In which a troubled boy is haunted by the spirit of his dead brother.
"are you scared of me?"
"no."
"why aren't you like everyone else?"
"because I believe you."
(created on 3/27/17)
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△ The house was empty except for Grayson. Silence filled the air as he sat on the couch staring at the blank tv screen. Normally he couldn't stand the silence and inactivity. He would find something to do to keep him busy.
His fingers drummed in a steady pattern against his thigh. Over and over again as he focused on the tiny vibrations on his skin.
The tv screen reflected the scene in front of it, including the couch that Grayson was sitting on, in a dark and blurry scene. Every movement he made was reflected back at him. His own reflection reminded him of a puppet. He felt like he was watching a puppet on his blank tv screen. A show about his life as he was controlled by his dead brother.
Controlled.
He didn't like the word, but it was true. His evil and vengeful actions that haunted his past and made up his background all were because of his dead brother. It was all true.
But how true could true be? The key word to describe Ethan was dead.
Sometimes realizing the truth is too real, and Grayson's mind spun with a million thoughts on what was real.
If his dead brother was a truth, how real could he be if he was dead?
He thought if Ethan like a spirit that seemed to follow him around yet have his own ambitions. Ethan had a mind of his own and spoke his own words. Grayson couldn't influence him, yet he could very accurately influence Grayson.
It didn't make sense. His head hurt, but Ethan wasn't at fault. He still hadn't been present all morning. For the first time in a while, his head hurt for the sole reason of overthinking. He decided that he wasn't going to think, but staring at his blurry reflection in silence made him angry, and anger never led to good things in his life. His hatred and need for revenge usually fed from his anger, and he actually wished Ethan was there so he could yell and attempt to put him down.
His hands gripped the couch cushions until his knuckles turned white, and even then he didn't let go. His arms shook and his jaw clenched with a mixture of anger and frustration. Why was everything so confusing in his life?
The sound of metal keys jingling in a mix of high pitched tune made him finally let go. He rose from his position towards the kitchen where he pulled the cutlery drawer towards his body. Selections of different sized knives for different culinary uses shone back at him. The light from the kitchen window shone off the blades. He reached down and gripped one in his palm, the heavy plastic tightly wrapped by his skin. He heard the locks begin to turn and closed the drawer sharply with a thud as it hit back into place in the cupboards.
He was finally back, his mind repeated. Like a broken record the thought clouded his awareness until he felt himself go solely to his own mind.
He's back, he's finally back.
The door swung open and he lunged from behind the corner of the kitchen.
He mumbled nonsense to himself maniacally as he did, pinning the silhouette to the door with his left hand pressed firmly against their chest that was cool; probably because of the sudden fear. The pressure pushed the wind from their lungs as his right hand only left a cut on their cheek.
The line of blood was shallow, yet long enough that blood began to swell into drops before one rolled down their porcelain skin.
"You fucking asshole-" they seethed in a loss of breath. Their hand reached up to wipe away the blood from their skin, swiping it in a red streak across their face. "I thought you had healed."
Grayson dropped the knife and it hit the ground before sliding to a stop on the wooden floors.
His eyes focused on the blood, and how his hand was pressed against their chest, how he had lost control completely to himself.
"Ryder, I didn't mean to-"
She ignored him and pushed his hands away with a sudden force that made him retreat a few feet.
Another droplet of blood had begun to slide down her face, and he noticed how much it resembled a tear.
His hands shook with the want to wipe it away and help, but he wasn't sure if touching her would help or hurt the situation, so he did nothing.
"Why the hell did you have a knife?" She asked in disbelief of the recent events. "Were you trying to hurt me?"
Grayson's eyes locked onto hers, tears almost swelling at the thought, "no! Why would I ever hurt you?"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me right now. Do you not see what you've done?"
He reached a hand up to try and calm her, but she slapped it away and warned him not to touch her.
"I'm sorry-"
"I don't want to hear it."
"Please-"
"Grayson!" she yelled and he pursed his lips. But she said nothing else. She looked at her hand where she had wiped her cheek, blood staining her skin on the back of her hand. She shakily breathed in, then out, and walked away from the front door to her bedroom.
The sound of the door closing broke the inevitable silence, but only for a second as right after it was silent again and Grayson was left staring at the knife laying on the floor.
