white and red

the white satin robe hangs open. face towards the huge window that looks out over the foggy city. it's the middle of the day and the boy who fills the house coat is skinny, bony, and has a lopsided hair cut. he's twenty something, and this is his apartment. only his back is visible as i am standing at the door of his bedroom and he still looks out the window. hair, robe, bare feet. he has a gun in his right hand. he lifts it to his temple and blows his brains against the wall.

i survey the room. starting to my left there is now blood all over the white wall. everything in the room is white in fact. except of course the blood on the wall and the oriental red dragon that was pressed into the silk of the lump on the floor. even the bed frame is white. sheets, pillows, bed side tables. everything is white with red accents, which seems grotesque now.

i lie in his bed. the bed was not directly in the spatters path and is only slightly effected at the bottom left hand side. i get under the covers. they are silk as well. or at least feel like it. expensive is all i can say for sure. 1000 thread count my brother would say. i look through his bed side table. flip through his magazines. and even use the hand cream he kept in the top drawer. winter makes my hands chip.

i get up and start by pressing my finger tips into fat little ovals against the smudge-free floor to ceiling wall mirror directly to the right of my brother's bed. i walk from the bedroom to the living room drawing invisible lines along the wall. touching everything in the little ovals paths. my fingers glide along the immaculate walls. i run them up and down up and down. none of it matters now.

more white. and red. and chrome. the symmetry is endless. i kneel on the autumn looking into the framed picture of some sort of falls somewhere. it's beautiful. i flip on the t.v, i dont watch but let the sound of the cartoons fill the room. i enter the kitchen and open the drawers, rifling through the utencils, spices, and everyone's favorite, "the junk drawer". which holds nothing too exciting. this apartment seemed much more interesting last time i was here.

i waste time milling around and before too long the paramedics rush in. someone must have heard the shot. must have called the police. i guess i should have done the same. one woman and two men enter the apartment and seem to go directly to my brother's body without me having to tell them anything. as they try to assess my brother's condition, its hard to breath. i feel pulled into the scene. drawn in. but i dont want to interfere. i've done an amazing job at staying out of the way. but i know there is nothing they can do. my brother is dead.

my eyes burn, and i feel overwhelmed by the brightness in the room. i can barely make out the figures that stand kneeling beside my brother's body. as their words become muffled i realize i need help. i go to them and try and get someone's attention. but they wont listen to me. but i am having an emergency too. i start to panic. and i try and shake the left shoulder of the paramedic who is still on his knees holding my brother's wrist. but nothing works.

it takes ten to fifteen minutes to realize i'm dead. the real amount of time unknowable. it isnt until i do that i begin to feel cold. my hands begin to feel like i am wearing gloves and i get the worst taste in my mouth. i begin to remember that the man who blew his head apart is me. not my brother. and that i never even had one.

i watch the paramedics put me on the gurney. my heart has sank and i mourn myself as though i were someone else. as my bedroom begins to clear they roll out my body. as though tied by an invisible transparent worm i am forced to follow. cold, tired, and without a body of my own.