The places that you've come to fear the most

I hate him.

Everything about him sickens me. His hair color, his eye color, his dopey expressions and his well-pampered appearance. He's always smiling, and why shouldn't he? He's got the lovin'. He's got the looks. He's got everything I wish I had, and the worst thing is, he knows he's got it.

He is everything I have come to fear. Nothing in this world scares me more than he does. Is it because he doesn't give a fuck about me? Is it because he's so damn perfect, and I'm not? Oh, sure, he slips into the mentality of a manic depressionist, but inside, I know he is happy. He is happier than anyone else I know, and I hope he goes to hell for that.

Everything I once knew about you has faded away. You're not my brother anymore. You're not my best friend. You're an acquaintance, an actor, a person so simple and unrelated to my life. It wouldn't make a difference now if you were never born, if you ceased to exist, because in truth, you have been dead to me for a long time.

I don't like looking into the mirror. It's not because my reflection reminds me of who I am. I actually rather like my reflection. It shows me the image of myself, of what I have become. The paleness of my skin comforts me, the bland shade of black that my hair is soothes me. I am content with the glare that has been forever been etched into my expression. No, that's not why I hate looking at myself. It's because when I look into a mirror, I see a ghost of what YOU used to see in me. I feel like I am looking through your eyes, looking at me. I am looking at Matt, my older brother, the one who knows everything, the one who is utterly perfect in every way, my love. I see serenity, content, euphoria beyond the extent of words.

And you, you my precious little brother, you have destroyed all of it. My peace with life is gone. How many times have I drove at ninety miles per hour along an old road, eyeing every tree that comes into sight, knowing that the next one might be my path to eternal rest? How many times have I wanted to jerk that steering wheel sideways, to drive it off a bridge and into a large moat, my car destined to sink to the bottom, deeper and deeper, until my body is sure to never be found? Or how many times have I stared at the bottle of sleeping pills by the side of my bed, or that shotgun in my closet?

You haven't even left me with the courage to do any of these.

My wounds grow deeper everyday. It worse enough that you never call, never stop by to ask how I'm doing, totally disconnecting me from yourself. I am imagining you right now. You're laughing at a joke one of your bandmates has said. There's a guitar by you feet, a pretty woman next to you. You're holding a piece of candy, chewing gum at the same time. You're hair is a wacky shade of purple, and you're wearing your new Invader Zim shoelaces. The image fades away. I can't see your face anymore. It's a blur, almost as if you were dead. I suppose you are.

You were always the favorite. Dad always liked you better. It's because you look exactly like him in every way. I have nothing of daddy, and I remind him too much of our mother for him to look at me for too long. There's always pain in his eyes. Always sorrow when he calls out my name. I hate the way he says it. Matt, he says, his tone soft and respectful, as if he's talking to the angel of our mother and not me. And when he says Jeff, his eyes shine with brilliancy, for he is so proud of his younger son. I cannot help but stare at you two when you embrace, feel jealousy rip through my veins. He will never hug me like the way he hugs you, and I will never be Matt to him. I am only my mother. Her shadow. Her ghost.

I am closing my eyes for you. I am trying to shut out every sound I make, I am trying to focus only on the image of you. Why can't I see you? It would be easier, because then I would be able to look upon the place that I have come to fear the most in the face. The pictures, the flashes that I see of you are inconherit. But then again, why am I struggling to think of you? I hate you. I'm supposed to hate you. You've ruined my life for the gain of your own.

I don't want to take what you can't give. I would rather starve then eat your bread.

There once was a time when I loved you. When you were the dearest thing in the world to me, my life, and my love. There once was a time when I could hug you and then hold you for the rest of the night, my nose in your hair, caressing your blue curls, the smell of shampoo and you overwhelming my senses. You would hold my hand tightly, afraid to let go, your black enameled nails digging into my skin. I remember the first time we had the courage to connect with each other by our lips, how your huge green eyes stared into mine with wonder as they touched, and how my love for you made me feel as if I would explode and then die.

I am looking at a photograph of you right now. Teardrops are slowly falling and settling on the picture of you grinning adorably, holding up your tag team title. I do not feel the usually burning of anger in my stomach as I look at this picture. It is a small relief from the sour life I now live. As much as I loathe you, your face can still brighten a small fraction of my day.

And yet, even as I find myself crying again at your mercy, wishing beyond hope that maybe someday you will come home to me again, I know I will never forgive you for what you did to me. You have left me crippled and scarred, useless. I will never find a cure for the disease you have condemned me with. It is more than impossible.

What do I do now? Continue to sit at home and watch every candle that I own burn itself out? No. I can't live this way anymore. I have reached my breaking point, and I know it, and I can't stop it, and you have triggered it. I am going to go crazy before I die, and I know it has already started. I look in the mirror, quickly, to see the modern version of me, to make sure I don't see the ghost of me through your eyes. Ha. I look like a vampire. Bare your fangs, Matt! I will not be surprised if I have spontaneously sprouted them.

And then, just when I was about ready to start to tear the roots of my hair from my head, you come.

You knock on the door calmly as if it has only been an hour since you have last seen me. When I open the door, you smile a small smile and wave a small wave, Hello Mattykins, whut up? It almost makes me happy when I remember the shock that suddenly spread over your face as you finally see the permanent glare on my face, when you hear the small growl emitting from my throat. I could strangle you, I SHOULD strangle you. I clench my fists with the effort not to lose myself, a struggle I know sooner or later that I will lose.

The waiting drove me mad. You're finally here and I'm a mess.

I slammed the door in your face and walked away. My head felt light and my legs felt heavy as I walked, pondering to myself, musing, did I just do the right thing? Yes. Yes, I did, because he deserved it, because I needed that. I'll take your entrance back. Can't let you roam inside my head.

And suddenly, you're storming me with phone calls. When I had the pleasure of first picking up the phone, on the first call, the first thing to said to me was, Mattykins, what did I do? What have I done? I smiled grimly as I heard him plead. I thought I would thank god the day my precious little brother called and told me he loved me, over and over again like he's doing now. And I am not on my knees yet.

"I hate you," I suddenly whispered, surprised at the sound of my voice. He stopped talking in midsentence, and I heard him let out a small gasp. My heart was thundering in my chest, and I was afraid, so afraid because I knew I would explode on him, and I couldn't stop myself. "But, Matt…" he said meekly, ha, meekly! "I…love…you…" he stuttered.

I was tired of his lies. I was tired of his bullshit. I'll take the firmest path, and I must refuse your test, push me and I will resist, this behavior's not unique.

So I exploded.

"I HATE YOU!" I roared, so loudly that I had thought for a moment I have exploded my own eardrums, and most possibly his. "I HATE YOU! EVERYTHING YOU HAVE EVER BEEN TO ME WAS A LIE!" I was panting for breath, choking on my own words, feeding off every bit of rage I gave off and every little whimper he gave. "I am so tired, Jeff! I am sick of waiting for you, for crying for you, I am DONE with you! I don't care if you love me or not, because I HATE YOU, and I wish you would die! I wish you were dead!"

And even then, I felt the impact of my own words, as I heard him on the other line, sobbing loudly. Matty, he was saying, Matty, oh, Matty… "Shut up!" I hissed. "Stop being a baby, grow up! All you do is cry. Cry, cry, cry."

He cried louder. "Matty, what can I do? What have I done? I love you, I'll do anything, just please, don't…don't…don't hate me…" he moaned.

I wanted nothing from him. Absolutely nothing at all. My feeling for him had suddenly went numb, all of my feelings for him. Hate, sorrow, and even the strongest of them all, love. Love, which I had once thought could never be diluted. Love, which was as fire I thought I could never put out. And here it was, a frozen flame, broken and crumbled and melted on the floor. He was my brother. Nothing more.

"I'm sorry," I said suddenly, without meaning to. I was again surprised by the sound of its voice, realizing it sounded stronger and colder than I felt. "But I was wrong. Blood is not thicker than water. Blood is so thin, you know that? It's so thin that if you're not careful, it can turn into nothing, and that nothing becomes nothing, and you become nothing." I had momentarily slipped into my big brother role again. I was teaching. And he was listening. "You are nothing, Jeff." I forced myself to grow even colder with each word. "I don't care anymore. Die and rot, I won't give a fuck."

And then there was silence, silence for such a long time, though I could hear him sometimes give off a small and tearful choke. And then, out of the blue, I clutched the phone receiver tighter, and I put my lips to it, closing my eyes and hearing Corduroy even though it wasn't there, and I said softly, "It's your move now. I thought you were a friend but I…I guess I…I guess I hate you."

I hung up.

I must have had about fifty phone calls from you a day. My answering machine was full up with of your voice, over and over again, begging forgiveness for an unknown sin. In all of your messages, you call me Mattykins. Your nickname for me, the childish one, but nevertheless, my nickname. You've called me that ever since you were little, and it's stuck. I like it better than jimmy legs or brownie. It's closer to my name. It helps me when I am stuck in an identity crisis. And each time I hear one of your messages, my longing for you grows dimmer, my feelings for you grow numb and numb and number, until they are logged completely somewhere else in my brain and heart. You give up eventually after about two more weeks of me not answering the phone. I heard a rumor that you look sick and sad all the time, that you're not eating and you're smoking now. It hurts to hear those rumors at first, but then the hurt goes away and I think of karma and it's influence on the world.

There is now a point in my life when I feel like I am not living. A day passes without a sound of the chiming of a clock. Food doesn't have taste to me anymore, and I can't even begin to guess how much weight I have lost. Yeah, I suppose my hair has lost its luster and I absolutely don't care what I wear anymore, but at least I'm not in pain anymore. At least I'm not crying anymore. I know I have looked in the face of the place that I have come to fear the most, and I stared it down and won it. And yet, once again, I am asking the same question as I was before.

What now?

My life is full of contradictions. I have more reason not point a gun to my head and pull the trigger now than I did then, but still, I'm starting to want to live less and less. The day drags on and the clock keeps ticking, and I'm staring at it and wondering how the hell I'm gonna continue on. Maybe I'm just bored. Or maybe I'm denying my true feelings. Maybe I actually do miss you and your kisses, strange as it may be. But how could I? How could I miss you when you denounced me of everything I ever had? No, that's not it. I don't need you. I just need someone.

Anyone.

I am not at peace with the world, as I hoped I would be when you and I were over. I find myself doing nothing, and what is nothing when you have nothing, and that nothing drags on, until you still have nothing and you are nothing? Nothing. And that's what I am, nothing, the story of my life, nothing, the ending of it will probably be, like everything else, nothing. And now, I am suddenly realizing I don't want to live to be thirty years old. I'm twenty-seven and I'm wasted, and I'm done, there's NOTHING left for me, just some empty shell of what I used to be.

Jeff. Brother. Love. Are you reading this right now? Can you see these words? Are you suddenly regretting yourself, your life, suddenly wishing you were never born? I know what that feeling is like. I know how it is to live like this. I am living it. And I am done.

I like the feel of the cold steel in my hand. It feels exactly like the pallor of my skin, so cold, so hard and lifeless. I pump the handle, over and over, loving the sound of the clicks it makes. I run my thumb over the two barrels, stroke it carefully and respectfully. This will be my tool to freedom. I cannot fight life anymore. I will embrace what I was afraid to embrace before, which is nothing but my freedom, life! Oh, how ironic it is that I fell as if I will find life in death, but that's all my life has been, a bitter and cruel twist of fate and irony, and I suppose it was meant that I would die this way.

Don't cry.

How should I do this? Should I point my shotgun at my head? In my mouth? Or should I shoot myself in the stomach, so that I could feel pain before I die, so I could feel anything! Because I don't feel anything, I haven't felt anything since I last talked to you, and I want to die feeling something, even if it is pain. As long as it's SOMETHING!

The handle is already pumped. I am set. I am turning the gun around right now, Jeffy, to point at my stomach, and if you are reading this, please know that suddenly, I don't want to die, I want to live and to hug you and kiss your sweet lips over and over and over, but I know there is no turning back, not now, and there are tears streaming down my face when I suddenly realize that I am feeling something, I am not numb anymore, I feel pain and sadness and a terrible longing in my heart for your tender touch, and then the pain becomes worse because I know now I will never feel your lips again, smell your hair again, hold your hand again, and I am so scared, and I can't stop, not now, not ever again.

There is so much pain again. I don't need to die feeling the bullets penetrate my skin. I have felt enough already. I am ready to go. I hold the shotgun to my mouth and close my eyes, my heart thumping again loudly in my chest, and then I hear your voice and it's saying, "Mattykins, I love you." I see your bright and smiling face, and I hear your voice again, telling me you love me, and it's so clear, so vivid, that I cry out and almost throw the gun away, but I don't. I love you too, Jeffy. My love hurts me, your love hurts me, everything hurts, and I don't want to hurt anymore.

Please know, Jeffy, that right now, right before I pull this trigger, right after I am finished writing this fucking long letter of confession to you…

…please know that my last thought was of you.