Joe slammed the door to the men's room upstairs, kicked at a stall, swayed, reached out and caught the wall to keep himself from falling.
Easy Hardy. Over to the sink. You know the routine. It's okay…
He transferred control to this new voice, allowing it to pull him to the sink, where he turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, then reached for the paper towels, wiped his face clean, and sat carefully down on the floor beside the row of sinks, leaning back against the wall, drew his legs up against his chest, and rested his forehead on his bent knees.
He hated fights with his brother. Hated them more than anything. He shouldn't have pushed him—that was the damn impulsivity, his blessing and curse. But Frank had made him so angry he couldn't think, wasn't thinking, had to get the anger out and away from him, put it somewhere else. Why would he do this? Go behind his back, making things up, insisting he was fine—
Am I?
Joe shivered and raised his head, got slowly to his feet, and made his way past the stalls to the full-length mirror at the end of the row, remembering the image of his brother standing behind him, Frank's chest and legs and shoulders passing his own. The contrast of their two bodies had startled him, had, for a moment, broken through the distortion he saw when he looked in the mirror.
Even now, as he looked, he seemed to be growing, swelling, and now he remembered that he had in fact expanded beyond his brother, that in fact none of Frank could be seen in the mirror it was all him, all Joe, all Joe's disgusting large out of control body, this body that was evil it is being evil now the stomach is growling evil thing calling attention! attention! and Joe stumbled back to the sink, swaying, turned on the tap, cupped his hands and drank until he felt sick.
You're a terrible person, you know that?
The bell rang, summoning everyone back to class, and Joe realized his backpack was still in the cafeteria, that he'd be late.
Frank's fault. All Frank's fault. Not only does he not need you, he wants you to stay this way, stay dependent on him, be the ignorant wild crazy one no one can control no one likes no one can look at wants you to be in his control but you're not anymore you're in your own and he resents it you know that right?
Right?
Joe paused at the doorway, suddenly trembling. It wasn't true. Whatever these new thoughts were, wherever they were coming from, they weren't true. Frank did care about him; Joe knew this, believed this, had always known it, couldn't remember not knowing it.
So why am I thinking this? Is this the truth? Is this really me?
Terrible, terrible person.
Realization hit him: it was, it was him, and since it was, since he had attacked his brother for caring about him, this could only mean one thing: this evil little voice was right.