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Flying Colors
My brother, Kenneth, sat on my couch, illuminated by the glow of the television, and looking as bored
and affected as your typical self-involved 14 year-old. At minimum I thought he would be mildly interested
in his surroundings and at most amazed at the simple wonder of his existence. After all, six years ago
a school bus splattered his brains against the curb, and five days later we buried him in the family
plot at Forest Lawn Cemetery. I stood in the hallway shaking, waiting for him to speak or rattle a chain,
or whatever ghosts do when they first come a haunting.
“I suppose Mom and Dad were upset with you,” Kenneth finally said. “You know, about how I left this world.”
“They never said so, at least out loud, but they pretty much blamed me.”
“And you think that’s unfair?”
“It was an accident,” I said.
“Interesting take.”
I shrugged, wondering if this hallucination would end as quickly as it had begun.
He turned toward me, revealing the damage of the accident and why our parents had chosen a closed casket.
“I’m going to be dropping by occasionally. Okay?”
“Sure. Excellent.”
*****
A decade has passed, and every Tuesday night Kenneth comes over to watch TV or a movie. Tonight,
he paced briskly back and forth in the living room. His hands shook. Sweat stained his permanently
bloodied brow. He hadn’t been this ‘twitchy’ since he watched Star Wars, the Phantom Menace on DVD,
muttering, ‘What the fuck?’ through the whole film.
“I’ve come here to warn you,” he said.
“No, you’ve come to watch TV. Sit. You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m serious.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Yeah? Why now? You didn’t warn me about selling my Apple stock for Enron, or signing up for Match.com.”
“I’ve told you. I have no special gifts. I can’t predict stocks, and I know nothing about dating.”
“And coming back from the dead isn’t special?”
“Not where I come from.”
“And where’s that?”
He sighed. “In your whacked brain. Where a tumor has been growing for more than a decade.”
“That’s one uninspired tumor; besides, I don’t believe hallucinations leave pizza crumbs. Anyway, I believe you’re real. Nothing else matters.”
“What matters,” he said, “is you have to arm yourself.”
“Arm myself? Like with a gun?”
“No. With silly putty. Of course a gun, and a big one. The Dark One is coming for you.”
“The ‘Dark One’? Isn’t that a Harry Potter character?”
“Don’t get me started on ‘Potter.’ The Dark one is Death, you moron.”
“And you know this how?”
Kenneth didn’t say. He watched the rest of LOST with me and when I returned from the kitchen with a glass of milk, he was gone.
*****
I have never owned a gun. When I was sixteen, I went hunting with my cousin and we had great fun shooting
at cans, trees, and shadows in the woods. Yet, throughout the day, I had this nagging urge to turn the gun
on him, and occasionally myself, but mostly him; which is odd because I liked my cousin. For a few years,
he was a surrogate big brother.
Obviously, I have anger issues. I have rage moments: I lose my keys and I smash up the house looking for them.
If I am stuck in traffic, I jam on the car horn. I joke with friends the reason my basement is empty of furniture
and storage items is because that is where I store my anger. Still, I followed my brother’s request: it was
the only one he ever made since he came back.
So, I bought a handgun, a big one, the kind Dirty Harry used to pick up chicks and kill
the disenfranchise. I passed the three-day waiting period with splendidly bright hues.
*****
When Kenneth showed up next week, he appeared calmer and quieter than the previous week. We watched the usual shows.
Finally, around 11:00, he spoke: “Where’s the gun?”
“You sure this is a good idea? Wouldn’t Holy Water work better? Unless you’re playing a videogame, you can’t shoot death.”
“This is not a joke.”
“I’m sitting in the dark with my dead brother, and I have a minature bazooka stuffed in the couch cushions. Yeah, it’s kinda funny.”
“Yet you bought a gun. Why?”
“You asked me to. You’re my brother.”
A quizzical look came over him. “What do you really think I am?”
“What? Why now?”
“Come. Tell me.”
“A ghost,” I said.
“You don’t believe that. You never have.”
“Now you’re a mind reader. I thought you had no powers.”
“Come. What am I?”
“A tumor. A big one. Inoperable.”
“Be honest.”
“A memory,” I said.
*****
Sometimes the days drag on as if a year had been compressed into one 24-hour segment. You run out of books to read,
emails to send, DVDs to watch, and you can’t write or draw or think anymore without the memory haunting you;
your therapist preaches you must accept the truth, to ask forgiveness of yourself and of the ones you have
hurt, even the ones no longer with us. You give it your best. And when your best fails, you take the medication;
but it leaves you empty of feeling, which is good, but for a while. Then the meds wear off and the memory remains.
You will give anything to change the past; but of course you can’t.
*****
Kenneth hasn’t shown for three months. Every Tuesday night I expect him to be on the couch,
feet up, and the remote in his hand. I miss his visits. We never talked much. We never spoke
about the accident. Maybe he was waiting for me to bring it up, or say, ‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t
know, but for those few hours I was happy.
But now, I’m left with the memory; and the truth. No reprieve. Not even for an evening. Nothing left but the memory, and the gun.
Frank Sikora s a graphic artist and writer for an
aerospace company in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Email: Frank Sikora
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