The rhythmic thud of a bass drum pulsed through the attic, followed by a frantic, driving snare beat, and then the raw, distorted wail of a guitar riff.
Ethan Dunphy was in his element.
Hunched over his battered, but meticulously maintained drum kit, he thrashed out the iconic opening to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
His messy hair, usually a testament to indifference, now flew wildly with each headbang.
The air in the attic, already thick with the scent of old wood and the faintest metallic tang of electronics, vibrated with the sheer, unadulterated energy he poured into every hit.
He wore a faded band t-shirt, sweat already beading on his forehead, his expression a mix of fierce concentration and pure, primal joy.
This was his sanctuary, his escape from the incessant chirping of his younger siblings, the ever-present drone of his parents’ domestic anxieties.
The music was loud enough to drown out most things, but not the persistent creak of the attic stairs, nor the hesitant tap on his open door.
Ethan, eyes squeezed shut as he launched into the first verse, didn’t even notice.
“Ethan!” a small voice eventually managed to cut through a brief cymbal crash.
Ethan hit a final, crashing cymbal, letting the reverberation die before slowly opening his eyes.
Luke stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, looking simultaneously innocent and deeply annoying.
Ethan sighed, pulling off his headphones, letting them rest around his neck.
“What do you want, Luke?” he asked, his voice flat.
“Ethan, can I borrow your bike?” Luke asked, trying for his most pleading tone.
“No,” Ethan replied instantly, leaning back slightly on his stool, arms crossed.
“Please,” Luke tried again, taking a step into the room, his eyes scanning Ethan’s domain with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
“No.
Get out of my room,” Ethan warned, his voice taking on a sharper edge.
“I already told you what was going to happen if you came up here again.”
His gaze fell pointedly on a crudely drawn stick figure on his wall, impaled by a cartoon spear.
Below it, in messy block letters, read “LUKE.”
Luke ignored the warning, his focus solely on the bike.
“Please, I don’t want to ride a girl’s bike.”
Ethan snorted.
“Have fun, Betty Luke.”
Luke winced.
“But please, you don’t even ride it.
It’s just sitting there, gathering dust.”
“I don’t care,” Ethan retorted, his patience wearing thin.
“Get out.
I’m not letting you crash my bike again.”
“It was an accident,” Luke insisted, though the memory of the bent wheel and shredded tire still burned in Ethan’s memory.
“I don’t care, out!” Ethan pointed vehemently towards the door.
Luke, seeing the unyielding look in his brother’s eyes, finally backed away, a pout on his face, and slowly retreated down the stairs.
Ethan watched him go, then, with another sigh, slipped his headphones back on.
He picked up his sticks, counted himself in, and the attic was once again filled with the raw, cathartic energy of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
Luke’s whiny complaints faded into the background, a distant, irrelevant hum against the much more important task of perfecting his double bass pedal work.
He was deep into a blistering drum solo, the kind that made the drum heads vibrate precariously, when another, more insistent, presence appeared in his doorway.
This time, it was Alex, armed with a textbook and an air of quiet determination.
She waited for Ethan to finish his current drum roll, then cleared her throat loudly.
Ethan stopped, his sticks hovering over the snare.
He pulled off his headphones, a look of annoyance already on his face.
“What now?”
“Ethan,” Alex stated, her voice calm but firm.
“We’re supposed to be going to the Museum.”
Ethan stared at her blankly for a moment.
“Seriously?” he groaned, as if the very idea was physically painful.
He had completely forgotten.
“Yes, you agreed,” Alex reminded him, tapping her foot.
“Why do you want to go now?” he asked, trying to buy himself more time, or perhaps hoping she’d changed her mind.
“It’s the last day of the exhibit,” Alex explained, a rare note of genuine excitement in her voice.
Ethan sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of pure resignation.
He had promised, however reluctantly, and Alex never forgot a promise.
“Fine,” he grumbled, reluctantly putting his drumsticks down.
“Just give me five minutes.”
Five minutes later, which in Ethan’s time translated to fifteen, he reluctantly descended the stairs, pulling a hoodie over his band t-shirt.
Alex was already waiting at the bottom, tapping her foot impatiently.
“Can we take your van?”
Ethan shook his head, “I’m out of gas.”
Claire stood nearby, still buzzing from the earlier chaos, but now trying to project an air of calm.
“Mom,” Alex began, “Can Ethan drive me to the museum?”
Ethan immediately locked eyes with his mother, sending a silent, telepathic plea.
Don’t say yes.
Please, for the love of all that is holy, say no.
Make her take the bus.
Make her walk.
Anything but me driving.
He tried to convey maximum annoyance with his eyes, hoping his mother would pick up on his deep-seated desire to avoid this outing.
Alex, focused on her mother, didn’t even notice the frantic silent communication happening between her brother and Claire.
Claire, however, missed Ethan’s silent plea entirely, or perhaps chose to ignore it, “Yeah, I guess,” she said, a little too readily.
“Just be careful, Ethan, and don’t speed.”
Ethan rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck.
The injustice of it all!
His morning was officially ruined.
He grumbled under his breath as he headed out to the car, Alex practically skipping behind him.
The Natural History Museum was predictably stuffy, filled with hushed whispers and the echoing footsteps of visitors.
Ethan hated it.
He walked through the exhibits with his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, head down, only looking up when Alex tugged on his sleeve.
They eventually made their way to the main attraction, the colossal Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton, posed mid-roar, its fossilized bones gleaming under the spotlights.
Alex gazed at it with wide-eyed wonder, taking notes in a small notebook.
Ethan, however, was unimpressed.
He stared at the motionless bones, a faint yawn escaping his lips.
“This would be a lot cooler,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, “if it came to life.”
Alex looked up from her notes, a withering look on her face.
“Imagine it.
Just stomping through here, knocking over all these boring display cases, maybe chasing a few tour guides.
Now that would be an exhibit.” He chuckled darkly at the thought.
Alex just rolled her eyes and went back to her notes, accustomed to his peculiar brand of observational humor.
Several hours later, with the museum experience finally behind them, Ethan and Alex pulled back into the Dunphy driveway.
The silence was golden, a sweet reprieve.
Ethan, savoring the peace, went straight up to his attic room, eager to pick up where he’d left off with his drums.
He pushed open his door, a small smile forming on his face.
The smile vanished instantly.
Luke.
The little menace was sitting on Ethan’s drum stool, holding one of Ethan’s prized drumsticks, gingerly tapping a cymbal.
He froze, his eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights.
His sanctuary, violated.
His drums, touched.
“What did I tell you would happen if you ever went in my room again?” Ethan asked, his voice low, dangerously calm.
He stalked towards Luke, each step heavy with menace.
Luke scrambled off the stool, dropping the drumstick with a clatter.
“But you’re supposed to be at the Museum,” he whimpered, backing away.
“We got back, turd burglar!” Ethan snarled, his eyes narrowed.
“And since Mom and Dad are gone, I’m going to kill you.
Literally kill you!” With that, Ethan lunged for Luke.
Luke, ducked underneath Ethan’s grasp and bolted.
He tore out of the attic, down the stairs, a terrified shriek escaping his lips.
Ethan was right behind him.
Luke, gasping for breath, dove into his bedroom, slamming the door shut and fumbling with the lock.
He quickly dragged his heavy dresser in front of it, barricading himself in.
Ethan arrived a second later, pounding on the door.
“You’re gonna have to come out sometime, loser!” Ethan taunted, his voice muffled by the wood, but still clearly audible.
“I’ll wait here as long as it takes.
And then, you’re dead.” He leaned against the door, a triumphant smirk on his face.
Inside his room, Luke was frantic.
He paced back and forth, trying to distract himself, checking the dresser for gaps, listening intently for any sounds from outside.
His bladder, however, had chosen this precise moment to stage a rebellion.
He really, really had to pee.
“Time out, Ethan,” Luke called out, his voice high-pitched and desperate.
“I have to pee.”
“No time outs, only death!” Ethan bellowed back.
“But I really have to go,” Luke whined, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“I don’t care,” Ethan replied, his voice chillingly indifferent.
He settled down outside the door, crossing his arms, a patient predator.
Luke, on the verge of tears, looked around his room.
The window was too high.
He couldn’t hold it much longer.
He decided to risk it.
He peeked underneath his door, his heart pounding.
No shoes.
Ethan wasn’t there.
He must have left.
A wave of relief washed over him.
He quickly pushed the dresser aside, fumbled with the lock, and burst out of his room, sprinting towards the bathroom down the hall.
He practically ripped open the door, ran inside, and quickly moved to the toilet, fumbling with his pants.
Just as he was about to relieve himself, a voice boomed from behind the shower curtain.
“Got you!” Ethan yelled, lunging out, a triumphant, maniacal grin plastered across his face.
Luke, startled beyond belief, screamed.
The sudden shock, the terror, the bladder that was already at its breaking point – it was too much.
He lost all control.
A warm, humiliating spray erupted, not into the toilet, but directly onto Ethan, who was now standing, arms outstretched, inches away.
Ethan froze, his triumphant grin slowly twisting into a mask of utter horror.
The warm liquid soaked his trousers.
“EWWW!
GROSS!
AAAAHHHHH!” Ethan screamed, a high-pitched, guttural shriek of pure revulsion.
He began to flail, shaking his arms and body as if trying to shed an invisible, disgusting cloak.
Downstairs, the front door opened.
Claire had forgotten her purse.
She stopped dead in her tracks, hearing the unholy shriek emanating from upstairs.
“What’s going on up here?!” she yelled, dropping her keys and rushing up the stairs.
She burst into the bathroom, eyes wide.
Ethan was still flailing, trying to wipe pee off his face, a look of complete revulsion on his face.
Luke stood, pants half-down, a puddle forming at his feet, his face red with shame.
“Luke started it!” Ethan wailed, pointing an accusing, pee-soaked finger.
“I just came in here to take a shower!”
Luke, finding his voice amidst the humiliation, protested vehemently.
“He’s lying!
He was gonna kill me ’cause I was in his room!”
Claire looked at Luke, then at the puddle, then back at Ethan “And you pee on him?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief.
Luke stammered, his eyes darting between his mother and his disgusted brother.
“Yes, I mean no, I mean…”
Ethan, finally regaining a semblance of composure, clenched his teeth.
“Yess!” he confirmed.