An Un-Ending Tragedy

11:00 p.m.

Michael’s plan was somewhat clichéd. Its dramatic power slightly played down due to a severe overplaying by sitcoms and movies. But despite his severe hatred of the ordinary and the unoriginal, he couldn’t help but stare into the mirror and see only the spitting image of his brother. And as he swiped back the cold black strands of his hair and fell into the captivation of his own glowing green eyes he knew that others would be helplessly under the same impression as he.

“Is it wrong of me?” He asked, tilting his head back as if speaking to someone in the other room. The honking of a distant horn in a sea of traffic was the sole reception to his inquiry.

“I’m mean really, when you think about it, its perfect. Completely flawless. I hate to see your name fall, but I guarantee you would do the same thing, Rick.” His breath was warm compared to the glass of the mirror and the image he was working so hard to achieve was fogged by his words. The soft haze was quickly wiped away, and he leaned in towards the mirror for one last check, touching his face smoothly. “Guarantee it.” Again, nothing short of silence flowed through the cold apartment.

The young man turned from mirror and stepped into the darkness of the living room. The outside sun had set long ago, and a thick cloak of clouds had eclipsed the moon’s soft glow. This shadowy backdrop was illuminated solely by the incandescent glow of neighboring dusk to dawn lights, whose soft orange elucidation only added to the ominous feel of the scene. Michael crept through the apartment as though he were a blind man for the setting as a whole was somewhat unfamiliar to him. He was led shakily by the touch of his hands, stumbling over various end tables until he found the lifeless figure he was searching for.

The heavy cling of a drenched pair of jeans sparked to life his sense of touch as he ran his hands slowly over the being. As he made his way across the top half of the figure, his movements suddenly became somber and his breath slightly more faint. From within the buttoned embrace of a shirt pocket, Michael removed a folded piece of paper, dry in comparison to the rest of the body, and although the darkness of the room eliminated the possibility of it being proved, it could be well wagered that the deep green of Michael’s eyes was suddenly magnified by the swelling of tears.

“Dammit, Rick. It didn’t have to end this way for you. Now, he wins. He smiles when you fall.” Michael shook his head slowly as he unfolded the newly created creases of the paper. Glancing over it slightly, as if knowing what it already said, he laid it softly back upon Rick’s chest. “I love ya little brother.” He said as he stood.

7:37 p.m.

Rick’s desperation had never before reached these depths. Never had his eyes burnt with such an inextinguishable anguish; anguish fueled by flashes from the past that his mind could not escape. A plethora of broken noses and blood stained linoleum floors incessantly haunted the intertwining pathways of his memory. Two bolting green eyes that stared down at him from above, captivating with their power; their malicious ability to convince a wife of her worthlessness or a son of his meagerness. A frigid gray coffin lowered into the earth met by the harsh stare of those green eyes which looked on only in shame of his devoted wife’s weakness. These were the things that had consumed Rick’s being, the memories that had evaporated the water’s of sanity which once rested within his psyche. But he did not come to his father’s home to rid his mind of such visions. He did not sit before his father’s door, thinking to himself as he gripped the cold steel of his brother’s Luger that his actions here on this evening would right the wrongs done to his mother, his brother, or himself. As he stepped from his car and the rain began to soak his cold black hair, he did not hope that he would be eliminating his countless neuroses and that his life would be turned around; that his depression would be wiped away. No, Rick only intended to tack another memory onto the long reel of traumas which played repeatedly in his mind. With hope that, after the midnight screams, cold sweats, and narcolepsy, he could finish the reel with a smile on his face.

The sidewalk before his father’s home was flooded with the water from the evening rains and the tumbling stream soaked the bottom of Rick’s jeans as he walked. A million scrambled thoughts passed through his mind as he made those determined steps towards the door. There existed a heavy amount irresolution within his consciousness, yet something deep inside his being was well-resolved, and before the apprehensive body of reason could block his path, Rick found himself at the doorstep, banging wildly on the dampened glass of the storm door.

From inside came the clattering of footsteps, loud and clumsy in their procession. Lightening bolted from the sky and a roll of thunder came quickly behind as the steps from within came to a halt. Rick’s breath froze in its exhale as his body trembled in the cold of the rain and in the quake of his intentions.

The door slowly swung open, reveling a blue glow from within, and a body, silhouetted by the light, shook his steadily as it stared into the night and attempted to make sense of the disturbance.

“And now what in the hell brings you here?” The silhouette said to the trembling presence at his doorstep. Rick lacked the proper words to express his intentions. They covered such a wide sphere of explanations that describing them seemed without point.

“Well boy? Well, don’t just stand there like some goddamned mute or somethin’.” His father’s eyes opened wide, almost repeating what he had already stated. A strike of lightening sparked the sky to life as he stepped from the doorway and back into the blue glow of the living room.

Rick’s determination grew as his father continued to disregard his presence. He stepped into the home slowly, reaching behind his back to grab his brother’s gun. His arm shook as he brought the weapon to eye level, and at that very moment his potential victim turned his head. The look of disappointment, the look that demanded action never left the elder man’s face. The creases around his eyes intensified slightly, as if shocked by the situation which was presented before him.

“What the hell’s this?” he said with a slight laugh. “What, Rick, ya gonna shoot me? Ha. That’ll happen.” The man pulled a lit cigarette from a neighboring ash tray and continued watching the television. The cherry from the end of the cigarette burnt a bright red, illuminating the man’s worn face.

“Lemme guess,” the man said, never tilting his head away from the television, “I deserve to die cause I hit your mother when you was growin up, huh, is that it Rick?”
Rick said nothing but pointed the gun steadily at his father.

“Or is it because of what happened to your mother that one night?” The stiffened air within the room grew thicker as Rick’s father continued to speak. “Stupid bitch. I told her to just take it when I picked a fight, but no, she hadda fight back.”

Rick’s breath’s grew stronger at the mentioning of his mother.

“Oh, what does that upset you?” He stood and took a step towards Rick. “Are you here to kill me cause a what I done to you and your brother?” The man was now in Rick’s face, with the gun pressed firmly against his chest. “Here to seek a little revenge there Rick. Oh no, I bet this is all cause I didn’t care enough for you boys. Cause I didn’t nurture you or love you. That’d be somethin’ your pussy ass would come up with eh?” He was now edging Rick towards the screen door, back towards the storm which was thundering outside. “But that’s the thing Rick, you ain’t got the guts to pull that trigger, to kill your old man.”

The elder man, now with a certain determination of his own, threw Rick passed the weakening hinges of the door, and followed the lifeless body outside onto the front lawn. The cold rain drenched them both from head to toe and was now falling stronger than it had all night. “You know what, Rick, you’re worse than your goddamn mother, at least that whore of a woman had the backbone to fight back.” His words were casual in their procession, flowing from his being as naturally as the rain from the darkened sky. “Sure, it killed her, but she wouldn’t just be kicked around like some little school-boy bitch.”

Rick trembled in his father’s words. Another judgment spilled from the mouth of the one man he was constantly hoping to impress; a judgment which had yet again spoke only of his worthlessness as a son, his shamefulness as a human being. “You’re nothin’ kid.” His father said as he reached his hand high into the night and brought it down upon the boy’s brow. The pain brought Rick to his knee’s in the muddy existence of the front lawn. His stare trembled upward and was met by the cold glow of his father’s green eyes. Through the pain in his eye, the shame of his actions, and the anger of his heart, all Rick could find, as he laid there desperately in the cold and wet of the night, was satisfaction in the fact that tears could be hidden in the rain; he did not want his father to see him cry.


11:17 p.m.

The light in the apartment had yet to be turned on and the room still hovered in that ominous glow of the night. Michael kneeled beside the stretched body of his brother with his head buried into the rough embrace of his opened, glove covered hands. He thought of prayer. He thought of asking the lord to welcome his brother, but quickly stopped himself in the thought. The plan which resided in his mind could not be mixed with thoughts of the divine nature, and, realizing this, re-aligned his consciousness to the matter at hand.

He softly stood in movement of resolution, wiping his face clear of tears as he did so. He genially lifted the right side of his brother’s body and pulled a tri-fold, brown, genuine leather wallet from his back pocket. The leather was dampened and emitted a strong stench into the air. Michael removed his brother’s license and then placed the wallet back inside pocket of the soaked jeans.

When he first realized the opportunity presented to him on this night, he felt as though he were blessed. The blinding light of his prospective actions were all he could see, Finally a chance to write a few wrongs, he thought. But now, as he stood above the lifeless body of his brother, Michael began to feel a great sense of guilt for his excitement. Rick’s face still possessed its characteristically innocent glow. Perhaps that glow was now no more than a dim flicker of that childlike charisma, but Michael could still see it. It was at this moment that he stuttered to a sudden realization. He was about to align his brother’s genuine innocence with a story that could only be looked upon in a judging and harsh manner. Michael was certain that it was his brother’s innocence and general uncertainty about himself that had brought him to his death on this night. Rick had spent his entire life too afraid to stand up for himself, too afraid to stand up for what he believed was right. Michael had chosen at an early age to not let his father’s demeanor dominate his existence. He held a definite amount of confidence in the concept that his father was wrong in what he did, wrong in what he said, and wrong in what he thought of he and his brother. He only wished now, as he stared down at that pale face of innocence, that he had been able to share what he knew with his brother.


7:50 p.m.

As Rick stumbled back into his car, his heart was in disarray. He was not conscious of the blood that was trickling slowly down his cheek, nor did he realize the soaked saturation of his clothes. There was a void that rested within him, an absence that he was unfamiliar with. He knew that this evening could have calmed his sleepless nights, and that knowledge had enlightened him, it had brightened his characteristically dark spirits. And now, as he pulled into the parking lot before his apartment he knew that facing the rising sun with tear-filled, sleep-deprived eyes on the following morning would be his own fault. He climbed the stairs slowly, achingly, pondering the thoughts of his mother before she died. He knew she watched him still, witnessed his lack of action, and he believed she shook her head in disbelief, perhaps even in disgust.

The lights in his apartment were off and he chose to let the darkness continue in its domination. Tears were still streaming steadily from his eyes, and intertwined with the blood from his brow. He pulled the gun from behind his belt and threw down upon floor. He thought for a moment that it may have woke his neighbor downstairs, but he really didn’t care much. He sat at his bed for the longest time, just staring out into the night, failing to react to each strike of thunder, and absolutely immune to every bolt of lightening. He pulled a piece of legal paper from a drawer in his nightstand and began jotting down a few words.

I can’t stop crying, and I don’t even know why. All I can see are his eyes. They are my eyes but they are stronger. I’m sorry Mom, I’m sorry Michael, I’m sorry Dad. You didn’t raise me to be this way…

And as he finished the last line, and folded the paper nicely into his coat pocket, he reached back into the nightstand and began emptying bottles into his system. The night wore on, and the haunting glow of his father’s green eyes still dominated his thoughts as the darkness turned to black.

11:45 p.m.

As Michael stalked slowly up to his father’s door he thought quickly about his mother, about the reddened eyes that always dominated her character; speaking volumes of her love, and epics of her strength. He opened the screen door slowly, hoping to keep his father from stirring so that he could catch him off guard and avoid a scuffle. The situation necessitated a certain voidance of contact. As his glove covered hands slid Rick’s license between the door and the frame, Michael thought one last time of his brother. He thanked his innocence and praised his goodness as he let the card fall softly from his grip.

The house was dark, with the exception of the blue glow that flowed from the consistently empowered television screen. His father’s tired body was stretched upon the reclined outlay of a deep brown barker lounger, his eyes shut peacefully yet beckoning a certain respect that the even the heaviest of eyelids could not conceal. His chest inflated rhythmically, and Michael assumed that his slumber would go without disturbance throughout the night, sleeping the calmed sleep of a man free of worry, full of confidence, and, consequently, void of heart.

He stalked about the slumbering body for some time, transfixed slightly by the look of innocence that graced his father’s face. It was as though his softly curved eyebrows dared consequence, and the unknown gesture that the sleeping old man was portraying lit an entirely knew fire within Michael’s being. The young man’s body began to vibrate with anger, anger over an abused mother, a lost life, and calm look upon a devil’s face that he felt defied God. He raised the gun shakily into the air, hoping to say some final words that would carry his father into hell. The sound of the gunshot was all that rang out, but still, Michael was satisfied.




A body was lowered slowly into the ground, burying the destruction of a family and the hideousness of a human being. No shadows stalked above the coffin’s descent into the earth, save for one last remnant of a lost life whose soft green eyes followed the body, void of tear.