Pseudology

The small strips of fading light which came through the windows fell onto the dark floorboards as a cloud of pale smoke drifted up to the ceiling. Dark curls covered pale eyes and his skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat as the emotions took hold. They came, wave after wave, as lungs inhaled and expanded, eyes closed and mind wavering.

Finally, he had succumbed.

II

There wasn’t much Morton had done to help his brother; a furiously flaming, irate feeling was pitted deep within his chest. He couldn't even touch him to comfort him as the man shook violently in his sleep as though his demons were quaking him. Morton shivered at the idea- sleep should be blissful sanctuary, but clearly, Adrian Reid had no sanctuary from his nightmares.

As a child, he’d always been flinchy and agitated when too close to objects or people, and though he’d been analysed over and over again, nothing had comforted his desire to destroy, and nothing soothed the burning itch that was permanent in his veins. Morton couldn’t bring himself to gently hold him still, or even go nearer than three feet because he knew he’d upset him... and it hurt Morton, deep down, that he couldn’t comfort him. The hurt was being churned up with the anger that was lying once asleep in his chest, and there was no remedy, nothing to soothe the ache.

Morton’s head felt heavy and it ached every time he moved. A migraine was coming, he could feel it, and his eyes were beginning to droop. As he sat down in the comfortable armchair in the corner, he realised that, with a jolt of pure, electric panic, that he wasn’t qualified for what was about to come. Yes, he was his brother… but he wasn’t the right person, he feared. There had always been something cold, detached and almost something bitter about the dark haired boy, with his staring eyes and quiet mouth, thin limbs and thin skin. His brother was too thin, in Morton's opinion. Too thin to carry the stain of a bruise, the prick of a needle... Too fragile for anything- how could Morton help?
He looked too fragile to lay down, even: Morton could only think of his brother's bones, coupled with the heavy woollen blanket, would crush his lungs and Morton would walk in one morning and find a corpse on the flat’s floor, white and limp. Though, Ade was white and limp now in sleep, and he wondered mildly whether his brother would prefer to be limp, white and dead instead of asleep as he was now: even the thought of suicide disgusted Morton.

His heaviness was replaced soon by an itching sensation, like a burning rash. He fidgeted, he sighed, he even undid his tie (a revelation in itself, Ade would have commented) to release heat, but nothing worked, and he found himself, at eleven o’clock at night, tidying the flat to occupy his stressed body and flagging mind.

He hadn’t always been a fidgeter. A younger Morton had often been so quiet and calm that people didn’t notice him, and as an adult, with an office job and a small flat in a quiet area of London, he was often solitary in his habits and always, above all, controlled. But now, as his brother lay on the carpeted floor of a newly bought flat, wearing baggy clothes and huddled, deep asleep, in a thick blanket, his calmness was beginning to ebb away.

III

Ade awoke to a buzzing silence and a painful chest.

Eyes wouldn’t focus, damn them.

Head wouldn’t lift from the floor; hands curled around wool, but it prickled under his skin. As his chest rose, a searing pain spread over his body and his chest collapsed, a shiver crawling down his spine in relief. Where was he? He scanned the room lazily, eyes un-lingering and vision blurred, and could not make out the scene before him. His neck started to hurt, and within seconds, his head had collided with the floor again, and he drifted back into a fitful sleep.

Morton’s face was passive as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. It had been thirty six hours since he had found Ade, and each hour had taken it’s toll on Morton’s body. Minutes had slipped into hours of watching, and now, as he looked at his swollen eyes and tight-lipped mouth, he wondered how much longer it was all going to take before his body crumbled completely.

He adjusted his shirt a little, noticing a small yellow stain on the inside of his collar. He grimaced and attempted to rub it off, but it just made the stain larger, and he sighed; he pulled down at his navy suit, which was creased (it’d have to be sent to the dry cleaners again) and took a fleeting look at his murky brown hair before recoiling in horror at the state of it. With a swift hand movement he pushed it off his eyes and took a deep breath, leaving the bathroom and entering the main living space, which didn’t really resemble any kind of room.

There was a long, faded sofa along one wall, with a small, boxy TV on a stand next to it. Three of the four walls were lined with book shelves, but held no books, and a wide doorway lead into a small and overflowing kitchen. Next to the bathroom door was the bedroom door, which led into a spacious, if not bland room, with a bookcase and a double bed. It would do for now, Morton had thought, but as he looked at his younger brother lying on the floor he felt his stomach twinge. Would he actually use this?

There was a grunt from near the sofa and Morton rushed over to where his brother was now sitting. He’d wrapped the thick blanket around himself, and yawned widely, his face stretching into a ghostish picture.

“How are you feeling, Ade?”

There was silence. Morton sat down on the sofa and leant over so that he was roughly Ade’s height: the younger stared into the distance with a blank expression. Morton gingerly placed a hand on his brother’s angular shoulder, but with a blurred movement his hand was thrown back at him, and Ade’s expression turned sour, nose wrinkling and eyes dark with a deep pitted hate that Morton feared so much.

“Get off me.” he snarled. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

Morton raised his hands to head height and held his breath. Then, it came. First, it was a fist which collided with the side of Morton’s head. Morton’s arms and hands scrambled to push Ade’s thin hands away, and then, his bony knee came in to push into the stomach. This time, it winded him and he yelled out, pushing his brother as hard as he could onto the floor and holding his arms above his head in a tight grip.

“Stop it, Adrian! Just stop it!”

*** There was an overwhelming stench of rotten egg and burnt food. Stains clung to the wallpaper and the carpet was sticky with an unknown substance that made Morton wince. He straightened his back and looked around, his eyes scanning every inch of the living room with an apprehensive glare. There was nothing except a short line of what looked like pot plants, blushing green in murky soil, positioned underneath giant reflective heaters covered by blankets to shield from curious eyes-

Weed.

Morton’s stomach twisted and he bent over a little, grasping his abdomen in cold, shaking hands. His anxiety was taking over, consuming his body slowly, limb by limb until he’d be unable to walk, and he’d be no use to anyone if he was shaking on the floor, curled up in a bundle of well-cut suit cloth and streaming tears. It’d only be good for the press, he supposed. He took a deep breath, his insides churning, and walked around the room briefly.

“Adrian?” he called out. Nothing. Fear escalated quickly, and he soon found himself trying the handle of the bathroom. It didn’t budge.
Morton rolled his neck and with all deliberate speed, he smashed himself into the bathroom door, but it did not budge. A small amount of unreleased anger made its way into Morton’s throat, and he growled.
He pushed again.
Nothing.
Turning on his side, Morton leant back and heaved himself against the door.
Nothing.

He took several paces back this time, his face red and his eyes too hot and teary, and rammed his body hard into the wood. Something cracked.
Morton collapsed. His head came into contact with the sticky floor, but it didn’t matter. Firm but warm hands helped him up; he shook them off. None of these people mattered. The only person who mattered was his brother.
Morton pushed the door open and found a body.

The room was tiled from ceiling to floor in a supposed cream coloured tiles with pure white, cheap grout. There was a small, cramped looking bath with grey grime sticking to its inside, and a washbasin and toilet crowded the corner, infested with dirt and small bugs.
But none of this had actually caught Morton’s attention.
On the floor was a body. Laying in a limp foetal position, a young man had his eyes closed, mouth slightly open and fingers curled loosely around a syringe, both sleeves of his white shirt rolled up. Dots scattered the crooks of his arms. Black trousers were shapeless on the body, stained with copper colours of brown and red; feet were clad in grey socks, and an empty bottle lay by the toilet. His dark hair, straight with grease, was matted to his head and ears, covering most of his delicate, pasty face. All was monochrome except the small amount of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Morton had been sick a little in his mouth and all rational thought had escaped his mind. Fear masked logic as he bent down on the tiled, knees crashing into cold ceramic and hands bracing themselves on the floor, holding up a shaking, failing body. His mouth had become dry, and eyes blinded by heat and panic; he rolled his brother over so that his back was against the floor, his muscles and bone seeming limp and cold. Oh God, he was dead, he was dead and-
“Ade?” He shook his brother. “Adrian? Stop it, just stop-” ***

His brother was panting on the floor, squirming under the pressure of Morton’s grip. His face was blotchy, and he was starting to whimper like a wounded dog. Morton gritted his teeth.

“Let go of me!” Ade yelled, but Morton shook his head.

“Not until you stop it!”

“Get off!”

Morton released him, his patience wearing thin already. Ade fell downy and took several deep, shaking breaths.

“I’m going to make a cup of tea. I’ll get you one.”

“Don’t, I don’t need it.” he panted, but Morton raised an eyebrow.

“I’m making you one.” was all he had to say on the subject, and went to go and put the kettle on.

IV

He had been shaking almost constantly for nearly four hours, his arms wrapped around his small torso and his legs drawn up to his chest which held a pair of struggling, aching lungs. The tea was stone cold on the small coffee table, and there was a gentle hum from the TV, which was stuck on BBC1.

Morton’s mouth was open as he dozed, his body spread over the armchair like a lazy cat. His suit was crumpled and his shoes kicked off near the fireplace, the end of the laces trailing small amounts of dusty, dried mud onto the carpet.

He shuffled, dark hair rubbing in his eyes, and let out a small murmur. Sleep was dragging him back to the darkness, but the bright morning light coming through the curtains pinned his eyes open, and he felt a tingling sensation in his stomach which made him feel sick. He didn’t have a clue where he was, and however hard he tried, he couldn’t remember what had happened. Maybe it didn’t matter?
Ade snorted. Of course it mattered, but for now, he let the darkness curl around his mind and he fell into an uncomfortable and fitful sleep once again.