(no subject)
The Uncoupling.
Part One:
Joshua Stands.
I: THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD.
“it seems that I have been held in some dreaming state, I twist in the waking world, never quite awake. No kiss, no gentle words, can wake me from this slumber. Until I realise that it was you that held me under.”
There was a crack as the bullet entered the boy's head. Tiny fragments of skull flew through the air like snow. Thick arterial blood ran down his face in a flood. The fat man in front of him screamed. He was wearing a hot, red mask. His mouth was still open when the boy slumped against him, and then slid slowly to the floor, rigid. Suddenly the fat man could make no more noise, his open mouth and cheeks flapping. The only noise was the sound of silence. Thick, oppressive. Nobody breathed. Joshua was going to die. Joshua was going to
die.
The bullet inside his head had torn through connections: pathways: memories. Destroyed them. Neither heat nor colour existed, he was cold and red. Joshua
fell
to the floor, the fat man now free and beginning to make noise again. Joshua could not hear him; he was a marionette with cut strings. The darkness was back (hello my old friend.) He tried to look forwards, focus his eyes on anything but he couldn't. His eyes would not obey him. They were gone. The only thing he could see through the film of red and black were the polished, orthopaedic shoes by his face. He heard a thin, rattling sound. It was him. Joshua. He was dead.
*
“Sir, I'm gonna ask you once! Drop the weapon and step away from the man. Put your hands where I can see them - Please!” The woman said it absurdly politely; calmly, but there was a thin edge - like a blade - to her voice which betrayed her. Joshua heard it and despaired. He did not know her name. Officer In-The-Fucking-Way. Sergeant Don't-Make-Me-Do-This. Chief Leave-Me-The-Fuck-Alone. Policewoman Bitch. The handle of the knife was warm in his hands and slick with his sweat. It shook violently. The tip of it was buried at least half an inch in the fat man's neck. Vaguely, Joshua wondered if the man's fat was protecting the more tender arteries and veins. Could he feel the pain yet? The fat man said nothing. He was too shocked.
So was Joshua.
“I'm not doing anything,” Joshua tried to say calmly but he was alarmed and scared at how unstable his voice was. It was the voice of a (murderer?) boy who was very young, and very foolish. The voice of a boy who thinks he knows what he's doing.
“Not yet, lad, but I need you to put the knife down, slowly,” Policewoman Bitch said. Her voice was calm. Collected.
“You're not listening to me. I-I told you, I'll put it d-down when you listen to me! Just l-leave me alone, I... I need this.” Joshua stuttered. Sweat was a thick coat over his face. He jerked his head spasmodically towards the till of the pharmacy. The woman who had been behind it moments before was no longer visible. Only a tuft of hair quivering above the desk could be seen. She was hiding. Hiding from Joshua. On the desk lay a basket.
“L-Let me take it and I swear to G-God, I'll let him go and nobody gets h-hurt.” And suddenly the knife danced in his hand. Joshua thought it had fallen from his grip, maybe. It all happened so fast. Policewoman Bitch must have thought he was playing around with his ego, throwing all of his cards on the table, losing control. Whatever. The damage was done. She mistook the movement: he was merely adjusting his grip. Her finger snapped against the trigger. Instantly, she regretted it. Joshua tried to turn away, but the bullet hit him square in the forehead. What match was the spirit of man against the greeting from a predestined bullet? The path of his fate was the same as the path as the bullet: Both would collide.
There was a crack as the bullet entered the boy's head.
*
There was a flash of red and steel. The fat man yelped as the knife swept across his bare arm, leaving a trail of scarlet. In the white, sterile cleanliness of the pharmacy, it was almost blinding.
“I'm sorry to have to do this,” Joshua heard himself saying. To the other customers, to the fat man he was grappling with; to himself. In seconds, he had the man's arm twisted uncomfortably behind his back, gripping it with his four-fingered hand. In his other, the knife was pressed against the man's neck. The man was not making a sound, but breathing in hot, strained puffs.
“I need you to d-do something for me,” Joshua shouted at the handsome woman behind the till. She was watching him with wide eyes. Eyes that said 'what are you going to do next?'
“Okay?” She answered in a thin voice. She was scared, terrified maybe, but she didn't falter.
“I need you, to, er... Grab that basket,” Joshua began, watching her as she did so, “And get me these, put them in it, okay?” Still pressing the knife against the fat man's neck, he delved into his pocket and slid a piece of paper on to the counter. The woman behind the till looked it - after cringing at his scarred and mangled hand - and they both resumed their previous roles. Him, grappling with the man: Her, staring bleakly ahead. Joshua gestured with a nod towards the list and she scanned it, once, twice, then a third time.
“Okay,” was all that she said. She began rummaging around behind her where the medications were kept. One by one she threw them roughly into the basket. She clearly wasn't trying to spare his feelings.
When she had finished, she looked at him, then the list, and then back at him. Something passed between them, some shared knowledge. A profound secret. He thought she was going to say something, but then the fat man squealed and she said nothing. For a second: nobody breathed.
“See? That wasn't so h-hard, was it?”
“Sir, I'm gonna ask you once! Drop the weapon and step away from the man.”
*
“I'm sorry, the card still isn't working. Keeps declining. Do you have another?” The words seemed innocent enough, retail protocol, but Joshua was horrified. He resisted the urge to punch her, his toes curling up tightly in his beaten trainers. Moths fluttered in his stomach; butterflies were much too delicate for this discomfort. The scars on his arm, the ones that crawled further than his forearm; past his elbow, over his shoulder and reaching across his neck, began to itch uncomfortably. He was glad they were hidden beneath the red jumper he wore.
“Declining? No. What? I-I'm sure... It's just a mistake. Try again, pleas-”
The woman cut him off. “No, there's no mistake... Sir. I've tried it three times. Maybe you maxed it out?”
Joshua almost laughed. A likely story. “Well, do you do store credit? Some sort of take now-buy later? I mean... An IOU?”
Joshua thought she was struggling to keep laughter in. She stared grimly at him. “I mean... this medicine, it's important, my brother...”
Joshua trailed off into a billowing silence. The woman was glaring at him now, handsome features bunched up into an ugly frown.
“I'm sorry, if you can't pay I'm afraid you'll have to leave.” She pushed the battered looking credit card back towards Joshua's hand. He pretended to ignore the disgusted look she gave to the missing digit, the risen scars. The way that, when he reached out to pick up the card, his jumper hiked back slightly and exposed more. A bracelet of scar tissue around his wrist.
And then, an afterthought. “And have a nice day, Sir.”
The tone was a death sentence. Joshua knew that. But now what? He had to get the medication. Had to. Otherwise, what about Henry? If he die-
Joshua stumbled backwards into an overweight man who shivered when Joshua reached out to the man's shoulder - with the magic, missing finger hand, of course - to steady both of them. And then -
Something broke and -
Joshua reached inside his pocket and pulled something out.
There was a flash of red and steel.
*
When Joshua left Winter River Island, he did not think it would be the last time he saw it. He also thought that when he returned, he would be happier. A strange shadow seemed to pass over him, the boat and the water. When he looked up at the clear, blue sky; he saw nothing. Joshua shrugged. Just a bad feeling, that was all. Lately, all he had was bad feelings.
The ferry moved slowly along, which - really - was the story of everybody's lives. Just keep moving. The ferry ride towards the city had always been a kind of therapy for Joshua. A reminder that there were bigger things than Winter River. Of course there was … but when you did what Joshua did, when you were depended on so much, it was easy to forget there was a life outside of the island. A life outside of your own house. Sometimes even your own head.
Joshua plodded to the other side of the boat, the side facing back towards the island. People rarely stood at this side, most people were on the ferry to rid themselves of Winter River. Few people wanted to watch the gloomy town behind them when they could watch the pathway towards a sprawling city.
Joshua was one of the few. Whenever he left the island, there was something holding him back. A deep fear that lived inside his gut, a fear with claws and teeth and when Joshua thought of Henry, the fear would bite.
The city filled him with more fear. The crowds of people, the crowds of people with their staring eyes. Judging him, judging his scars. Joshua preferred the hospitality of island folk. Not many people liked him on the Island, if any, but there was a sense of security. The people didn't like him, but they feared him, feared for him. And that was fine.
The ferry was reaching the pier, it would be time to catch the train to the city soon. Joshua made this trip once a week for two reasons. The first; job hunting. Since losing his job in Winter River, he had tried his luck in the city. Being under-age, the ferry was free and Joshua rarely had to pay for the train. Hiding in the bathroom stall made you pretty invisible.
The second reason; buying Henry's medication.
With the loss of the former, the latter would be a problem. But everything would be fine. Recent, and not so recent, events contradicted this. Joshua was trying to remain optimistic. If he didn't, he would have to give in to the temptation of jumping off the ferry and losing himself to the sea: The sometimes overwhelming desire to be lost in darkness and distance.
But where would his dying brother be then?
He would catch the train to the city. He would wander around, handing out applications, and picking them up. He would head to the pharmacy and they would give him the medication that Henry needed.
Otherwise …
No. Joshua would remain optimistic.
*
The curtains were drawn across the window. It was in the early hours of the morning but the room was thrown into a state of darkness, thin beams of light had filtered through the holes in the fabric, casting strange, fluttering shapes across the walls. There was a strange feeling in the room. The feeling that you get in a church, or a morgue. From somewhere at the edge of the room, something breathed deeply and raggedly. Joshua opened the bedroom door slowly, wincing as it squealed.
“Henry?” He whispered, startled by his own voice breaking the thick silence. “You awake?”
There was a muffled response. A half grunt, half groan. Joshua winced again. Closing the door with his foot, he balanced a plate on his left arm - the one with the geography map of scars - and began to move through the clutter over his brother's floor. He knew the trick to manoeuvring in this room when it was at the twilight peak. Just like he knew the plate of food - stale toast with a thin gruel of butter - had long gone cold; it had been sitting on the kitchen counter whilst Joshua gathered the courage to enter. There was no mistaking it, the sour smell of illness in the room. Death was a stench that lingered in rooms long before that person had arrived at the death's door. But Joshua refused to think of that, he couldn't. Not now. Instead, he carefully sat beside Henry on the bed and placed the plate on the bedside table. On the floor were a handful of plates with mostly uneaten food that Joshua would clean up after. His brother was naked apart from a greying pair of boxer shorts. He had cast the covers off of himself some time during the permanent night he found himself in. Henry's skin was strangely translucent, almost glowing with a pale, sickly luminance that made Joshua's heart hurt. It was as if you could see the (cancer?) sickness beneath his skin, tangling itself up with veins and arteries. Once, Henry had been muscular, but now beneath his skin, the muscles rotted. Henry, surely aware of his brother's probing eyes, managed to shuffle himself around a little, resting his always-tired eyes on Joshua's and smiled. It was a horrible smile. It had once been handsome, almost beautiful but now it was just heartbreaking. Joshua thought of the way skin was stretched over a drum.
“Thanks for the food,” Henry said quietly. Lately, he hadn't been able to raise his voice to more than a whisper. He began pulling himself into a sitting position, with a bark of indignation, Joshua bent forwards and tried to help; but Henry (with a surprising amount of strength) pushed him away. Henry struggled up until he was upright and smiled the familiar grimace again.
“You're going to kill yourself doing that,” Joshua said sharply. He was glad his expression was hidden in the gloom.
“I'm going to die anyway,” Henry replied, apparently thinking this was funny. Hilarious, really. Wasn't it? That he was going to die and leave Joshua alone? Future comedian of Winter River, the dead made excellent jokes.
Both of them were quiet for a long time after that. Henry's hand slowly reached out and found Joshua's. Somehow, Henry always managed to grab the hand with the missing finger. Joshua's discomfort to touching people only failed when he was around his brother.; he let Henry entwine their fingers together. They sat how they normally did; in painful, remembering silence.
“A letter came for you today,” Henry said quietly.
“Oh.”
“Yeah... I, er, opened it for you. It was another..”
“Rejection letter?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing out of bed? Didn't I tell you not to? Didn't I tell you that? You need your res-”
“They'll be plenty of rest for me soon enough.”
A flash of red shot across Joshua's vision like a lightning bolt. Not sorrow, but rage maybe. Hate that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. Guilt filled the void: for just a second, he had wanted to strike his dying brother. Silence. Joshua's whole body had begun to shake, for a second Henry thought he was angry. And then a simpler thought occurred. Joshua was on the verge of tears. Using the last reserves of his strength, because it was worth it, he managed to grab Joshua's shoulder and guide him down so they were both lying next to each other. The effort was monumental, he felt like Atlas shrugging the weight of the world off of one shoulder and on to the next. He let his stronger hand rub the grooves of scar tissue on Joshua's arm, soothing them down (only for them to rise back up) and trying to convey what he felt through the tips of his fingers. They travelled up, past his shoulder and he felt the mesh of scars over the boy's neck, and then, followed them up to the crescent behind the boy's ear; where no hair would ever grow. Henry thought for a second he would cry, and then it passed, and in it's place was a wave of fatigue. He was so tired, always these days. So tired that he hadn't realised Joshua had climbed to his feet and was furiously rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. There were no tears, as far as Henry could see. He hadn't seen any for a long, long time. Joshua looked wearily down at him and for the first, major, time, noticed the effect his illness was having on his little brother. He saw through the veneer Joshua wore. Something inside his chest broke but he was too tired to comment. His lead eyelids had began to fall.
“I'm going to go to the city. Got some stuff to do, yeah?”
Henry replied with a non-committal, raspy grunt. A nod; a twitch of his head, anyway. He wanted to say 'Okay, Joshua, okay. Be careful, be safe. If I'm dead when you get back, I love you. Thank you for everything.' He wanted to say it, it was on the tip of his tongue … but already he was falling into a dreamless sleep.
Joshua had already left the room anyway. It would be the last time they saw each other in this life.
Moments before he fell asleep, he thought he could hear sobbing outside his bedroom door.
Or maybe it was just a dream.