were so tall that I couldn’t see beyond the state birds engraved in their badges.

Mom yelling about me being worthless did jackshit for my anxiety, but I was still so proud to find my shorts not soiled when the cops finally left without me cuffed in the backseat.

My brother came home, saw my dried tears, and confessed, but come Monday, he told everyone during morning recess that I’d blown up the maid’s car.

Didn’t matter what I said. I was the crazy one who’d stabbed his leg for the last piece of fried chicken.

I couldn’t remember doing that, but the entire school laughing at me brought flashes of the night when my brother had forced me to stay up and watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

He’d laughed and laughed himself to sleep while I’d pissed in my pajamas next to his Van Halen poster.

On my feet, panicking, I jumped and jumped until the top bunk collapsed on my brother’s leg.

He screamed so loud that I’d all but forgotten about the man in a flesh mask swinging a chainsaw around.

I’d left my brother with a permanent scar, and he had no problem letting me take the fall for his bullshit in the years to come.

He didn’t teach me to fight like older brothers should. He taught me to use alcohol after pinning his knees to my shoulders and going to town on my face.

He’d mix it up in bars and tell cops who showed up at our door that they should be talking to me.

Of course, they believed him. I was the crazy one who’d stuck a fork in his leg for the last piece of fried chicken.

My brother had no problem letting me become a zero, and no remorse when his shit got that I was forced to leave town.

We didn’t call or visit each other but stayed cordial during holidays for Mom’s sake.

Coked out of his mind one night when I was twenty-seven, my brother finally called to say he missed and loved me.

He’d left me in shock, almost in a forgiving place until I remembered that come morning, our moment wouldn’t matter to him.

We’ve continued to remain cordial in our thirties and forties, and can even share a laugh here and there, but never do we speak of the scar on his leg.

The only scar we allow ourselves to share is the blood in our veins.

Bio:

Nathan Pettigrew was born and raised an hour south of New Orleans and lives in the Tampa area with his loving wife. His story “Yemma” was recently awarded 2nd Place in the 22nd Annual Writer’s Digest Short Short Story Competition and appeared in the winnow. Other stories have appeared in Shooter, Deep South Magazine, Penumbra Online, Stoneboat, Crack the Spine, and Roi Fainéant Press. His story “Mindy Hormann” was featured in the best-selling Gone anthology from Red Dog Press, edited by Stephen J. Golds.