The call

The phone is ringing; its two o’clock in the morning, why is the phone ringing? Has someone died? Has my brother been arrested again? It can only be bad news. Do I really want to get it? Get the call? Get the bad news? I mean, if I get it, I’ll have to deal with said bad news on some sort of emotional level, which in turn means I’ll have a sleepless night and I have to get up for work at six o’clock. Sigh. But if I don’t get it, I’ll just end up lying awake all night long anyway, wondering what the phone call was all about and conjuring up every possible bad scenario that could result in a 2am call.

It’s Tom, my brother. He is hysterical, which in turn has left me hysterical. I don’t even know why yet, but I feel like I’m about to pass out from the shock. Tom never cries. Never. He just keeps repeating that he has messed up, “...bad this time sis, bad...”

His sobs are violent. I’m scared. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But I listen anyway. He needs me, just like he always has. Someone has to help him pick up the pieces, and that someone has got to be me.

It’s a blistering hot summer’s night. I throw on a tee-shirt and shorts and run out the house. In my hast I’ve completely forgotten to put on a pair of shoes. But that’s of little concern now – I need to get to Tom, fast. It’s dangerous to drive 160km/h, I know; the cops might pull me over and we all know how that plays out, but I have to take the risk. Tom can’t think straight right now. I’m worried about what he might do. He is such a fragile soul. Why can’t people see that he needs to be handled with care? Why can’t someone just love him the way that I do? Accept him for who and what he is?

The lights are on and the door is wide open. He is nowhere to be seen. I told him to lock up and wait for me outside, why can’t he just listen to me for a change?

I park the car and rush inside. It’s a shocking sight. I wasn’t prepared for this; he said he had lost his temper. He said he didn’t mean to hurt her. I anticipated that there was a very good chance that he’d killed her – by accident. I was too scared to ask over the phone. Maybe that’s because I already knew. I thought he might have choked her.  Or pushed her too hard, letting her fall and hit her head. I expected to find her, still, beautiful, warm and in a peaceful sleep on the floor.

The smell has ambushed my empty stomach. I’m left heaving while I try to locate Tom. It’s a vile stench, much like the accidental discovery of a dead pet that had been slowly decomposing in the back yard somewhere while you searched the streets for it in vain. The white bathroom tiles are stained black from the dried up blood. The shoe prints on the floor give me the mental image of slippery sludge – thick blood oozing out of her and covering the floor like a red velvet carpet. The blood might have dried black on the floor, but its bright red in the bath, mixed with water and possibly, vomit. She isn’t beautiful. The sight of her scares me. I’m bound to have nightmares over this – bloated, grey and green, maggots feasting on her eyes. Her lips are missing – she’s so badly decomposed that I can’t tell why, but I have a suspicion; I imagine her saying something – something rather distasteful, difficult to hear. I see Tom grab her head with both his hands, yank her forward, as if to kiss her, only, he bites her. He rips her lips right off her face with his bare teeth.

We have a plan. We pick her up, but she’s so heavy. Her flesh has absorbed a shocking quantity of bathwater. She is heavily swollen. We place her on the black bags that I’ve rolled out on the tiles. I immediately wash my hands but I just can’t seem to get the feeling of squishy dead feet flesh off my palms. Wrapped up tightly, we carry her to my car. It has to be my car. They’ll be searching Tom’s.

We take her to the river; it’s flowing violently. We’ve had a good rain-season. I wonder how far she’ll wash downstream? I wonder if we should just dump her in and wait to see what happens when she is found, or if we should tie rocks around her feet so that she can sink, like they do on TV? She’s so decomposed that she couldn’t possibly be recognised, but police have their way of finding out who the victims are. I hope I didn’t leave any prints on the black bags. I wonder if they will wash off with the strong current.

We decide to burn her. Tom says they’ll find our prints if we don’t. As I watch the shadows dance upon his face, I realise what a monster he is. My own flesh and blood. I can’t believe what he has done, not only to another human being, but  to one he cherished so much. How could he hurt someone he loves like this and only realise what he has done a week later? Maybe... maybe he still hasn’t quite grasped what he has done. Or maybe he knows exactly what he has done. Maybe he is using me to help him cover up his mess!

But am I not a monster too, for standing by his side? For helping him get rid of the evidence? Why didn’t I call the cops? Why won’t I turn him in when all this is done? Why am I consoling him and assuring him that I’ll take care of everything?  That he has nothing to worry about? Because he needs me. Because I am all that he has. I am all that he will ever have and in some sick psychotic way, that’s just the way I like it. I recall the subtle seeds I’ve planted over the last month; “I don’t like her. You don’t need her. She doesn’t really love you. She’s using you”. I even wished her dead. I know that he’ll never hurt me... and that knowledge leaves me with a warm fuzzy feeling inside. I’m the real monster. I started this. I groomed him into the monster that he is today. I am the one that exercises complete control. He is my monster. I control the beast.