Brothiz

I'd have to ignore a few key issues before arriving at anything resembling brotherhood; my homicidal hatred of Kev, his blatant, twisted cruelty, the fact that we haven’t spoken a word in years. Besides his relentless abuse and putting my life in jeopardy more times than I can count, we were as thick as thieves. We made it through a tumultuous childhood, traversed the white capped waters of addiction, and waded through the hell that is incarceration.
But there was a split. I got sober and he didn’t. I ran headlong into the brick wall of his addiction, trying hard to get him to see the path to righteousness. All I ever ended up with was a headache. Hubris hurts.
I see Rachel with her siblings. They all have their own issues, quirks developed the same way we all get them, faulty parenting. But credit is due, the bond they share is undeniable, and like most people who share DNA, each would take a bullet for the other.
Dad tried as hard as he is capable of to bring us back together, but I denied him. “Would you be willing to sit down with him and try to hash it out?”
“No.” I said, savoring it a little longer than was necessary.
“Why not?” he asked, annoyed.
I thought about it for a few seconds and answered, “To be honest, I’m not even sure what our feud is about anymore. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
I can’t and won’t deny that I miss him. I go over our history again and again, hoping to uncover some nugget of understanding. To what end? I’ll get back to you. I’ve been obsessing on the bond he shares with Dad, the one I still feel felt left out of.
So I declare that from this day forth I have adopted a new brother, Rachel’s brother, Austin. He laughs as heartily at my sense of humor, doesn’t pound the piss out of me for the sheer fun of it, and doesn’t actively put my life in danger (at least not yet). His anger is fresh and electrically charged, while mine is showing signs of decay. When he visits he draws off my thoroughly useless knowledge base and asks questions like, “What’s crack like?”
“Well,” I say, “you know that feeling, just before you become violently ill where you have to decide whether to sit on the toilet or kneel?”
“Yeah.”
“Like that, only worse.”
“Why on earth would anyone want to do that?” he asks wide eyed.
“Because it’s awesome,” is all I can answer.

Death Watch

Death was neither early nor late, on time or past deadline. There were factors that made him less an exact science and more an estimation. She was ready. What the cancer hadn’t taken was dim and fading, but she refused to face him. He’d wait.

Her son tiptoed in with a tray, and placed it down gingerly, she knew him as John the orderly. He sat down. Death acquainted himself with the anger that flared behind his ice blue eyes.

“Where’s my petunia?” she asked John the orderly.

Bryan answered, “She’s out Mum. Here, take these,” and handed her a fistful of pills.

For the past sixty days she had subsisted on room temperature Ensure and morphine. She reached for her smokes. “Mum, you shouldn’t smoke those.” he asserted.

“Hmmph, why not?” she replied, her point too poignant to argue.

He let her smoke, watching her nod out. “Why are you lying to me about Jess?” she asked.

“Mum, she left,” is all he offered in reply.

“Where’s Kevin?”

“He’s in prison, Mum.”

Her face contorted. “Bryan? My Bryan, please take care of him? He needs you.”

“I know, Mum, I will.” he replied unconvincingly.

Tears rolled hers and his. “He’s so angry. He won’t handle this well.” She looked over to where Death stood in the shadows. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

“Who?” he asked.

“That guy.” She pointed to the corner

“Don’t know. What’s he want?”

She pondered, “He’s here to get me.”

“So go.” he said.

“Fuck that.”

“Well, you didn’t go when Uncle Teddy came, or The Goddess.”

“Well, he’s creepy.” she added.

“Mum, lay, I need to change your bandage.”

She acquiesced. He exposed the bandage that covered her stomach, peeling it back. Death shifted from one shadow to another, closer. The tumor threatened to breach her abdomen. Death watched her son’s reaction to his stench. Not long now.

Her son left. She stared. Death stared. “I can’t go yet. I don’t want to leave my kids.”

No answer.

“Fuck you!”

By nightfall, she fell into a trance. He put her where no one could reach her. Her eyes fell blank. She shivered. Her eyes failed to close or even blink. Death marked her passing by extinguishing each candle, one by one. While the last one flickered, he pulled her from her vessel.

My Midlife Crisis

It's not recurring, this dream. I'm on top of a skyscraper. My crippling fear of heights is noticeably non-existent. Peering over the top, the clouds block my view of the ground. I have a distinct memory of jumping before, something I'd never do. Someone is suited up and ready. They jump as I slip off the side. I manage to grab and hold on. I hang. Clouds lick my feet. Imminent death waits to break my fall. Although my grip doesn't give, shows no sign whatsoever of giving, I know I'll die if I let go. I try to come to terms with death, a topic that permeates my waking thoughts, the idea of there being no me. I can't seem to integrate death's inevitability into my psyche. It seems so implausible, and yet...
I don't fall but wake with a start.
In the past year I have become truly lost.
I have no idea what turn to take next. The sign at the crossroads points in all directions, so therefore, at none.
It's all about choices, but choices are about options.
School? A Masters? In what? I'd love to teach but can't have my record sealed until 2017.
I'd love to write more books, but the process is so maddeningly slow.
I'm starting to crack.
Can anyone help me figure out what to be now that I've grown up?