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There’s a knock at the door. Brad is outside anxious to tear apart my sanctuary. He wants to snoop, defile and criticize everything that makes me whole. I would just leave him there but the cold rain and wind is something I wouldn’t force on a family member.
I open the door and he bursts in like this is his home. It’s not. It was our parents’ before they died but nothing can change the fact that they’re gone. He looks around with disgust on his face. The look dissipates. He reverts to a sympathetic brotherly posture. His black hair is soaked and a five o’ clock shadow covers his face. Looking at your twin is like looking in a mirror but never as detailed because you notice all the minor differences. I always see the extra fat around his cheekbone. His puffy exterior is something that sets us apart.
“How’ve you been?” He asks.
I sit down on the sofa with my feet touching the floor. I keep my right arm tucked nicely in a sweater pocket.
“I’m good, I’m very good.”
“Are you?” He walks through the living room; his gaze glides over my most valuable possessions. He doesn’t notice a ten-foot nylon rope underneath the sofa.
“What’s this?”
He’s looking at my news-papier-mâché death’s head. A giant hand forged skull that has taken place of my coffee table. It’s made from over three hundred newspapers. I used oatmeal and honey as binding agents. It takes up most of the room.
“It signifies the end of our corporeal lives. There is something spiritual, esoteric out there -a force that is stronger than us- and I’m going to realise it.”
His nose turns up at the smell of burnt flesh that lingers within the air. “Listen Doug, I want to realise what’s going on in your head. It seems like you are getting worse. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
He’s trying to tell me there is something wrong with my brain. I know what’s wrong, people try to understand things they will never comprehend and in doing so they make up wild suppositions. They parlay their theories to make sure you always remain three kinds of crazy to the outer world. This eliminates the possibility of repudiating claims against you. That is what’s wrong with me Brad, it’s very simple. I’ve been emotional dissected by know-nothings.
He sits next to me on the couch. “I haven’t been able to get hold of Doctor Cheney. Have you seen him lately?”
I shake my head, no. “He stopped coming by.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I’ve convinced him that I am fine.”
Brad’s hand touches the stiff, oatmeal-plastered newspapers. “I don’t think we can call this, fine”
I relax into the couch. I feel unrestrained. His discovery of my monument unshackles me like an oppressed commoner who has proven his despot’s corruption. “I am going to liberate myself from the material world.”
Brad pulls his hand away from my creation. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He doesn’t understand that he is one of my oppressors. Unwitting intentions aside, his contribution isn’t absolved by ignorance. He needs to understand. He thinks we have a connection. But our connection is a manifestation of his egoist nature. Because we both look the part, he waits for the day I’ll be just like him.
He gawks at Dad’s antique armoire, laden with thirty-one black candles. “Do you have anything to drink?” He asks.
“There is beer in the fridge.” Brad loves beer.
He helps himself to ale, as he takes a swig something catches his attention on the freezer door. He glares at me over the open concept counter separating us. The freezer door swings open and a mouthful of foam spatters the wall.
“What the hell is this?” The beer bottle shatters against ceramic tile.
He is referring to my severed hand. His head turns and a silver serving platter on the counter catches his attention, hot coals I used to cauterize my wounds stare him in the face.
He pulls my plastic wrapped hand from the freezer to check authenticity. I can only imagine how he thinks it looks like his own.
The aroma of burned flesh is overcome by bile seeping from Brad’s mouth.
He runs over to me and towers above. I feel his hands pull at my sweater and I give in to what he is trying to do. He’s trying to see if this is real, perhaps it’s a prank? I pull my right arm out from the mohair covering and my blackened stump sits inches from my brother’s face.
“What have you done to yourself?” He cries.
I wait. Tears sink down his cheek. They will stop soon.
“Watch this.” I demand; as if to say ‘stop your tantrum and pay attention’.
Brad is stoic.
I walk over to the armoire. With my right arm I reach for a candle and I grab it hold it in the air. The candle floats through the air in front of my stump. I tilt it back and forth, raise it up and down. Brad gasps and sinks into the couch.
“I have a phantom hand now.” I declare.
I enter the kitchen and throw cutlery around the room. Brad sits on the couch in shock. The metal objects hover above my stubbed arm.
I return to my brother. I can see the worry in his eyes.
He grabs his legs like a child in trouble. “Explain this all to me, please?” There is desperation in his voice.
“I’ve figured out how to leave the material world, how to control my spirit. Five hours ago I cut my hand off with a cleaver and burned the wound against hot coals. I didn’t even feel pain. It was a test. I wasn’t sure it would work but I had to start somewhere. It was the only way I could be certain that this process would work and now that I know that it does it’s time for me to complete the process.”
Brad squeezes his thighs with purple palms. His subtle reaction is to spare my feelings, to protect me from direct contempt seething inside of him.
“How are you feeling?” He asks finally.
I sit next to him. He puts his hand on my leg. “I’m fine. Really, I am so much better now that I have figured this out.”
“Well… I’m glad, that you found something positive from this.” He can’t take his eyes off my stump.
“When people understand what I have discovered there will be a revolution in human consciousness. Imagine shedding your human body and becoming a spirit.”
Brad nods his head. “You’re going to change the world.”
“It’s more than that. This proves that the world is meaningless. Forget the world; this is about all of humanity.”
He squeezes my leg with his hand. “How will I see you when you reach the spirit world?”
I ease in to the cushion. “I will still be here. You just won’t be able to see me.”
“Will I be able to talk to you?”
“I’m not sure actually. I don’t know what happens when someone is fully liberated.”
Brad leans over and puts his arms around me. It feels awkward on my part.
“I love you.” He says.
“Forget being sentimental. This is going to change everything for the better.”
He remains silent, pats me on the back and walks to the door. “I’m going to head out now.” He says.
“Leaving already?”
Maybe this is too much for him. It’s not every day that you see something break universal laws. It’s not every day you see your brother control objects in a ghostly manner.
He gives me one last hug and door closes behind him.
My twin brother has left me.
I have to proceed with my plan. There is a feeling of hesitation inside me but I purge it. Knowing I will be leaving the material world -with it my brother- is something awful. I know I can be closer to him once I enter the celestial plane but, it is difficult to say goodbye; especially, because I never did. He will forgive me once I visit him in my spirit form. I know that to be certain.
I take the rope from under the couch and tie a noose knot into it. Three days ago I inserted a metal ring into the ceiling strong enough to hold my bodyweight. I run my hand over the death’s head and recite an ancient verse in my head. My arms reach up to the metal ring and secure the noose to it. Around my neck I feel the nylon heavy on my neck as if it were made of lead.
Standing on the couch I make adjustments to ensure the effectiveness.
A few seconds now…
It’s difficult to say goodbye to everything you know; even though it will be so much better on the other side.
My body leans forward and I can feel the couch slip away from my feet. There is a flash before me.
Something is happening that I wasn’t expecting.
It is something awful.
I would like to say my life is replaying itself with sentimental recalls of my brother and me during our childhood but this isn’t the case. There is honesty I have never experienced burning through my head. I am seeing things I never noticed before.
I feel my body lurch. My windpipes are constricted.
I can see the recent moments of my life in complete clarity. Brad really is such a gentle person. When I picked up the candle from Dad’s armoire he never said a thing. He could have pointed out that I was holding the candle with my left hand. When I threw silverware in the kitchen he could have told me I was using the hand that I hadn’t cut off. He was protecting me. He knows me so well that his insight forced him to lie. Anything else would have broken the reality I had made for myself. He protected my delusion. And instead of calling the police or my psychiatrist he simply left me, partaking in the charade, to keep me from being upset. He knows me too well.
He is probably on the phone to Dr. Cheney right now, convincing him to come in haste. That is why he left so quickly, to find help as discretely as possible. But it’s too late. My realisation is too late.
I was wrong about everything.
My world is going dark.
