Carter Cox
Story 1 – Draft 1
July 8, 2014
Questions:
Does the shifting voice/structure add/detract/distract?
Where does the build come through/not come through? (i.e. Is it boring?)
What context do you wish you had? What don’t you need?
MORNINGS GO LIKE THIS:
Jarryd wakes at 6:05 and showers immediately. He could wake a bit later –
perhaps as late as 6:20 – and have time enough, but he hates to feel rushed. The day
hangs over him, suspended by a veiny thread, and he needs room to breath, to get his
rhythm right. To wake up. To focus.
He washes comprehensively – not careful or fastidious, but generally with the
same order of operations. Shampoo for the hair, cleansing scrub for the face, soap for the
body.
He is aware of his top to bottom sequencing, but also knows it’s not a matter of
compulsion. He doesn’t have to do things a certain way. He won’t feel upset if he
doesn’t. Some days he doesn’t. He just prefers to.
He dries and dresses (clothes laid out the night before). He goes to the kitchen,
usually by 6:40 (if he is running late, 6:45) and gathers his lunch and bags for the day.
He sets his lunch bag out on the counter by the sink – under the cupboard with the spices,
peanut butter, and condimental items – the night before, already loaded with any
nonperishables or utensils he will need. In the morning, he gets whatever items from the
fridge, organized on the top shelf the night before (when he gets the bag ready on the
counter). He gets his backpack from the kitchen chair closest to the back door. He is out
the door by 6:55 at the latest, in time to hear the morning news cycle over on the car’s
radio at 7:00. At work by 7:40. On good days everything runs ten minutes earlier.
That is how mornings go.
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WEDNESDAY, 6:42 A.M.
Jarryd had not taken any particular notice of the knife on Tuesday morning – he
had put away a few dishes from the rack, and he thought now maybe the knife had been
out as well. This morning, though, there were no dishes, none needed last night. They
had eaten pizza. Paper towels in the trash, box in the recycling bin in the garage, a little
leftover pepperoni wrapped in foil in the fridge. Lunch for today.
Knife back to its slot in the block – 8” Wusthof Chef’s/Cook’s knife (“the
workhorse of knives!”), $79.95 pretty much anywhere he had looked. It was the only
brand he had known, but he knew it was good, good enough. He had just wanted one
really nice knife. The other five slots in the block held much cheaper stuff – he had
gotten them at Target when he first moved in – but when he bought the Wusthof he had
thrown out the old butcher knife, knowing the knew blade was technically not the same
thing, but it was still a hell of a lot better than what he had had. Six months and it still
surprised him how sharp it was.
He didn’t notice Matthew at the table until he closed the refrigerator door,
confused. Matthew hunched over the open leaves of wrinkled foil, profiled against the
glowing blinds of the window, chewing pizza like a mouthful of cud.
Jarryd stared at him a few seconds, his hand still on the fridge door, waiting for
acknowledgement.
“Hey.” Jarryd’s voice was as neutral as he could make it.
Matthew stopped chewing long enough to say it back, but he didn’t turn.
“Hey I was gonna eat that for lunch.”
2
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3
That was enough to stop him. The silence felt long. Matthew’s hands seemed to
do the work for him, as if on their own, folding the crinkled foil limply over the remains.
“There’s a piece left,” Matthew said, his mouth full. Still he didn’t turn to Jarryd.
What a shit.
His hair was greasy, but it was hard to tell if it was just tired product, melted into
now dry sweat. He was wearing enough cologne that Jarryd could smell him on the other
end of the corridor of a kitchen.
Jarryd sighed, just eat it, he still had his salad. He’d buy something in the
cafeteria if it wasn’t enough. Another long pause, and then Matthew limply drew back
the foil again, resuming chewing. Jarryd grabbed his backpack from the chair on his side
of the table and inched past Matthew’s chair, out the back door. He had to suck his
stomach in a little to squeeze past.
“You work today?” he asked.
“Not til tonight.” Jarryd almost asked what hours, but Matthew said, “Five to
close.”
“Okay. I have conferences after school, so I probably won’t be home before
then.” He thought about it. “Plus they’ve been doing work over by 70, so I’m sure
traffic will be slow, so no, I definitely won’t see you.”
It felt like Matthew was waiting until he could finish eating the pizza. Jarryd left.
THIS IS HOW IT IS WITH MATTHEW:
Jarryd knows Matthew's friends call him "Matt." At least one friend did once, in
front of Jarryd, but Jarryd is sure most of them do. He doesn’t really know Matthew's
friends - and sometimes he suspects that, by most grownup definitions, Matthew doesn’t
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4
actually have any friends. He spends time with people, usually “out,” but he rarely talks
about them with any real affection, or even personal knowledge, Jarryd thinks.
Matthew probably feels like he isn’t supposed to have friends over, like they
aren’t welcome in the house because it isn’t his. He is just “staying for a while.” It
probably means Matthew doesn’t feel welcome himself, Jarryd knows. And he feels
some small, inky blot of shame over it, but the truth is he doesn’t want Matthew's friends
over. He doesn’t know them, but neither does he want to.
It is the same with Matthew's name. He has always been Matthew, since he was
born and Jarryd was five. Jarryd can clearly remember having a say in the naming of the
new baby, though he can’t remember what his contributions had been. It takes conscious
effort to call him “Matt” now, to remember, and why should a person have to be so
cognizant about his brother's name? He knows Matthew. He has always known him, and
the idea that one can simply change names as a matter of preference is a little bizarre in
Jarryd's view.
Anyway, if Matthew minds being "Matthew," he never says anything about it.
Not to Jarryd, at least.
In Jarryd’s dreams, Matthew is always a little boy.
That’s how it is with Matthew.
THURSDAY, 6:31 A.M.
Jarryd had woken up twenty minutes before the alarm, his eyes full, his breath
sudden and deep. It was immediately clear he was awake, and fifteen minutes of dozing
seemed useless. So he’d been up early and was ahead of schedule.
Cox
He noticed the knife right away, as well as a dish in the sink, a crumpled paper
towel on the counter, and a poorly rinsed pot (three quarts, Target, some random brand)
on the stove. Why put it back on the stove? As if that’s where it’s kept?
If he ate the fuckin leftovers again I’m gonna kill him.
But the noodles in the sink strainer said spaghetti, and his tupperware was where
he’d left it in the fridge, tucked behind the milk, out of the obvious sightlines. Fajita
stuff. They had been good last night. He’d just reheat it and eat straight out of the
tupperware. Less hassle.
Diffused light stretched down the long kitchen to Jarryd, across the table by the
window, over the linoleum floor and the gray formica counters. No, that was a brand,
“Formica.” He didn’t know what they were made of, but hated the way he could see the
white plaster in the seams along the edges. Was it plaster? He didn’t really know.
He recleaned the pot, then the dish, and put them on the rack. Paper towel in the
trash (bin from Target also – it had been $60 but was stainless steel and had seemed
better made than the less expensive ones). The Wusthof was on the counter next to the
rack, where it had been the day before, angled away from the sink, blade pointed toward
the edge of the counter with the gappy seams. The knife looked clean, but Jarryd gave it
a good scrub anyway and set it on the rack.
Then, with a second thought, he grabbed a clean dishtowel from under the sink,
wiped it carefully dry, and put it in the block. Matthew’s car was in the driveway,
blocking him in. He had to move it on the street. When he got in his car, the morning
news was just starting, his lead on the morning gone.
Little fucker.
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6
THIS IS HOW JARRY WOULD TELL IT:
It’s night, on Thursday, probably close to 10:30? I think it was late. But it’s
night, and the windows in the living room or family room – I don’t know, the only room I
really have with couches and chairs in it, with a TV in it – the windows are black, as if
the room is a glass container, holding all the light in. Everything is cast in orange, then
yellow, depending on position, or angle, or something. The windows look obsidian in
contrast, and the world outside is invisible.
On the opposite end of the room, two steps up from floor level, is a huge archway,
it’s glass French doors open just a crack, letting light spill into the open foyer, so the
spiraled end of the staircase creeps down and in from the right, gray shadow, wrought
iron banister drawn in spindly black lines. Somehow, despite the golden glow of the
living room, everything in the foyer is muted, contoured, silhouette.
I sit on the floor, grading papers on the glass coffee table. It’s between me and
the French doors. I don’t like the idea of having my back to the foyer. My papers and
laptop are spread out across the fragile, transparent surface, its edges beveled, and I’m
seated cross-legged, a little uncomfortable because the table’s up to my chest, red pen in
hand.
The back door opens two rooms over, in the kitchen, the whoomping air
displacement and squealing hinges sudden and kind of violent. It closes more softly, with
a gentle click. I hear jingling keys, the dry suction of the refrigerator door opening
briefly and closing, clinking glass, the rattling of the silverware drawer. I can’t turn back
to my papers; I keep my eye on the foyer, for some reason needing to confirm the new
presence in the house.
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7
Matthew enters slowly from the kitchen hallway, his eyes straight ahead and his
hands full – two beers in one, sweating bottlenecks clenched tight between his fingers, a
carton from the fridge in the other. Chinese? His hipster satchel bag thing is slung over
his left shoulder and some other bag, a shopping bag from somewhere, is tucked tightly
under his left arm.
“Hey,” I say, sounding relaxed, which I am, just as he’s about to u-turn around the
end of the banister and onto the stairs. He stops and seems to wait.
Finally: “This isn’t your food. I got takeout yesterday.”
“I know,” I say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then, “I was just
saying hey.”
“Hey.” It feels like he’s mocking me. That’s just how he is though.
He just stares straight ahead, waiting for whatever else I want to say. It’s like he’s
a teenager and I’m a parent waiting up for him. He can’t just say hello like a normal
fucking 27-year-old. Outside moths tap up against the black windows, mindlessly
seeking the house’s light. I can’t see them behind me, but I imagine I hear their gentle
crashes.
He’s still standing there, stuck. How long has it been? Ten seconds? I almost
tell him it’s fine that he’s drinking the beers, though they’re the last two I think and the
fact that he grabbed both and is taking them upstairs is a little insulting on multiple
levels, like what if I want one?
“Okay, sorry,” I say, “I was just saying hello.”
“I’m going to bed soon.”
“Yeah me too. Long week.”
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8
He slowly thumps upstairs into the darkness of the second floor. As soon as I
hear the door to his room close above me I get up and open the French doors, flipping the
lights in the foyer on. I go to the kitchen and turn the lights there on too. The knife is out
on the counter again.
“You’re fucking trying to piss me off,” I whisper to no one, like I’m practicing. I
put it away. About an hour later, when I’m done working, I walk briskly through the first
floor, turning lights off, and take the stairs two at a time. The flickering light of
television creeps from under Matthew’s door. Bassy undertones reverberating in the
drywall.
That is how Jarryd would tell it.
FIDAY, 6:54 A.M.
Jarryd noticed the knife as soon as he came into the kitchen. It was the Wusthoff,
again. There were no other dishes, just the knife (by the rack, angled out, pointing
toward the edge of the counter, the same as yesterday, he knew).
“Son of a bitch.” His words were loud, he only realized after saying them. He’d
practically yelled them. Almost in response, he felt, the ceiling creaked, as if someone
(Matthew, obviously, he reminded himself) was moving. Jarryd stood still, silent. He
felt like he’d been caught, guilty.
So what if he fucking heard me? he thought.
He put the knife away in its slot, grabbed his lunch, and left.
FRIDAY, 7:13 P.M.
Jarryd hip-checked the door open into the kitchen, his arms loaded with groceries
so he could get his keys in the lock. But it was unlocked. He smelled the stale, clingy
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smell of cigarette smoke – but not pot, he thought – as soon as he stepped into the
kitchen. Matthew wasn’t smoking, though. Neither was his friend.
They were at the table, laughing, though it died down as Jarryd walked in. The
guy looked young, maybe 23. He wore a dark, cowboy-looking shirt (Jarryd didn’t know
what you call a shirt like that), buttoned halfway up, no undershirt. His head was shaved
up to his scalp where medium length, bright red hair tendriled this way and that.
He looked like a fucking douchbag.
“Oh hey,” Jarryd said, his voice high and friendlyish. He wasn’t sure if he was
talking to Matthew or both of them. The cowboy’s face hadn’t moved from Matthew, but
his eyes peeked up, a half-cocked smile on his face.
“Hey,” Matthew said, almost like it was a question.
Jarryd made his way down the kitchen to the end of the counter, by the fridge.
“What’re you guys up to?” You guys, as if he knew who this guy was. God he
felt like an idiot. He started taking his groceries out of the bag.
“Nothing.” Matthew’s face was askance.
“You going out tonight? Did you work today, Matt?” He set a half dozen eggs
on the counter and stopped, turning and crossing back to the table, to the cowboy.
“Sorry,” extending a hand, “I’m Jarryd.”
The cowboy turned his face fully to him and said “Eric” with a sort of whisper.
His hand was cool and limp. Jarryd turned back to Matthew.
“Did you work today?”
“No.”
He waited a second. “Tomorrow?”
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Matthew seemed to wait too. He was such a little fucker.
“Yeah, tomorrow.” Jarryd waited the obligatory few seconds, instead of asking
the followup, and Matthew complied. “10 to 6.”
“So what, are you guys going out tonight?” Jarryd felt like the cowboy – Eric –
was frozen in his periphery.
“Yeah, probably.”
“Well I was going to cook dinner in a little bit,” Jarryd said, which was really a
lie. He had intended on cooking right away. “Will I be in your way?” He began
unloading the groceries again, pulling a dark bottle of pinot out of the bag.
“No.”
Jarryd grabbed a glass from the cabinet (Target, but he really wanted to buy some
nice ones) and plucked the bottle up off the counter, turning to the others.
“Okay, well I’ll probably do that then. In a little bit. Nice to meet you, Eric.”
“Nice to meet you too.” He sounded like a windup toy running out of coil.
Jarryd took the wine and headed upstairs, most of the groceries still on the
counter. He wanted to slam the goddamn bottle against the wall.
At the top of the stairs he stopped between two rooms, one, on his right,
Matthew’s, and the other, on his left, his old room, the room he’d grown up in. He now
slept down the hall in the master. The door to Matthew’s room was open, and he could
see the TV on, the screensaver sliding a logo around the screen. The blinds were drawn,
and the dark room glowed with the TVs radiated low hums and frequencies. His room
hadn’t changed much since he was in high school – different clothes were strewn across
the floor, different cables snakes across the desk to outlets. His large bed seemed to take
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most of the space, and the rumpled comforter, twisted sheets spewing from beneath, had
a way of making the whole room feel used, discarded. Empty foil chip bags, empty cans
and bottles. The air was heavy, stagnant, stale, with a hint of cologne suspended in the
middle of everything.
Jarryd stood in the doorway, and from there he could see the knife on Matthew’s
desk.
From the driveway outside, the sound of a car starting. The movement of
headlights across the windows.
SATURDAY, 2:34 A.M.
A headache woke Jarryd, a nasty, sharp one. The empty wine bottle sat on the
night table, the glass next to it. He smelled the old-wine-smell right away and wanted to
throw up a little, enough to sit up quickly. The disorienting darkness of the room slowly
faded a bit, but it was another black night (this one pressed down on the house), and the
curtains were drawn.
The master had its own bath. He swallowed some ibuprofen and quickly ran
water over the wine glass. Crossing back into the room was when he noticed the
bedroom door open, just a few inches. How had he not noticed it before?
He had fallen asleep with it closed. He was sure.
Suddenly the room felt large to him. Their parents’ old armoire loomed across
the far wall, casting shadows into the corner. Their old bed, his bed, spread wide and
stood high off the ground.
When had he fallen asleep? The clock by his bed read 2:36.
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Jarryd felt the need to turn the lights on. He set the wine glass on the dresser by
the bathroomQuietly! Fuck you calm down!
-and walked to the door to the hall, to the light switch next to it, but he didn’t turn
it on. The light in the hall was bluewashed, the windows over the stairs on the far end of
the house were silver. Matthew’s back was to him, perhaps fifteen feet away. He stood
very still, his hands as his side, empty, as if waiting for the rest of him. He was naked.
It had taken Jarryd a second to actually notice, but with each passing moment he
could see his brother a little clearer – the hair creeping up the backs of his thighs, his
flattened buttocks, the bulging fat around his waist. His body was so still, frozen in the
icy blue shadows of the upper foyer, seeming to stare ahead at nothing.
It was impossible to miss his hands clenching into fists.
Jarryd slammed the door shut instinctively, without thought, but the sudden bang
of the door sent a stabbing bolt of panic through his chest and into his belly, and even as
the sound of his own breathing rattled through his head he felt certain Matthew was
moving toward the door. He clicked the locking switch down on the doorknob and threw
himself backwards into the bed, collapsing onto it and shuffling back against the
headboard.
But nothing happened. Silence. The bedroom door stood solid, bone white in the
shadows of the room. Jarryd thought for the first time ever he could hear the low electric
hum of his alarm clock. He thought he could hear a gentle breeze stirring the trees
outside. Somewhere in the house an aluminum ventilation shaft creaked, echoing
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through the floor grate. Pressed against the head of the bed, his hands clenching pillows,
Jarryd missed his parents – both of them together – for the first time in a long time.
Jarryd watched the sun rise, but at some point he fell asleep.
SATURDAY, 5:48 P.M.
The day made a difference. Jarryd did not come out of his room until noon, but
he heard Matthew’s car pull out at 9:30.
Slowly over the afternoon hours the previous night seemed to fade – not the
event, but the reality. Around 4:00 he sent Matthew a text:
Will you be home for dinner?
And around 4:30 he received one back:
Yeah.
So he got steaks and peppers and bread and wine. He set the steaks to marinate in
a Pyrex dish, washed the peppers, and pulled a cutting board from the corner cabinet.
About to turn to the knife block, he hesitated just a moment, and the moment was not lost
on him, but when he spun around, the Wusthof was in its place.
“This is ridiculous,” he lectured himself. Then he felt ridiculous for saying so out
loud. Then he felt ridiculous for thinking so much about it.
But when he pulled the knife from its slot, he noticed the blade immediately. The
edge, usually flawless and straight, razor sharp, was notched and dinged from handle to
tip. It was as if someone had been cutting aluminum siding with it. It was ruined.
And he suddenly felt as if he should not be looking at it, as if he was not supposed
to be inspecting. He slammed it down into the block and pulled out an old paring knife.
Good enough to cut peppers.
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THIS IS HOW DINNER GOES:
For the first time since Matthew moved in, over four months, Jarryd and Matthew
eat a prepared dinner together, the overhead lights buzzing brightly. Their plates are full
of meat and peppers, cooked nicely, Jarryd has decided. A bottle of wine is in front of
him; Matthew has some in his glass but hasn’t touched it. The clicking and scraping of
utensils fills the space, and Jarryd is thinking how the kitchen looks like shit.
Jarryd: Is your steak okay?
Matthew, chewing, his eyes on his plate: Yeah.
Jarryd stares at him a moment. This takes bravery. This takes commitment: Hey
are you high?
What?
Are you high right now?
Matthew stops. I’m on my meds.
Jarryd: Right. That’s not what I mean, though.
A long stretch, Matthew’s eyes grow wide, his irises rolling to the to the side,
down, and across as his shoulder pull into a slow shrug: What?
Jarryd is leaning in over the edge of the table now: So you are, then? You, what,
smoked?
Matthew: So? He hasn’t sounded like this since their mother was alive.
So you were fucked up when you drove home?
SO FUCKING WHAT?
This isn’t a boarding house, Matthew.
I know.
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This is my house, Matthew.
This is Mom’s house!
Mom’s dead!
No shit, Jarryd! You want me to move out?
No I just want you to act like an adult with a little fucking respect!
I told you I can’t pay rent I barely make enough for my car insurance!
You make enough to smoke and drink and go out, and I’m not asking you to pay
rent, but maybe do the dishes, put shit away.
Mathew stares down at his half-eaten dinner. His shoulders are rising and falling
rapidly.
Jarryd: Just take some responsibility.
Matthew’s voice is hollow, deep and pitched; his eyes squinting, his face flexing:
You’re such an asshole.
I’M an asshole?!? I work my ass off every day. I could have sold this shithole,
but I knew you’d be screwed!
Why do you sleep in Mom’s room?
The words don’t sound like Matthew’s. They sound like a child’s, and it’s
enough to silence Jarryd. The room is full of Matthew’s labored breathing. Jarryd can
see tears rimming around his brother’s eyes.
Jarryd: What the hell were you doing last night?
Matthew: I was working.
No. Last night. Last. Night.
What are you talking about?
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In the middle of the night! Jarryd’s voice is rising. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE
NIGHT YOU WERE STANDING THERE LIKE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!
Matthew’s hand rises and slams into the table as he lets out a childish scream, and
in the same motion – reflexively, he thinks – Jarryd’s hand sweeps forward to the wine
bottle and sends it sailing forward into Matthew’s face, its beveled base connecting with
Matthew’s left eye socket, just above the cheekbone. The whole thing takes less than a
second, and the bottle, bouncing off Matthew’s face, crashes into the back door frame
behind him, shattering, a mess of red wine in streaks and gathering puddles on the wall
and floor. Matthew is silent and still again, his face turned down, his left hand cupped
over half his face. Jarryd’s eyes are wide, his mouth open. Finally, he speaks.
What’s wrong with you?
Matthew’s hand slowly leaves his face as he looks up at his brother. There is a
gash stretching underneath his left eye, blood slowing welling, trickling down to the
corner of his mouth, and the upper left quadrant of his face is quickly blossoming a deep
red purple. He stands suddenly, and as he does Jarryd pushes back instinctively, but
Matthew turns and grabs his keys of his counter, out the back door without a word.
Seconds later, his car is started and out the driveway again.
That is how dinner goes.
SUNDAY, 12:08 A.M.
Jarryd hadn’t been this drunk in a long time. The house seemed to move under
his feet as he walked through it, everything moving very fast. Every light in the house
was on. The stereo in the living room was on, loud, bass thumping through the floors.
The television was on, volume up, Clint Eastwood or Kevin Costner.
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Jarryd did not notice when Matthew came in. Jarryd was in the living room in the
corner, a third bottle of wine in his hands. His head bobbed back and forth, but his eyes
were barely open. Matthew walked through the spacious foyer, fully lit. His hands
empty, his left eye blood red, the skin around it swollen and purple. He stepped carefully
up each stair, as with great concentration.
Outside, his car sat in the driveway, its hood a smoking accordion, crumpled into
Jarryd’s. The two cars sat angled against each other, locked together, totaled.
THESE ARE DETAILS THAT ONLY FEEL RELEVANT:
Jarryd and Matthew had a younger brother whom they had barely known,
Nicholas. Nicky died when was 6 of leukemia. Matthew had been 8, Jarryd 13.
Their father, Stephen, died when they were 16 and 21. A heart attack. He had
been hard-working, he made enough money for them to live in one of the nicer
neighborhoods, and he never cheated on their mother. Neither Jarryd nor Matthew really
knew him. He had just been missing that thing that makes a dad feel like a dad.
Matthew graduated high school, barely, and did not go to college. He once won a
tournament, playing a certain video game Jarryd had never heard of, and won a grand
prize of $1,000.
Jarryd was briefly engaged to a woman named Sarah when he was 26, but it did
not work out. She told him she wanted to be with someone who would build a life with
her, not next to her.
Matthew lived on his own briefly when he was 25, but it did not work out.
Their mother, Rosemary, who had been a functional alcoholic, was a wonderful
mother, but she was also a sad human being.
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Jarryd had been living in the South when Rosemary became ill. He moved home
and took a job teaching, and for two years the three of them lived under the same roof
again.
THIS IS HOW IT ENDS:
When Jarryd wakes up, it is 4:16, according to clock in the bathroom, where he
finds himself. There is stale vomit on the floor next to the toilet. The door is closed, and
a small plugin nightlight casts a dull yellow glow around the otherwise dark room. He
slowly gets to his feet, runs the faucet, and rinses his mouth out.
The house is dark and quiet. Jarryd’s skull pounds as he makes his way dizzily
across the cold tiles in the foyer to the base of the stairs, placing his hand carefully on the
banister to steady himself. Everything looks pale blue. His eyes are puffy from crying,
he realizes.
At the top of the stairs, without thinking much, he turns left to the door of his old
room, which is closed. He does not notice the door to Matthew’s room is wide open, a
dark cave inside. Jarryd opens the door to his old room and is vaguely aware, as he steps
in, of all his old things, sitting in the same places they’ve sat for years. His old posters
are still on the wall. His old desk is still lined with bobbleheads. His bedframe is still
covered in bumper stickers.
The bed is a mess. Shredded fabric is strewn messily in every direction. White,
synthetic stuffing sits in clumpy piles. His pillow is in pieces, mostly on the floor, grey
feathers everywhere. The mattress itself is a crisscross of tattered slashes, gaping with
springs reaching out.
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Twilight streams in through the blinds, slatting the room in azure bars, so he can
see planes of suspended dust floating aimlessly.
“How long has this been like this?”
He realizes he spoke the words out loud, and in the same moment he realizes
Matthew is standing behind him. When he turns around, Matthew sticks the eight-inch
Wusthof blade into his gut, and to Jarryd, it feels like he sees nothing until he first sees
the knife hilt sticking out of his belly. As he slowly looks up, it is only then that Matthew
materializes in front of him, trembling.
“What are you doing?” Jarryd asks, hot, viscous pain seeping through his
abdomen. Matthew’s face tightens, but he says nothing, and Jarryd only vaguely feels his
hands move up to Matthew’s face. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
Jarryd’s hands are digging into Matthew’s scalp, his cheeks, and a sharp cry is
ripping from his throat.
They fall together across the landing at the top of the stairs and slam into the wall
between Matthew’s bedroom and the bannister.
“STOP IT!” Matthew screams, his voice shrill, as he punches Jarryd in the ribs
desperately. He reaches forward and pulls the knife out of Jarryd, and Jarryd howls like
an animal, falling backward, blood flowing out of his stomach in waves. He hits the
corner rail at the top stair, but one hand is still gripping Matthew’s hair and won’t let go,
so the two bodies tangle together, tumbling down the curved stairs, separating as they go.
For Jarryd everything is backwards, receding from him. For Matthew is it forwards,
plunging headfirst.
Cox 20
It ends suddenly for Matthew, his face planning into the trim where the carpeted
stair meets the wall.
For Jarryd it is longer. He does not know how long. It is slow and fading and
time feels outside him. He cannot see his brother. He watches from the tiles by the front
door as the light slowly warms and stretches from the windows across the walls, through
the foyer, transforming. It is pink, then, very briefly, red. Then it is orange. Then it is
yellow.