A short story by VaporTrail234.
The surface is cold under me, chilling me to my bones and sending a shiver up my spine. I shift in the hard metal chair uneasily, glancing about at my surroundings. Concrete walls and a ceiling seem to be pressing in on me, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I take a choppy breath in, trying to assure myself that nothing is amiss here. I stare at the blank, dirty, gray floor, taking more breaths in and closing my eyes, sighing faintly as a sense of comfort overwhelms me, even in this God-forsaken place.
A metal door clanks shut abruptly, loudly, and my head snaps up quickly, my eyes fixing as a figure emerges, slowly padding over. Not for the first time, I can’t help but marvel at how quietly he moves. His feet seem to never make the floor echo or swish, and never seem to leave a mark. These are the same feet that crept across my bedroom but one month ago, when I found myself staring into the dormant, but rage-filled, eyes of an assassin.
The man sits across from me, and I am staring into a mirror, a reflection of myself, yet the image is distorted. I stare into his face, trying to pinpoint the face I knew when I was younger, my face. His glasses are gone, revealing small twitching eyes that would normally be brown, but are red. His hair is longer than usual, hiding his small, somewhat pointed ears under a cover of what used to be what I describe as a chestnut or oaky brown, but is now a night black. Lining his narrow face, I see the beginnings of stubble, shining where there have been tears of rage, shadows where his face is creased in that forever-vengeful gaze.
This is me, but not me. My eyes are brown, my hair is medium length, my hair is brown, my vision is perfect, and while my face is narrow, I don’t have the aura of a killer etched eternally into it.
“This is a surprise, my brother,” I hear his voice drift across the table. It is steely and cold, so much like, yet unlike my voice.
“I would have said the same about a month back, had I not been gagged,” I respond calmly. I wince on the inside, knowing that I did not want to anger him further. My brother’s rage is beyond anything I have ever seen already.
“Here I am at 19, this ghastly place,” my brother spat, his voice echoing harshly in the chamber. I feel his red gaze burn into my brown one, like an infrared light melting chocolate.
I merely nod, and I see his red eyes peeking out from under his black hair. He looks like a monster; a pale being with mussed up black fur that shows a sliver or glowing blood red orbs. It makes me shiver again. I am scared. My brother’s hatred could cut through the cement walls and out of prison by itself.
“I couldn’t help being born, you know,” I say quietly, almost a whisper. I hope that my voice does not betray my fear.
“But you could have done something, anything at all to try and help me. Stop me from becoming what I am now.” I hear my brother’s voice crack, and my eyebrows raise in surprise. I have never heard him get like this. From him, I have heard so many curses, both existent and nonexistent, put upon me, words of sheer hatred, vows of vengeance, and the furious howling for my blood, but never remorse. I catch my breath and my mind swirls far back.
“Come on, I want to go outside,” my brother tugged on my shirt, revealing one of my then-small shoulders.
“Wait… I still have some more homework to do,” I protested, shaking my twin off.
He snorted, “I finished that a long time ago. First grade is so easy. Come on, let’s just go outside!” He adjusted his glasses so that they made his brown eyes seem smaller, and he brushed some of his medium-length brown hair from his face.
“Ok, fine,” I sighed, grinning. Excitement swelled in my bones. We were breaking our mother’s rule, and we both knew it. My brother smiled back, with a smile that told me that he knew that he would get me outside. I was the kind of kid who cared more about other things than school, even though I did work hard at it, and he knew it.
He slowly clicked the lock open on the sliding glass door that led to our backyard and we silently pushed it open, then shut as we bounded into the yard. The sun felt so warm on my cold skin and the wind ruffled my hair. It felt nice to be outside again.
I could tell my brother was enjoying it.
“Well what should we do?” I asked. Upon seeing the shrug of my brother, I suggested, “We should climb the trees!” He nodded then started up one of the trees in our yard. I selected another and climbed my way up. I slid myself out on a thick branch and peered through the leaves of the tree at my brother and we caught each other’s eyes, then started to giggle. We just sat in the trees, shifting in the branches, pulling fruit from them, exchanging glances, and laughing. For a while we sat, enjoying the amity of the day. How the scent of fresh, ripe pomegranate wreathed itself around us, the coolness of the leaves and the warmth of the sun kissing out skin, and the security of being in our yard having a good time with the sturdy trees supporting us.
A crack caught my attention and I snapped my head up, “What was that?”
My brother shook his head and cocked it to listen, then I felt my branch sagging. A scream escaped me, and my brother let out a yell, the fear in our voices twining together into one loud caterwaul. Suddenly, I heard a snap and I plummeted towards the ground. I hit the ground with a sickening crunch and my head swam. I could only see bits and pieces of the world, and my hearing was like I was trying to hear through liquid.
Through the groggy, swimming feeling, I could see brief and faint images of my mom, standing over me speaking madly into the phone while my brother crouched over me wailing. I saw my mom hang up the phone. I saw her start shouting at my brother. I heard her curse at him. I saw her beat him. Then, they are standing over me, my mother holding my brother back, who is squirming in her arms, blood dripping from his nose, screaming, “I hate you! I hate you, Brother! I hate you!” That was when I blacked out for a long time.
I blink as I am yanked out of the memories by my brother’s fists pounding on the table. It sends vibrations up my elbows and I stare at him. His face is so contorted with fury that I barely recognize it. Not that I did, but now it is beyond recognition. His rage overwhelms me, almost like a tsunami and I know it’s time to go.
“Look, Brother, I’m sorry I didn’t help you that day. We were six and I was blacking out, so what was I to do?” I counter carefully.
I see one of his red eyes fix on me, “You could have at least defended me afterwards. After your fall, mom shunned me.”
I nod in understanding. I can feel how he does. My brother sees me as the enemy. He sees me as the criminal. He sees me as the spoiled child. I stand up. My brother doesn’t move. Slowly, I make my way around the table and over to him.
“You’re not supposed to be over here,” he says stonily. I don’t flinch. I am not scared anymore. I reach into my pocket and produce a pomegranate. It is mine and my brother’s favorite fruit. His eyes are round as an owl’s and I grab him by the wrist, bring his hand up, then close it around the pomegranate. A shocked choking cry escapes his throat and I walk over to the metal door. I turn, looking into my brother’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Blake,” I whisper and I start to walk out, expecting silence.
“Farewell, Ogden.”
