BLOOD OATH by J.D. Bourke The day my little brother Seth went to the hospital was also my birthday. There had been plans for a night at the arcade and for pizza, just Mom, Seth and I. I turned ten that year, and in a new town, my brother, one year younger, was now my only friend. When we moved, Mom said we ought to stick closer to each other, and had us initiate this renewed and intensi ed bond by giving each other silly nicknames: Mom was “Robocop”, I was “Brangelina”, Seth was “Dog Breath”. When Seth collapsed, I was struck dumb, and stood by helplessly. Mom told me to stay inside and wait by the phone, and rode o in the ambulance. A couple hours later, Grandma and Grandpa arrived. Grandma must have been crying on the ride over. The make-up under her eyes were smudges of black and blue. She had once let Seth and I apply her make-up, the vibrant lipstick and mascara tubes scattered around us on the carpet. She laughed when we presented our work in the mirror. Her bright, age spotted face had taken on a crimson red warrior look. “Not sure you two are cut out for a career in cosmetology.” Grandpa put their suitcases in Seth’s bedroom. We went out for burgers, and they sang to me while I blew out imaginary candles in my milkshake. They took me to Computer World next to pick out a gift. Making our way through the rows of movies and music, Grandma, arm around me, sighed and gave me a squeeze. “Your Grandpa and I don’t know a Tetris from a Turkey, hon, so you go ahead and pick whatever you like.” I took this as a critical opportunity to get one of those mature-rated games Mom was uneasy about buying Seth and me. Browsing through the newest releases, I found a game with a striking cover. A knight in black plate armor was impaling several squirming demons with a aming, bloody sword. I took it over to Grandpa. He had been pacing around the aisles, wringing his sts in his jacket pockets, the way he does before church. He barely gave it a glance. “Fascinating. Let’s get you back home, kiddo.” Grandma and Grandpa were on the phone with Mom, sharing the receiver between them. At times, Grandma would push her hand against her cheek, and Grandpa would squeeze her other hand with his. The conversation was meant for them, so I sat on the couch and popped in my new game. This is one of those games where you enter your character’s name at the beginning. I glanced over at my grandparents, still absorbed in the call, and typed in “Buttface”. The game, Blood Oath II: Spawn of Satan, was immediately thrilling. I was an intrepid, young knight, sworn to protect the beautiful, young novitiates of a remote mountain convent, when suddenly, without warning, hundreds of spawn of Satan appeared, leering at my charges. The sisters crowded behind me in fright, crying out “You must save us, Buttface!” Blood Oath 2 I thought about an imaginary game Seth and I had made up last Christmas. We dressed up in holiday costume and white face paint, each taking turns as an antlered reindeer zombie, or Santa, donning his red stocking hat and armed to the teeth with Nerf guns. Mom even took a turn as Santa, chasing us down through the laundry room and into the snowy yard, pelting us with darts. Cornered against the fence, she loomed over us, sneering. “You’ve eaten your last elf brain, Blitzen!” After I smote the rst wave of spawn, the Mother Superior ushered everyone into the library and presented me with a dusty illuminated manuscript. It foretold the prophecy of an intrepid, young knight, who was destined to smite the spawn of Satan. But he would need strength he did not innately possess. “This knight shall have to taketh the blood oath.” Mother Superior produced a clear vial and a red rose. She turned to the beautiful, young Sister Muriel, who apparently was on the fence about the whole nun thing, on account of being in love with me, and pricked her nger with a thorn. Then Muriel read from the book. “When you drink this blessed water, infused with the blood of one who truly loves you, Buttface, you shall have the strength to endure the greatest of trials.” I paused the game when Mom asked to speak with me. She told me Seth was sick but that he was going to be alright, that I could come visit him tomorrow. She loved me and was sorry she couldn’t have been there for my birthday, giving me virtual kisses over the phone. After the call, the three of us sat quietly for a moment around the kitchen table. Grandpa leaned toward me, and told me he was full of hope. “When I was about your age, my baby sister had a deep fever. We prayed and prayed every day for her to get better, and meant it, and she did, and that’s the only thing I know to do now.” That night, I lay in bed thinking about Seth. He looked so pale and tired when they wheeled him out in that chair. I thought about how I had not been able to help him. I thought about what Grandpa had said. The week before, we were wrestling, and when I broke free from Seth’s steely half nelson and put him in my signature headlock, he fainted. Mom had never been so angry at me. "I told you your brother's not feeling well. Wait till he's stronger before you rip his head o ." That's when the idea came to me. I tiptoed out of my room, through the kitchen to the garage. I snatched a water bottle and shears and headed quietly into the yard, ducking under my grandparents’ bedroom window. Over our fence was the yard of a Mr. Bob Connors, the wretched old man who had declared war on Seth and me that summer. In our last encounter, he tossed a popped football over the fence and whispered to us through his precious rose bushes, "I better not catch you little shits in my yard again." I prayed he would not catch me this night. I studied the largest and healthiest rose bush, and from it cut the reddest rose. I raised the bottle and the rose above my head, thumb on a thorn over the bottle’s mouth. The moon was directly above, nearly full, all lit up with its bright cheeks and grey scabs. I smiled, and made a quiet, little invocation. “I hereby bless this water, and donate a drop of my own blood, for my best and only friend, one that I truly love, Dog Breath.”