Risen Sure enough, brother, I killed him! Why, I can't quite say for sure, but perhaps it was something about the way we were raised as children; or perhaps not. Yes, he was my brother and you are right, he never did any wrong to anyone, and surely, I loved him like a brother, I did. But there was something about his way that I decided one day that just did not set right with me, and rather than being irritated, I killed him. It is that simple, brother. How? Of course it was easy... How easy it is to kill when you have lived with one for long. How simple to peer through the crack in the door to be sure that he is peaceful in his sleep and to stand in that doorway to simply stare in a spellbound silence until you can gather yourself ready for that perfect moment. And so easy to slip that plastic bag over his head, and oh, the delight, when he opened his eyes huge with horror and his mouth round to gasp for the precious and needed air that was no longer there. A few short moments and it was done. "Easy as pie.", as my old primary school instructor would say, and easy it was. Of course, he was my brother and I desired to keep him forever near me, and it would be just criminal and heinous to allow him to sleep in some lonesome cemetery. What would he want? The garden! He always loved the garden; how he belongs there amongst those beautiful flowers, my brother! And I had gotten the coffin and simply buried him beneath the tulips, right near the front door; and I buried him well, brother, just as any good man would do, near the road in the front of the house so he could still see the coming's and going's of the passer-byers, just as he had done for so many years in the past. As I told you, I loved him like a brother. That night I slept like a baby as I dreamt of my brother and I playing on the beach as children and so I was cheerful that next morn as I went out the front door to greet him, and I said "Good morning, brother!", as I always had, simply because nothing had changed between us. It was then when I saw it: that large mound of cracked earth and the edges of the coffin now attempting to peep through. "Brother", I said. "are you trying to leave me now after all that I've done for you and the way that I've taken care of you all these years?" He could only laugh at me for a time; reminding me of my wife. Dear Jaqueline had tried to leave me once too, but I could not allow that and soon convinced her to stay and she now spends all of her time watching the Japanese Koi, with all their vibrant colors swimming in the pond, just as she always had done. Luckily, I convinced my dear brother to stay, or so I had thought, and put him back into the garden, telling him to be content, as most of us do not have a life so easy as to lay in the garden all day to admire the flowers in all of their splendor. In the winter, when it grew too cold out, he and Jaqueline could come in and sit by the fire as I read to them. So much I thought my little brother understood... Yet daily, morning and night he is trying to leave me! Always rising! rising! rising! No brother, please stay. Always the blacken earth pushed up and those brass handles shining through as my dear little brother tries to leave me after all that I had done for him! Every minute of the day it seems I now spend, my hands grimy with the black earth trying to convince him to stay. Always trying to leave me! Always rising! rising! rising! and I beg him to stay; to please stay and to try to appreciate all that I have done for him. But he is always laughing! laughing!, now laughing at me every minute of the day! Madness is it, brother? No, he is trying to leave me! Brother, what is that you are writing in that little book? So you won't tell me...? No, my mind is all here, brother. Please tell him, my dear brother, to not leave. So the neighbor sees me digging each day here on this spot? Naturally, as I told you, my brother is trying to leave me! Look! He is trying to leave me now! Won't you help me...? I am not a lunatic! I tell you, he is trying to leave me.... Brother, what are those men doing with those shovels? No! Stop! You are helping him to escape! Stop digging! So you are a doctor, brother? Then you know that my health is at stake if my brother leaves me... Now, brother, what is this gun you have pointed at my head with my own hand? So you won't answer me anymore, brother? Then put out thy light to leave me now, brother... © 1999 Kailleaugh Andersson Kailleaugh Andersson was born December 21st,
1972 and lives in southwest Oregon, the son of a successful writer of abstract fiction and
screenplays (some of which you may be familiar with). He is the original founder and head
editor of Gothic Press which he founded in 1997. His education in the field includes a
B.A. in Journalism. Visit his web site at: http://members.tripod.com/gothic_press/ October 2000 |