In the Blood
“Crows” by Anita Dime
We took turns climbing the ladder to the top of the slide on our rusty swing set Dad bought at the neighbor’s yard sale. We’d hoist Pickles up to each other, wrap our arms around his body, burying our faces in his long black and white fur before we scooted our butts forward to go down the slide. Mom would holler at us to leave him alone, but we knew that cat better than her. He followed us around, and we fed him in the shed, one piece at a time; until she caught us that day we divided the last bits in his food bag, telling him, one for you, one for me, as we popped kibble in our mouths, finding we liked the crunch and gritty texture.
Most nights we played outside until dusk, even going out after dinner to catch fireflies that flickered in the yard. We’d pull off their glowing butts and paint electric designs on our skin. One night, after Mom called us to get in the house, she found a tick burrowed in your back when she stripped off our dirty clothes. I watched Dad sit you up on the kitchen counter, your eyes scrunched shut, me wide-eyed as he struck a wooden match, blew it out, the smell of sulfur filled the room, and smoke curled around the two of you. When he put the smoking match close to your skin, you didn’t move an inch as the bug recoiled.
After that, your body changed. Mom said it was something that got in your blood. Before, you’d always beat me when we’d swing in tandem to see who could go higher, but you grew weak, so I’d pretend to be tired, too. When the headaches came, you’d get so quiet. We would sit in silence in front of the TV with the volume low and the curtains drawn to block out the sunlight. On the days when everything hurt, Mom would make you go lie down, and Pickles always followed to curl up next to you, so I’d fill a bucket with water from the hose and search the yard for anthills to flood.
For months, I’d lie awake at night while you were asleep in your bed, asking God to make one of those bloodsuckers attach itself to my skin. I spent more and more time watching the sun go down alone, lying in the grass or climbing the tree that shed helicopters in fall. But no matter what I did, I always got an all-clear afterwards since Mom shellacked me with OFF!
I was prepared to go sleep in the woods until one of those parasites found me on the day we were plucking raspberries off the bush in the backyard. You pricked your finger on a thorn. A tear ran down your cheek when we saw red blooming from your finger, and so I pierced my pointer, pressed it to your bloodied one, smearing them together, then licked our blood off my skin before we got caught. One for you, one for me, I said.
About the Author
Suzanne Hicks is a disabled writer living with multiple sclerosis. Her work appears in matchbook, Gooseberry Pie, Stanchion, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, and others. Her stories have been selected for Best Microfiction (‘24 and ‘25) and the Wigleaf Top 50 Longlist (‘24 and ‘25). Find her on Bluesky @suzannehicks.bsky.social and read more at suzannehickswrites.com.
about the artist
Anita Dime is a noir lover, author of Five Mibs and a Martini, and artist, with recent work in Red Flag Poetry, Hum Magazine, and *82 Review. Follow on Facebook (@AnitaDime) or Instagram (@AnitaDime1982).