I raise my hand to the mirror. What do you see when you look into it?
Can you see my reflection, warped and twisted as it may be? Or do you
merely see a shadow of your own self; the darkness you succumbed to?
What do you see, little brother?
You were always the kind one, you know. I muse on that now; being dead has some advantages. It gives me plenty of time to contemplate. I may have been the genius, but you were the kind one. You were always careful with others feelings...always caring about those less fortunate then yourself.
Can you remember the time we were in the park and you found a little sparrow? Probably not, you were just a child. You found the little bird; I think it had flown into a tree. I was loathe to pick it up, not wanting to hurt the baby bird.
You, on the other hand, had no qualms. I was afraid you would hurt it in childish exuberance, but you cradled the small animal with such tender care. You rocked it, before lifting the stunned bird into your hands.
Only once you taught it to fly did I realize that bird should have died; you kept it alive.
You did that with a lot of things, you know, Kenny-boy. You kept us all together. Mama and Papa may not have noticed it, chalking it up to family pride at my genius, but I did. Your kindness kept us together, your unquestioning faith in us all.
You were like the little bird, brother, trusting us all with the gift of flight. I can still hear the little avian chirps as you carried the little bird home.
What ever happened to the little bird, I wonder? Did it learn to fly, or did it die? I do not know. I know only what I see through your mind, and your reflection.
Can you see me, little brother, or can you only see the shadow of the monster you were?
I lift my hand, the fingers pressed against the glass, looking through the thin mortal veil at the child I knew and loved so well. You're not a child anymore, little brother. You are eighteen. An adult now.
It has been ten years, Ken. Living through the shadows of your trials and triumphs... I see how you look at the girl, Miyako... you love her, do you not? Yet, you are afraid to say anything to her. You are terrified she will still see the echo of the Kaiser in your eyes; that she will turn away in fear from the darkness you know resides in your soul, silent; sleeping.
What are you afraid of?
Your hand shakes as you raise the razor to your wrist. A song springs to my mind, one I used to listen to when I was alive... I used to listen to it in the classes I knew so well, pretending to listen to the teachers bore on and on and on about god-only-knew. Is this the song that you hum now, as you trace the razor gently over the pale skin of your wrist? Is this the song you remember from our time? Does the irony of it strike you as humorous? Or is something else that makes your lips curve in that eerie smile I have come to fear?
The words I hear chill my soul to the core.
"Soon, Samu... I am tired, big brother."
My hand reaches out, and I fight to grasp the razor from your hand, aghast as my hand, clear as vapor, slides through the blade with no resistance. It is almost as if I do not exist; as if the material world has forgotten me, along with my friends and family. And perhaps, in a way, it has.
The murmured humming from your lips frightens me more then any written letter or uttered admissions ever could. My song... you hum it like a reassuring lullaby.
Do you know what you say?
I think you do, as you lower the razor down, closer to the skin, the blood, the precious thing that links us together as brothers, pulsing beneath the surface. So close to being spilled. So close.
"I never thought I' d die alone
I laughed the loudest who' d have known?"
I had always loved the song for its melody, its acoustic tone, and the feeling behind it. You, little brother, love it for the message it send... or perhaps for the last chance to mock me.
Death stole me cruelly from this world; a life cut short, barely lived. I had yet to have a first kiss, first date... I had yet to hold a girls hand, or tell someone I loved them. I had yet to make one true friend, besides you.
You walk into death with arms outstretched, embracing it. Taking it into yourself like wine, deep, rich, and forbidden. Perhaps in your mind, you mock me. I had no choice and you do. Another thing you excel at.
You beat me, little brother.
You win the game. But at what expense? At your happiness? At your health? At, perhaps.your life?
The games stakes are too high, little brother.
I watch, horrified, as you slash at yourself with a fervor reminiscent of the Bacchantes. The blood spills like crimson rain, down your wrists, down to the floor, down to the immaculate white tile.
Your life, our last link.spilling so freely. I have never seen so much blood in one place; after all, I died of internal bleeding. I never was able to see inside myself, and for that, I am thankful.
I am sure if I had a stomach, I would be expelling the contents.
You are deathly pale, your skin taking on a grayish pallor as you slowly drain. The most frightening thing, though; your eyes. Your smile haunts me, but then again, it always has.
Your pallor frightens me, but that is to be expected.
It is your eyes. They are a deep amethyst, so utterly and totally gem- like. They always glittered, Kenny-boy, always carried a small spark of hope.
They are dull now, like useless dollar stone gems found in the sludge.
They are dead eyes, Kenny-boy, and I know you are gone.
What do you see, little brother?
You were always the kind one, you know. I muse on that now; being dead has some advantages. It gives me plenty of time to contemplate. I may have been the genius, but you were the kind one. You were always careful with others feelings...always caring about those less fortunate then yourself.
Can you remember the time we were in the park and you found a little sparrow? Probably not, you were just a child. You found the little bird; I think it had flown into a tree. I was loathe to pick it up, not wanting to hurt the baby bird.
You, on the other hand, had no qualms. I was afraid you would hurt it in childish exuberance, but you cradled the small animal with such tender care. You rocked it, before lifting the stunned bird into your hands.
Only once you taught it to fly did I realize that bird should have died; you kept it alive.
You did that with a lot of things, you know, Kenny-boy. You kept us all together. Mama and Papa may not have noticed it, chalking it up to family pride at my genius, but I did. Your kindness kept us together, your unquestioning faith in us all.
You were like the little bird, brother, trusting us all with the gift of flight. I can still hear the little avian chirps as you carried the little bird home.
What ever happened to the little bird, I wonder? Did it learn to fly, or did it die? I do not know. I know only what I see through your mind, and your reflection.
Can you see me, little brother, or can you only see the shadow of the monster you were?
I lift my hand, the fingers pressed against the glass, looking through the thin mortal veil at the child I knew and loved so well. You're not a child anymore, little brother. You are eighteen. An adult now.
It has been ten years, Ken. Living through the shadows of your trials and triumphs... I see how you look at the girl, Miyako... you love her, do you not? Yet, you are afraid to say anything to her. You are terrified she will still see the echo of the Kaiser in your eyes; that she will turn away in fear from the darkness you know resides in your soul, silent; sleeping.
What are you afraid of?
Your hand shakes as you raise the razor to your wrist. A song springs to my mind, one I used to listen to when I was alive... I used to listen to it in the classes I knew so well, pretending to listen to the teachers bore on and on and on about god-only-knew. Is this the song that you hum now, as you trace the razor gently over the pale skin of your wrist? Is this the song you remember from our time? Does the irony of it strike you as humorous? Or is something else that makes your lips curve in that eerie smile I have come to fear?
The words I hear chill my soul to the core.
"Soon, Samu... I am tired, big brother."
My hand reaches out, and I fight to grasp the razor from your hand, aghast as my hand, clear as vapor, slides through the blade with no resistance. It is almost as if I do not exist; as if the material world has forgotten me, along with my friends and family. And perhaps, in a way, it has.
The murmured humming from your lips frightens me more then any written letter or uttered admissions ever could. My song... you hum it like a reassuring lullaby.
Do you know what you say?
I think you do, as you lower the razor down, closer to the skin, the blood, the precious thing that links us together as brothers, pulsing beneath the surface. So close to being spilled. So close.
"I never thought I' d die alone
I laughed the loudest who' d have known?"
I had always loved the song for its melody, its acoustic tone, and the feeling behind it. You, little brother, love it for the message it send... or perhaps for the last chance to mock me.
Death stole me cruelly from this world; a life cut short, barely lived. I had yet to have a first kiss, first date... I had yet to hold a girls hand, or tell someone I loved them. I had yet to make one true friend, besides you.
You walk into death with arms outstretched, embracing it. Taking it into yourself like wine, deep, rich, and forbidden. Perhaps in your mind, you mock me. I had no choice and you do. Another thing you excel at.
You beat me, little brother.
You win the game. But at what expense? At your happiness? At your health? At, perhaps.your life?
The games stakes are too high, little brother.
I watch, horrified, as you slash at yourself with a fervor reminiscent of the Bacchantes. The blood spills like crimson rain, down your wrists, down to the floor, down to the immaculate white tile.
Your life, our last link.spilling so freely. I have never seen so much blood in one place; after all, I died of internal bleeding. I never was able to see inside myself, and for that, I am thankful.
I am sure if I had a stomach, I would be expelling the contents.
You are deathly pale, your skin taking on a grayish pallor as you slowly drain. The most frightening thing, though; your eyes. Your smile haunts me, but then again, it always has.
Your pallor frightens me, but that is to be expected.
It is your eyes. They are a deep amethyst, so utterly and totally gem- like. They always glittered, Kenny-boy, always carried a small spark of hope.
They are dull now, like useless dollar stone gems found in the sludge.
They are dead eyes, Kenny-boy, and I know you are gone.