Better

I quietly walked in and shut the door behind me. He was sitting in his dad’s chair, and a late night talk show host was going off on some mediocre, politically-charged monologue, the show’s sole merit being that it was the only source of light in the room. I sat down on the couch opposite of him and looked up. He was only two years older than me, but it was clear his brown eyes had seen more than their fair share.

         “Want a drink?” he asked.

         “Yeah, sure. Just make sure I see you open it.”

         “Oh please. You and I both know if I wanted something out of you, I wouldn’t need drugs to get it.” He had a point. “Here.” he said as he handed me a green apple Smirnoff. He knew me well.

         “Where are your parents?” I asked, a little concerned they were going to walk in. Even without the alcohol, he’s not the kind of guy you want to get caught with after dark.

         “Anniversary date. Show at the repertory theatre, nice dinner, and then a hotel room downtown. Apparently it’s a lot easier to have sex when your kid isn’t around.”

         “They trust you to stay at home all night by yourself? And you don’t have a party going yet? Or am I just early? It is only eleven…”

         “I’ve grown up a lot since I last saw you.” He said, with complete (false) sincerity He took a drink out of his own glass. It fizzed and had the color of Coca-Cola, but I’m sure it was joined by a liberal amount of vodka.

         “Oh. You mean the day after you put Brad in the hospital? I almost forgot about that.” I said, with just a touch of sarcasm. “So why did you do it?” It was question that had plagued my mind for the last year, despite the fact I knew the answer.

         “Because he’s a fag.” He said, as if it that was enough information to satisfy me.          “He is gay, and last I checked, that wasn’t a capital offense.”

         He looked at me, popped a pill, and said “Leviticus 20:13.”

         “You want to play this game, fine. John 8:7.” What did he just take? Everyone knows not to mix pills and alcohol. It’s a death wish….

         “Deuteronomy 17:7.” He said.

         “Matthew 7:1.”

         He took another drink. “Look at us. Quotin’ scripture as if we were believers.”
         “I believe in G—” I started.

         “—you believe that God manifests himself in the human conscience. Not exactly in accordance with the Christian doctrine.” he paused. “Or logic. Where do I fit into that?” He popped another pill.

         “The same as everyone else, you just chose not to listen to what He told you.” I knew the argument didn’t stand a chance. Although he was legally too young to be diagnosed as psychopath, we both knew he didn’t have a conscience. He didn’t have regard for anyone’s life, including his own. He also had a nice 160 IQ to compliment.

         “Yeah, Fowler, you just go right on believing that.” He paused and looked at me, knowing that using my last name was his way of make me subordinate. “But you don’t, do you?”

         “No, I don’t. I could never do the things you did.” I responded quietly.

         “Yes, you could. You try so hard to separate yourself from me, but it’s in you. It’s in everyone. You and I are more alike than different. The sooner you realize that, the better off you will be.” His confidence grew by the minute.

         “You practically killed him. He still can’t walk. I couldn’t do that a person. Not in a million years, not if you paid me.” I realized I started to sound more and more like a five year old, an effect only he had on me.

         “I know you wouldn’t do it for money, but with enough hate, you could.”
Another pill down, and suddenly any doubt in my mind was gone. It was a death wish. He was killing himself.

         “It isn’t in me to hate someone, especially like that.”

         “You hate me. Granted, it’s combined with a little infatuation, but it is still hate.” I took a long drink, swallowing the truth along with the alcohol. He was right, as usual.

      “I would never kill you.” I said.

      “Only because you’re too passive to actually do anything.” His words began to slur, and his eyes were fighting to stay focused.

      “Or because my super-ego overrides my id.”

      “Don’t start with that damn Freudian crap! You think you’re better than me, I get tha—” I saw the anger flash in his eyes, but as quickly as it came, it went, and he was back to being in control.

      “I’m not better than you.” I said, in the calmest voice my nerves would allow.

      “You’re doing it now! Talking like you’re too humble to think you’re better than anyone else, or too good to hate anyone else, but you and I both know that in your head you have placed yourself ahead of me in terms of morality. And maybe you should, but don’t act like you think we’re on equal ground.”

      He leaned back in his chair, his body was giving up, as if that last statement took everything he had.  He took another pill and looked me in the eyes.  I knew what he was doing. He wanted to see if I would stop him, and I didn’t want to. And I didn’t. I stood up, with the floor noticeably closer now that my moral pedestal was pulled out from underneath me. I sat my empty bottle on the table and walked out. The minute I shut the door behind me was the minute that I did exactly what I said I could never do, and it was the minute that I understood him and the world more than I ever had before. He was right; it was inside of me, just as it was inside of him. We were on equal ground.