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| Illustrated by Monica Adrian, Written by Danielle Blair |
Twisted
Nerve
In the
beginning there's darkness.
The
fluorescent light comes on slowly and fleetingly, and in the corner there sits
my brother. His pretty golden-toned face marred with blood and bruising. His
eye puffed and purpled, and the expression on his face, is one of anger and
defeat. It's the ugliest I've ever seen him. I'm sitting across from him on the
gray-blue concrete floor in the basement of the two-story apartment in my old
town of Greenfield. The devil's home as some call it, for evil seems to lurk in
the halls and the walls and it has the audacity to mark itself 666 Dominion
Drive. Here we are in the belly of the beast, locked away and between us, a
silver revolver on the floor, daring one of us to pick it up.
Only
one of you can leave.
The threat
hangs in the air as we sit in silence. Part of me always knew that it would
come to this. After a while, I stopped imagining a future for me and my
brother. Even though we spent so much time dreaming together, creating a plot
that shows us a happy ending. It was the best revenge we could think of
against him. He, who locked us in here. Finally giving into his fantasy
of us turning on each other, this was his way of forcing it to happen. I'm not sure if he expected us to be
scrambling for the gun, wrestling to grab it and shoot the other. Or if he
expected me to waste no time in shooting my brother; he always tried so hard to
make me hate him.
A sharp
skirting noise interrupts my thoughts as the gun bumps up against my leg. I
look to my brother in confusion as he is settling back into his position of leaning up against the wall.
"Do it," he says,
"Shoot me. And get out of here."
My stomach
sinks at his words. He's broken. I can hear it in his voice that there's no fight
left in him. This boy, my brother, the popular guy, the guy who never stops
smiling, never stops dancing, never raises his voice to anyone, no matter how
angry he is. He was always the guiding light for me. I understood why people
admired him. He was a star. Just in the way he walked, there was a two step
rhythm in it that made people brighten up in his presence. He was the guy that
you wanted to always be around, but now he sits, darkness descending on him,
and my heart feels heavy. His dimming light diminishes me into complete black
space.
Because he's the sun, I am the moon.
Without
him, you can't see me.
Without
thinking, I pick up the gun and examine it. Lightly fingering the cold steel of
it and tracing the crevices.
Do it. It will be quick and easy.
The thought
comes to me with sweet malice. Its warmth brings me into consideration. All
my life, I've lived in his shadow. He's the one that everyone wanted to talk
to. Who was I? Eric's little sister? The very few people who knew my actual
name, rarely asked me how I was doing; it's usually "So how's Eric?" He
was the reason why my life was irrelevant. So maybe this was my chance to be
rid of him and finally be noticed for me. Loved for me, because there'd be
nothing people could use me for, or ignore me for. What was it my mother's
boyfriend was always saying?
Why
would anyone care about you when they could have him?
It's true,
no one would. But if he wasn't around they'd have to. They'd have to, right? I
could define myself by something other than my brother. This could be the
beginning I need.
So being
the girl who killed her brother is better than being known as Eric's little
sister? Right? This isn't right. You can't let him give up.
"Shauna?" my brother said
softly at me, making me jolt. "I know what I'm asking of you is wrong. But
I need you to do this. You've always been the one with a future, so just do it.
I would do it myself, but I don't have the courage. Just the resolve."
Coward
The world
needs less of them. Pull the trigger.
Despite the
state of things, I feel myself getting angry. At him, my mom, my mother's
boyfriend, my friends, the city. Obama.
Everything, because things weren't supposed to be this way. He wasn't supposed
to be this way.
"I always thought I was the coward." I deadpan. "What
happened to the dream, Eric?"
"What are you talking
about?" he asks tiredly.
You know
they say those who stop dreaming, stop living.
There's no
point of him being alive.
So just end
him. He's holding you back.
"But what about me?" I say
quietly.
"What do you mean?" he
asks again.
You could
never piggyback off his success just so you know.
He's in the
way of you making
your own
path. Remove him.
Do it, pull
the trigger.
"What am I supposed to do when
you're dead?" I ask, finally looking at him. He looks away. "We can
figure out a way through this. We're strong. We're supposed to be famous one
day remember?" Eric chuckles without smiling. I watch him as he looks
around the basement and his features darken once more, and then he pierces me
with a dead look.
"No. I don't want to go
through. I want to be done. So do it." he says.
"I can't believe you're self-centered enough to ask me to be your murderer," I snap at him.
"Cause, it should be easy for
you. You hate me."
"I don't hate you," I say
immediately.
But don't
you though?
Isn't this is the boy who pushed you down a
flight of stairs just for a remote?
Told his
friends in school you were into girls so they wouldn't talk to you?
Gave you
the nickname "Forehead" and had the whole neighborhood slapping you
on the forehead when they came around you?
Quit lying.
Kill him.
The
thoughts come rushing at me all at once and my grip tightens on the handle of
the revolver, and something in the pit of my stomach starts daring me to do it, to let my arm naturally extend out in front of me and aim…fire…
But this is
your brother. And let's not pretend that you haven't done harmful things to him
in return. All the times you got him in trouble for things he didn't do. So
many times when the switch was destined for you, but you outwitted the fates
into putting his name on it. Should you die too? He's never tried to actually
harm you, scar you. If anything, his teasing made you smarter, stronger,
sharper. Now he needs that...save him.
But he's
asking you to kill him. Just give him what he wants. He doesn't want to be saved.
If you
didn't really want to do it, why do you still have the gun?
I look at the gun in my hand, and
for some reason I don't want to let it go. And immediately I'm stricken with
fear. I don't want to do this. I don't want to kill him. I know for sure I
don't now. But I can't let go of the gun. It's like it's become part of my
hand. Somehow, there's already blood on it.
"I
don't want to kill you. I don't," I say, panicking.
My brother
says nothing; he just looks at me, prepared. I can't control my hands as it
removes the safety to line a bullet in the chamber, and I immediately start
crying. I don't want to do this. I need him to live, my brother, who I've spent
so much time with that we started to laugh alike. Who I have a secret handshake
with. Inside jokes. My brother who used to beat up the boys who had the
audacity to tease me, and walk with me around school so all the other kids
would know that I was cool. My big brother who was always there for me when I
needed him. Who I could hate with every fiber of my being, but still loved with
every ounce of blood in my body. An irreplaceable figure in my life. Despite me
knowing this, I can't stop my arm from twisting up and pulling the trigger.
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