ii.
It goes like this:
You are a soot-stained boy, hard at work, breathing life into a cold, steel beast.
You do as you're told, without question or complaint, a loyal soldier, as you have always been.
You know your place in this world, and small as it is, it is yours.
You have sacrificed much to be here.
There is still more you will have to give.
...
Your father lived a simple life, as did his father and his father's father before him.
You come from a long line of modest, dependable men who work hard and take no more than their fair share, and you are content to follow in their footsteps as a good son should.
But not your brother.
Your brother is a dreamer, always chasing some new adventure, determined to forge his own path and leave his mark on the world.
During your daily chores, he tells you stories of all the things he'll do, all the places he'll see, and you listen, captivated, never noticing when his share of the work invariably becomes yours.
Others would resent him for this, but not you.
How could you?
He is your older brother, your best friend and protector, and he dreams big enough for the both of you.
...
You never had dreams.
Not as a child, and certainly not now.
Now, there are only nightmares and ghosts of days gone by.
...
Aboard the ship, you work tirelessly from first light until sundown, shoveling coal, making repairs, doing whatever is asked of you, as you always do.
The work is exhausting and monotonous, but you don't mind.
You are used to hard work and long hours and cramped quarters, and you are no stranger to dirt lining your clothes and fingers.
Your hands haven't been clean for quite some time now.
The stains never seem to wash off, no matter how hard you try.
...
In the spring of your fifteenth year, your brother leaves home with a suitcase in one hand and a loaf of your mother's bread in the other.
Before he departs, he clasps you one last time, refusing to let go until you promise to visit him in America.
Coming from anyone else, it would've been cruel, an impossible request, rubbing salt into an open wound. All of his responsibilities as the eldest will now fall onto your shoulders, and you are too young to bear the burden of paying bills, tending the house, and looking after your aging parents.
But this is your brother, a boy with dreams so big he can't help but give them to the rest of you, a boy who now looks at you so earnestly and expectantly that you can't help but be drawn into his fantasy.
In that moment, you can see yourself years from now, stepping off a ship and into his open arms, with the solid ground of city streets beneath your feet.
You give him your word without hesitation and send him on his way, the bond between you stretching but never breaking.
This will be the last time you ever see him, and if only you had known, you would have held him tighter, you would have gone with him, you would have begged him to stay.
...
Time blurs together in a haze of steam and heat and smoke.
It seems like only yesterday that the journey began.
It feels like you have never been anywhere else.
...
The letters arrive in a steady stream, once every few months or so.
New York is a marvel, your brother says, everything he thought it would be and more, a land of opportunity and riches ready for the taking. But those riches never materialize, despite all his assurances, and no matter how hard you work or how many jobs you take, there is never enough money to go around at the end of the day.
You don't understand how you got here, you can't fathom how your careful, prudent parents could have misplaced or mismanaged the entire family's savings, and that's when they finally confess the truth.
There were no prospects waiting for your brother in America, only debts, debts that must now be paid.
He didn't want you to know, your parents explain, he was afraid of disappointing you.
You are not disappointed, and you can't even really say that you're surprised.
But for the first time, you do find yourself resenting him.
A part of you resents him still, even now.
They're all gone now – your parents, your brother, your home.
You are the only one left, with nothing but regrets and a broken promise.
...
The postcard arrives three summers later.
It's the first news from your brother in over a year, and the message is short, asking after your parents, wishing you well, wondering when you will finally visit.
By the time the card reaches your hands, your brother is already dead.
He drowned himself in the harbor, you hear, with stones tied to his pockets.
...
The ship sails calmly on.
You are an orphan with an uncertain future, but as long as the journey is in motion, you can let yourself live in a memory.
Your brother waits for you in America, you tell yourself, and after a while, you even believe it.
But the illusion will shatter the instant you set foot on dry land.
Perhaps it's a blessing, then, that you will never reach your destination.
...
Your brother is gone, but his debts remain.
They pile up faster than you can clear them, and pretty soon, your parents join you in the oil fields, despite their poor health and old age.
You can't bear to see them working when they should be resting and enjoying their golden years.
You can't afford not to.
Day and night, the three of you slave away in the heat, in the rain, in the cold, until one day the owner arrives and informs you that your parents will need to find work elsewhere.
They are too slow, too clumsy, not worth the effort of keeping them on, he sneers, standing there in an expensive suit as your parents fall to their knees begging for another chance.
The rest seems to happen in a haze, in slow motion, like wandering through a heavy fog.
The man first strikes your father, then your mother, once, twice, three times, before turning away, leaving them bleeding in the snow. And in the next instant, you are upon him, your hands wrapped so tightly around his neck that your fingers go numb.
You tumble to the ground, kicking and punching wildly even as he pulls a blade and slices into your chest, but you don't notice the pain. Driven only by rage and years of hard labor, you snatch the knife from him, plunging it into his neck.
Blood stains your fingers, and you lay there, unmoving. Only when it stops do you drag his body to the tank, the source of all his power, now his inky grave.
When you return to your parents, they are already gone, and you will wonder, long after this day is done, which was your worst mistake.
If you had just let the man go, perhaps your parents would still be alive.
If you had just asked your brother to stay, perhaps he would be too.
...
The debt is yet unpaid.
The debt is paid in blood.
And on a cold, winter day, you leave home with only the clothes on your back and a fresh scar on your chest.
There is nothing left to do now but leave for a new world.
You know you're too late.
But a promise is a promise.
...
If your brother could see you now, would he recognize the person you've become?
When you look at yourself in the mirror, do you?
...
Five days into the journey, you hear an impossible sound.
It's your brother calling you from somewhere beyond the sea.
In the boiler room, you lay down your shovel in time with the other workers around you, and one by one, you make your way up to the deck.
He calls to you the entire time, telling you he's proud of you, that he loves you, that he waits for you, and when it is finally your turn to take the plunge, you climb over the railing without hesitation, ready to be reunited with him once more.
As you find your balance on the bars, you see a woman with dark hair and white skin before you.
She is beautiful, unlike anyone you've ever seen, and in that moment, your brother's voice vanishes from your ears.
You want to ask for her name, you want to tell her yours, and you start to speak but your hand has already let go of the railing.
Down, down, down, you fall, and her face is the last thing you see before the waters swallow you whole.
In the darkness, you take your final breath, and your family welcomes you home.