Phosphorus
Phosphorous
Phosphorous
Phosphorous came home last night. He’d been away for four months and six days, exactly twelve days short of his record. We’re not supposed to keep count, Ma kept on about how wrong it was they whole time he was away. And yet the minute he was through the door she turned to Dad and said “One hundred and twenty seven days this time” with that grimace type smile that adults do far too often.
It was near midnight when he got back, and he came straight up to our room and sat on his bed. I didn’t look at him for a couple of minutes, while he unpacked his clothes and pencils.
It happens like this every time, neither of us wants to be the first to speak. I always cave before he does.
“Where have you been?” I ask
Phosphorous took a few seconds to answer.
“Drawing.” he grunted
Not one for talking, my brother Phosphorous. It’s one of the many strange things about him.
“Drawing what?” I said
“Different things.”
“Such as?”
“The usual.”
The conversation wasn’t going anywhere. I lay down on my bed and opened a book I had been meaning to read for a while. I could never seem to concentrate on it when Phosphorous wasn’t around. There’s no heating in our house, so in the winter it sometimes it goes into minus temperatures even indoors. It’s made me pretty much immune to cold, but for some reason I was freezing last night. I got under the covers to read.
“Got a job if you must know,” Phosphorous said, getting comfortable, “A good one.”
He’s got this way of arranging his pillows that bugs me. All spread out so nothing above his shoulders isn’t cushioned. Drives me mad, but I don’t really know why. I know why he does it though; his shoulder blades were practically shattered when he was younger. Even now his back looks a bit bonier than it should, deep red scars etched into his skin. It doesn’t seem to bother him much during the day, but sometimes when I wake up during the night I see him massaging his shoulders furiously.
“What are we listening to tonight then?” he asked, “Anything new?”
Every night we listen to one of Dad’s records. Most of it’s rubbish if I’m completely truthful, but we do it anyway. I’d picked one out for Phosphorous coming home, though I didn’t know if I should play it.
“Tell me where you’ve been first.” I said
“I told you; drawing” Phosphorous replied, “Now put the record on while I find my sketchbook.”
I knew what was coming next. Everyone says that Phosphorous has a gift, something no one else in the world can do. They don’t have to share a room with him. After rummaging under his pillows for a while, he finally found the sketchbook and lay back in bed.
“Don’t let me see it,” he said, “I’ve gotten better while I was away.”
The record player’s on my side of the room, so it’s me who has to get out of bed and play the damn thing. I can stand Phosphorous sometimes. I’d hidden the record behind the wardrobe, and by the time I’d dug it out I was covered in dust and shivering from head to toe. I put it on, fiddling with the knobs and battered old needle until the scratchy sound of a guitar filled the room.
“Don’t let me see the cover.” Phosphorous said again.
He tilted his head to the side for a couple of seconds while I clambered back into bed and tried to get comfortable. I’d been tossing and turning for so many nights that the bed was no longer etched with lumps and bumps which fitted my body perfectly. My head was hurting too, and the music wasn’t helping.
“Turn it down!” I hissed
Phosphorous pretended not to hear me, his pencil gently gliding over the page. His hair had grown longer and every few seconds he tossed his head back like a horse to shake it out of his face. I wait, huddled under the covers, angry at myself for being such a coward. Why did I always let him win, he wasn’t particularly strong. Often he gave into the pain in his shoulders before you even got into a proper fight.
My own shoulders were beginning to hurt from propping myself up, watching him draw. I lay down, pretending to look half asleep even though it’s impossible to relax with Phosphorous in the room. The music seemed to drone on for a lifetime, the walls vibrating with the constant thuds. Then came the footsteps, steady as a heartbeat as they strode up the stairs. I felt sick.
“I’d put that candle out if I were you,” Dad said, putting his head around the door, “There’s not many left and you don’t want to burn ‘em all out before payday.”
His eyes swivelled to Phosphorous, then back to me with a long hard stare. I didn’t need to be told twice, and blew out the candle before burrowing under the covers.
Dad strode slowly to Phosphorus’s bed, before sitting softly on the edge. I heard the springs groan under his weight, drowning out the first few words of their conversation.
Dad’s was trying hard, I knew he was. He didn’t shout or scream the way he usually does.
“I think we need to have a little chat Phosphorous,” he said softly, “This running away business is getting to be a bit of a problem.”
Phosphorous drives me mad sometimes, but I still hate the way Dad talks to him. Either he shouts until his entire face turns red, or he acts like he’s talking to a toddler.
“It’s all very well to go for walks,” he went on, “But disappearing for months on end isn’t acceptable. I want you to tell me where you’ve been all this time.”
Phosphorous said nothing. I could still hear his pencil scratching over the paper, even over the din of the record player.
“Let’s turn that racket off,” Dad said, as though just realizing the source of the noise, “And we can have a proper chat.”
I heard him pull the needle violently so that the record screeched to a halt, before sitting back down on the bed.
“Now tell me where you’ve been Phosphorous,” he said, his voice tight, “Now!”
“Drawing.” Phosphorous grunted
Dad took a couple of deep breaths.
“That’s not an answer son. Don’t act the clown.”
Phosphorous ignored him.
“Answer me boy” Dad said, his voice growing louder with every word, “None of these silly excuses. Where did you stay? Who did you stay with?”
Phosphorous isn’t scared of Dad the way I am, he held firm, his lips pressed together so no secrets had a chance of spilling out.
“Fine!” Dad roared after several minutes of silence, “You’ll be sorry tomorrow sonny.”
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that I felt the draught even under the covers.
Phosphorous snorted, but said nothing. Suddenly, I wasn’t angry with him anymore.
“Phos,” I whispered, “Please tell me where you’ve been.”
I was still huddled under the sheets, and I heard him get up and sit down lightly at the end of my bed. It was a strange moment. I hadn’t seen him in over four months yet I suddenly wanted to throw my arms around him even though I could hardly remember the last time we’d hugged.
“You won’t tell Ma, will you Casper\/” Phosphorous croaked, “Swear to me you won’t, she can’t ever find out.”
Sitting up slowly, I crossed my heart, tracing the shape with my index finger and sucking myself back into childhood. It was a ritual frequently practiced when one or the other of us had broken something in our youth. Only now my hand shook against my thudding heart as I crossed it fervently.
“Alright,” Phosphorous said, “I got a job, like I said.”
“Yeah,” I croaked, “But a job doing what? It wasn’t anything…illegal, was it?”
He shook his head.
“A few months back,” he said, “I met a man called Mr Thomson down at the docks. He runs a travelling show, a circus type thing.”
I took a few minutes to process what Phosphorus was telling me. He obviously could not perform acrobats or juggle fire, which left only one option. His drawings. Since he could hold a pencil, Phosphorus had shown signs of having a gift. Ma used to sit with him for hours, playing records while he drew the people who were singing on them. He’d never seen or heard of the singers before, yet he could draw them perfectly. Ma once told me that nobody else in the world could do what Phosphorus could.
I sat up suddenly.
“A freak show!” I hissed, “That’s your job?”
“It’s not a freak show!” Phosphorus said angrily, “It’s an Interactive Exhibition of the Gifted. People bring records and I draw the artists. I get paid for every picture, and it keeps them entertained while they’re waiting to get in.”
“That’s just a fancy word for a freak show” I argued, “Interactive whatsit, that’s all it is.”
Anger washed over me. I didn’t really like Phosphorus, but he was my brother. And from what I understood, this Mr Thomson was using him.
“It’s wrong.” I snarled as loud as I dared, “You’re not given gifts to make money from them, especially not when most of the money goes to idiots like Mr Thomson who set up freak shows.”
“You don’t get it Casper,” Phosphorus replied, “Mr Thomson’s giving people a chance who would stave to death or be criminals otherwise. You’re too young to understand it.”
I felt too young to understand it. Phosphorus was involved in this whole secret little world that I knew nothing about. Our parents were blissfully unaware of it too, leaving me to bear the burden of my brother’s new job alone.
“You going back?” I asked, settling into bed.
There was no point in pushing the matter.
“Next week,” he said into the darkness, “And this time, I’m not coming back.”
Phosphorous came home last night. He’d been away for four months and six days, exactly twelve days short of his record. We’re not supposed to keep count, Ma kept on about how wrong it was they whole time he was away. And yet the minute he was through the door she turned to Dad and said “One hundred and twenty seven days this time” with that grimace type smile that adults do far too often.
It was near midnight when he got back, and he came straight up to our room and sat on his bed. I didn’t look at him for a couple of minutes, while he unpacked his clothes and pencils.
It happens like this every time, neither of us wants to be the first to speak. I always cave before he does.
“Where have you been?” I ask
Phosphorous took a few seconds to answer.
“Drawing.” he grunted
Not one for talking, my brother Phosphorous. It’s one of the many strange things about him.
“Drawing what?” I said
“Different things.”
“Such as?”
“The usual.”
The conversation wasn’t going anywhere. I lay down on my bed and opened a book I had been meaning to read for a while. I could never seem to concentrate on it when Phosphorous wasn’t around. There’s no heating in our house, so in the winter it sometimes it goes into minus temperatures even indoors. It’s made me pretty much immune to cold, but for some reason I was freezing last night. I got under the covers to read.
“Got a job if you must know,” Phosphorous said, getting comfortable, “A good one.”
He’s got this way of arranging his pillows that bugs me. All spread out so nothing above his shoulders isn’t cushioned. Drives me mad, but I don’t really know why. I know why he does it though; his shoulder blades were practically shattered when he was younger. Even now his back looks a bit bonier than it should, deep red scars etched into his skin. It doesn’t seem to bother him much during the day, but sometimes when I wake up during the night I see him massaging his shoulders furiously.
“What are we listening to tonight then?” he asked, “Anything new?”
Every night we listen to one of Dad’s records. Most of it’s rubbish if I’m completely truthful, but we do it anyway. I’d picked one out for Phosphorous coming home, though I didn’t know if I should play it.
“Tell me where you’ve been first.” I said
“I told you; drawing” Phosphorous replied, “Now put the record on while I find my sketchbook.”
I knew what was coming next. Everyone says that Phosphorous has a gift, something no one else in the world can do. They don’t have to share a room with him. After rummaging under his pillows for a while, he finally found the sketchbook and lay back in bed.
“Don’t let me see it,” he said, “I’ve gotten better while I was away.”
The record player’s on my side of the room, so it’s me who has to get out of bed and play the damn thing. I can stand Phosphorous sometimes. I’d hidden the record behind the wardrobe, and by the time I’d dug it out I was covered in dust and shivering from head to toe. I put it on, fiddling with the knobs and battered old needle until the scratchy sound of a guitar filled the room.
“Don’t let me see the cover.” Phosphorous said again.
He tilted his head to the side for a couple of seconds while I clambered back into bed and tried to get comfortable. I’d been tossing and turning for so many nights that the bed was no longer etched with lumps and bumps which fitted my body perfectly. My head was hurting too, and the music wasn’t helping.
“Turn it down!” I hissed
Phosphorous pretended not to hear me, his pencil gently gliding over the page. His hair had grown longer and every few seconds he tossed his head back like a horse to shake it out of his face. I wait, huddled under the covers, angry at myself for being such a coward. Why did I always let him win, he wasn’t particularly strong. Often he gave into the pain in his shoulders before you even got into a proper fight.
My own shoulders were beginning to hurt from propping myself up, watching him draw. I lay down, pretending to look half asleep even though it’s impossible to relax with Phosphorous in the room. The music seemed to drone on for a lifetime, the walls vibrating with the constant thuds. Then came the footsteps, steady as a heartbeat as they strode up the stairs. I felt sick.
“I’d put that candle out if I were you,” Dad said, putting his head around the door, “There’s not many left and you don’t want to burn ‘em all out before payday.”
His eyes swivelled to Phosphorous, then back to me with a long hard stare. I didn’t need to be told twice, and blew out the candle before burrowing under the covers.
Dad strode slowly to Phosphorus’s bed, before sitting softly on the edge. I heard the springs groan under his weight, drowning out the first few words of their conversation.
Dad’s was trying hard, I knew he was. He didn’t shout or scream the way he usually does.
“I think we need to have a little chat Phosphorous,” he said softly, “This running away business is getting to be a bit of a problem.”
Phosphorous drives me mad sometimes, but I still hate the way Dad talks to him. Either he shouts until his entire face turns red, or he acts like he’s talking to a toddler.
“It’s all very well to go for walks,” he went on, “But disappearing for months on end isn’t acceptable. I want you to tell me where you’ve been all this time.”
Phosphorous said nothing. I could still hear his pencil scratching over the paper, even over the din of the record player.
“Let’s turn that racket off,” Dad said, as though just realizing the source of the noise, “And we can have a proper chat.”
I heard him pull the needle violently so that the record screeched to a halt, before sitting back down on the bed.
“Now tell me where you’ve been Phosphorous,” he said, his voice tight, “Now!”
“Drawing.” Phosphorous grunted
Dad took a couple of deep breaths.
“That’s not an answer son. Don’t act the clown.”
Phosphorous ignored him.
“Answer me boy” Dad said, his voice growing louder with every word, “None of these silly excuses. Where did you stay? Who did you stay with?”
Phosphorous isn’t scared of Dad the way I am, he held firm, his lips pressed together so no secrets had a chance of spilling out.
“Fine!” Dad roared after several minutes of silence, “You’ll be sorry tomorrow sonny.”
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that I felt the draught even under the covers.
Phosphorous snorted, but said nothing. Suddenly, I wasn’t angry with him anymore.
“Phos,” I whispered, “Please tell me where you’ve been.”
I was still huddled under the sheets, and I heard him get up and sit down lightly at the end of my bed. It was a strange moment. I hadn’t seen him in over four months yet I suddenly wanted to throw my arms around him even though I could hardly remember the last time we’d hugged.
“You won’t tell Ma, will you Casper\/” Phosphorous croaked, “Swear to me you won’t, she can’t ever find out.”
Sitting up slowly, I crossed my heart, tracing the shape with my index finger and sucking myself back into childhood. It was a ritual frequently practiced when one or the other of us had broken something in our youth. Only now my hand shook against my thudding heart as I crossed it fervently.
“Alright,” Phosphorous said, “I got a job, like I said.”
“Yeah,” I croaked, “But a job doing what? It wasn’t anything…illegal, was it?”
He shook his head.
“A few months back,” he said, “I met a man called Mr Thomson down at the docks. He runs a travelling show, a circus type thing.”
I took a few minutes to process what Phosphorus was telling me. He obviously could not perform acrobats or juggle fire, which left only one option. His drawings. Since he could hold a pencil, Phosphorus had shown signs of having a gift. Ma used to sit with him for hours, playing records while he drew the people who were singing on them. He’d never seen or heard of the singers before, yet he could draw them perfectly. Ma once told me that nobody else in the world could do what Phosphorus could.
I sat up suddenly.
“A freak show!” I hissed, “That’s your job?”
“It’s not a freak show!” Phosphorus said angrily, “It’s an Interactive Exhibition of the Gifted. People bring records and I draw the artists. I get paid for every picture, and it keeps them entertained while they’re waiting to get in.”
“That’s just a fancy word for a freak show” I argued, “Interactive whatsit, that’s all it is.”
Anger washed over me. I didn’t really like Phosphorus, but he was my brother. And from what I understood, this Mr Thomson was using him.
“It’s wrong.” I snarled as loud as I dared, “You’re not given gifts to make money from them, especially not when most of the money goes to idiots like Mr Thomson who set up freak shows.”
“You don’t get it Casper,” Phosphorus replied, “Mr Thomson’s giving people a chance who would stave to death or be criminals otherwise. You’re too young to understand it.”
I felt too young to understand it. Phosphorus was involved in this whole secret little world that I knew nothing about. Our parents were blissfully unaware of it too, leaving me to bear the burden of my brother’s new job alone.
“You going back?” I asked, settling into bed.
There was no point in pushing the matter.
“Next week,” he said into the darkness, “And this time, I’m not coming back.”