To Conquer Death
Prologue
I find him—his corpse—with a syringe sticking out of his bruised arm like a shovel in the ground. His blue eyes are glossed over with sticky sap, and vomit covers the front of his shirt like some sort of symbolic piece of art. For a moment, I am hysterical enough to see Jesus Christ himself in the slimy sick before I remember that there is no god in this forsaken mortal place. We are all peasants in the grand scheme—born to die alone, miserable, and covered in our own filth.
Hi eyes, his eyes, his eyes are open. They disturb me in the deepest depths of my soul. My heart has never pounded so loudly in my ears before—not since that moment so many years ago when I found my brother in this same still position, a needle sticking out of his purpling arm, with his eyes shut and his chest rising. Only for a moment, I feel something heavy, as if I am going to drop dead any moment, as if I am going to cry like a child in church, as if I must do something that I do not want to do.
I do not want this to be my responsibility. The heavy feeling passes quickly and I find myself basking in relief because my sacrifice will be so miniscule in this pursuit of the greater good. I know I am selfish for feeling this way. My brother is dead, and all I can think of is the benefit of his death.
I loved Bradley, truly, but some things grow old and die in the heart long before they do in the body.
I leave his room and promptly vomit on my shoes, because I can no longer hold down the disgust in Bradley or the disgust in myself.
I call the police. I tell them not to hurry because he is already dead—he is an empty glass. Only he is not really empty because I am sure he is full of heroin. He is a half-empty glass of heroin. Or should I say half-full?
I call my mother next, and I finally feel true fear and sadness grab hold of my throat. I will never listen to Bradley lie to my mother again. I will not have to watch her pretend to believe him and then cry herself to sleep behind her bolted bedroom door. She was a prisoner to his word because she loved him even when he didn't deserve it. It scares me because I know my mother will not come out of this unscathed. She is not going to forget her first-born. My mother belongs to this dead thing.
I tell her she needs to come home. She sounds delirious when she begs me to tell her what's wrong.
"Is it Bradley?" she whispers. It's sad, really, the way she knows.
"Yes." I walk out the front door but the dead smell follows me. She starts sobbing on the end of the line. "Please. Come home, Mom." My eyes start to water. It hurts so bad to hear the pain in her voice.
The red-blue lights flash, and the police officers push past me. I can hardly hear the beckoning call of the sirens. My mom pulls into the driveway, screaming and weeping. I can't help but start to cry. I sob like a child. Even now, as a full-grown man, nothing upsets me more than the site of my mother crying.
Later, after they have taken the body away to the morgue and my grandmother and aunt have taken my mother away to mourn, I walk into the city. It is dark and bustling with lost souls, but I do not care anymore. I just need to be free of that dead house. I stop in front of an old church. In the back of my mind, I remember going to a funeral within the marbled walls.
I watch the colorful stained-glass windows. The pictures seem to dance under the starlight. It is a mockery to my mood, and I would like nothing better than to shatter the glass with a brick.
Then, something astounding resonates inside my mind—something strange and misplaced, whispered in a voice that I do not recognize as my own. You will always be running from dead things.
Hi eyes, his eyes, his eyes are open. They disturb me in the deepest depths of my soul. My heart has never pounded so loudly in my ears before—not since that moment so many years ago when I found my brother in this same still position, a needle sticking out of his purpling arm, with his eyes shut and his chest rising. Only for a moment, I feel something heavy, as if I am going to drop dead any moment, as if I am going to cry like a child in church, as if I must do something that I do not want to do.
I do not want this to be my responsibility. The heavy feeling passes quickly and I find myself basking in relief because my sacrifice will be so miniscule in this pursuit of the greater good. I know I am selfish for feeling this way. My brother is dead, and all I can think of is the benefit of his death.
I loved Bradley, truly, but some things grow old and die in the heart long before they do in the body.
I leave his room and promptly vomit on my shoes, because I can no longer hold down the disgust in Bradley or the disgust in myself.
I call the police. I tell them not to hurry because he is already dead—he is an empty glass. Only he is not really empty because I am sure he is full of heroin. He is a half-empty glass of heroin. Or should I say half-full?
I call my mother next, and I finally feel true fear and sadness grab hold of my throat. I will never listen to Bradley lie to my mother again. I will not have to watch her pretend to believe him and then cry herself to sleep behind her bolted bedroom door. She was a prisoner to his word because she loved him even when he didn't deserve it. It scares me because I know my mother will not come out of this unscathed. She is not going to forget her first-born. My mother belongs to this dead thing.
I tell her she needs to come home. She sounds delirious when she begs me to tell her what's wrong.
"Is it Bradley?" she whispers. It's sad, really, the way she knows.
"Yes." I walk out the front door but the dead smell follows me. She starts sobbing on the end of the line. "Please. Come home, Mom." My eyes start to water. It hurts so bad to hear the pain in her voice.
The red-blue lights flash, and the police officers push past me. I can hardly hear the beckoning call of the sirens. My mom pulls into the driveway, screaming and weeping. I can't help but start to cry. I sob like a child. Even now, as a full-grown man, nothing upsets me more than the site of my mother crying.
Later, after they have taken the body away to the morgue and my grandmother and aunt have taken my mother away to mourn, I walk into the city. It is dark and bustling with lost souls, but I do not care anymore. I just need to be free of that dead house. I stop in front of an old church. In the back of my mind, I remember going to a funeral within the marbled walls.
I watch the colorful stained-glass windows. The pictures seem to dance under the starlight. It is a mockery to my mood, and I would like nothing better than to shatter the glass with a brick.
Then, something astounding resonates inside my mind—something strange and misplaced, whispered in a voice that I do not recognize as my own. You will always be running from dead things.