The God Who Stood Alone

The house was a fairly large structure, built in a multitude of boxes. Each box was made of glass, surrounded by dark wooden slats and steel rails. The foundation of the structure was concrete, rising a solid four feet from the forest clearing beside the road. The driveway was short, but winding. It curved around two trees, large maples with broadly spread umbrellas of glittering gold and crimson leaves, before finally meeting up with an attached box of glass and concrete to the left of the house itself. The windows of the house were tinted a dark gray, one-sided. The entire structure had the look of something which was balancing; foolhardy, elegant, a prowess of architectural engineering which far surpassed the need to be merely beautiful. Most days, the boy was happy to see it. The building filled him with pride; after all, he had designed it.
Today, however, it was different. As soon as he turned up the driveway, his eyes found the figure. The white car, long and low-sitting on the black asphalt of the driveway, was turned sideways and parked on the grass at the base of the first maple tree. Twin tire tracks showed on the lawn where the cars' wheels had ripped through the grass and exposed the dirt underneath. The boy sighed lightly as he studied them, knowing with weary certainty that he would have to replant the sod. Against the hood of the car stood a boy. They could have been identical twins; in fact, they were. They shared their father's icy blue eyes and blonde hair, both endowed with the cutting edges of their mother's cheekbones and finely-sharpened features. Though he was not dressed unkempt, Amadeus suddenly felt under-dressed in his black dress pants and faded black jacket.
The other boy smiled when he saw him. Not in the way of greeting, but cruelly, vindictively. The way a fox might look, if an animal decided to do such a thing. On his brother, the dignified facial features seemed too severe, coupled with his eyes. They were mocking; not in the way of Amadeus', but in a way which reeked sharply of thinly-veiled rage and discontent. They were caustic, seeming to cut to the bone anything they swept across. Today they were glazed and listless, but no less cruel. When the boy smiled, there were no dimples in his cheeks. Only thin lines which stretched from his temples to his lips, curved. There was a scar above the boy's eye, and Amadeus flinched slightly when he saw it. An accidental testament to their father's quick-spirited anger they had both inherited.
“Brother!” the boy laughed, throwing his arms wide as Amadeus approached, “I thought you would never return home!”
Amadeus approached until he was within arms length of the other young man, and then placed the bag on the ground. He saw his brother's eyes move toward it with interest, and then dismiss it as he saw there was only groceries inside. The boy spoke as if his every word was a struggle, a blind, desperate crawl toward some kind of inevitable annihilation. The young man was wearing a two-piece suit, black and thick-laced, with a white undershirt and a thin black tie. His long legs were crossed just below the knee, the toes of one of his suede black shoes planted in the dirt as he lounged back against the hood of his car. This close, Amadeus could smell the alcohol on him. The smell was that of a snake; dry and stale.
“You've been drinking.” was all he said, meeting the other boy's eyes.
“So what?” his brother snarled, “Didn't know you suddenly became my papa. Didn't realize I needed a papa.”
“Oh shut up, Laurence.” Amadeus shot the boy's tone back at him. For some reason, his brother could make him angry in a way nobody else could. It was the smallest things; the flicker of an eye, the curve of a lip, the unspoken laughter behind his wicked, intelligent blue eyes. Raising his hands, Amadeus tucked them into his coat pocket for warmth, despite the temperature of the air. He seemed to be eternally chilled. “I wouldn't say anything if you weren't sitting in my driveway, anyway.”
“But Amore,” his brother's voice suddenly became lower, as though he was confiding some great secret. He used Amadeus nickname from their childhood, and the gesture pulled another sigh of knowing inevitability from Amadeus' lips. “I have a business proposition.”
“How much do you need to borrow this time, Laurence?” Amadeus looked at the other boy. That gaze is a strange mix of loathing and love, the second so hardened by contempt and annoyance it was almost invisible. This was their sibling ritual; Laurence drinking himself into the gutter, still dressed in their family's silks, and then crawling back to one of their parents for money.
“Go to mother.” Amadeus shook his head slightly. “Not again, Laurence.”
“She and I...” his brother faltered slightly, “... she's being a cunt again. Listen, I just need a couple hundred bucks. Enough to afford gas to the next town, and then you'll never hear from me again.”
Amadeus hesitated. “Promise?”
“Promise.” his brother smiled, holding out his hand to be shaken. Instead of taking it, Amadeus simply pulls out his wallet and hands the other boy a dozen bills. The other boy takes them, looking down at his hand for a moment in something that almost resembles shame, and then puts the money in his pocket. There was another hesitation there too, Amadeus saw. In anyone else, it would have been imperceptible. But in his brother's harsh, unrelentingly bold features, it was obvious. Maybe it could be attributed to their closeness as siblings, or maybe it was something completely unimaginable, but Amadeus instantly knew that something was bothering the other boy.
“What is it?” he asked, without specifying what he meant.
“You drew a picture, a few weeks ago.” Suddenly, it was his brother of old.
The vindictiveness was gone from his eyes, his features open and frank. The intensity remained, but it was a kind of careful, driven pursuit of an answer, rather than the causeless, senseless rage it usually manifested itself as. His brother was, in many ways, what happens when a genius decides they have no talent. Thousands of hours of enjoyment turned in on itself like a nuclear explosion, directed toward hatred and self-annihilation. They say that artists create in themselves an oasis, an escape from the harsh reality which surrounds them, a kind of stillness – perhaps, thought Amadeus, his brother was what happened when you robbed a creative soul of that peacefulness. It turned against itself, enraged and destructive. In a way, though this was the most stable and content he had seen his brother in years, this moment raised more sadness than all the fits of despair put together. It showed what had been lost.
“A picture ... of a boy, with brown hair, kind of pointy ears.” his brother raised one hand, running a finger and thumb along the edge of his own right ear to show what he meant. “You drew him walking in a forest, I think. There was golden leaves in the frame, at least.”
“Uh, yeah.” Amadeus nodded. The motion was partially surprised, at his brother for remembering so much, and at himself for not realizing how there the other boy had been. “What about it?”
Painting was one measure of the young man's spare time, one of the many things he drove his passions into so that he would not end up like the anguished, caged shadow in front of him. He wrote, more often, but painting was his true happiness. It was there, among the colors of the paints and the strokes of his brush tip, that he found himself. There was something – a sense of calmness – about watching the tip of a brush spreading a thin line of black paint across a clean canvas, widening as it went, that the boy could find nowhere else. He kept very few, however. He could not remember if he had kept the particular picture his brother was speaking of; 'Falling: Boy and Leaves”, he remembered titling it. Something about that title rang in him, with the simple, sharp clarity of a church bell. Staring into his brother's eyes, he felt a sudden dread. He could not say what caused the feeling to be stirred up inside of him, like a drop of ink placed in a glass of water. The feeling of foreboding, black and insidious, wrapped around his throat like a snake and clutched like heavy hands at his lungs. He blinked, trying to dispel the feeling, but still it lingered.
“I saw him today.” his brother said simply.
“Impossible.” Amadeus dismissed his brother's words with a shake of his head. Suddenly, the dread inside of him melted like mist in the afternoon sun. The hands pulled away, curling back into the pit of his stomach. All that remained was a sense of vague, languid unease, blanketed easily by his confidence. Everything will turn out alright, the feeling seemed to say. “I made him up, Laurence. He's not real, he's just ... a picture, a ...” he caught himself. He had almost said 'ghost person'. “... he's this.” Amadeus raised one hand, tapping his index finger against his temple. “Imagination.”
“I saw him.” the other boy said, the conviction in his voice like iron. “Maybe you didn't know who you were painting, but he's here. I saw him at the ... liquor store.” This time, the guilt was so thick is suffocated the boy's final two words. When he finally found his voice again, it seemed to be less than it had been. “Listen to me, that boy is bad news. There's something about him that's not right.”
“You're not exactly the person I base my judgments of character on, Laurence. No offense.”
“Offense taken.” his brother spat, but continued regardless. “Listen to me, Amore! I know people. I may no nothing else, but I know people, you know that's true!”
Amadeus hesitated. It was true. He could admit that to some deep, secretive part of himself; it was the truth. Laurence, despite all of his shortcomings, had always had a keen eye for people. He knew their strengths, their weaknesses. Normally, he used this to bend people and see how far he could twist them until they snapped on him. Amadeus had seen him use it for the exact opposite too; sweet talking store owners and girls, even their parents, when he had been younger and more innocent. Laurence was a strangely accurate judge of character, putting people down to the mark as soon as he laid eyes on their face: likes, dislikes, interests, hobbies, turn ons, turn offs, how to make people itch and tick. Sighing lightly, Amadeus raised one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, inclining his face slightly toward the ground.
“Okay, Laurence. If I see him, I'll avoid him.”
“Promise?” the other boy asked, his voice turning the plea into a demand.
“I promise.” Amadeus reached out his hand and shook the other boy's outreached arm.
The other boy shook his hand firmly. It was as if, with this motion, some kind of deal was sealed that allowed the other boy to slip back into madness. It was a very strange sight, watching the hazy anger fade from the back of the boys eyes like fog and consume him. It was almost as if it was something the other boy was allowing to happen. As thought the madness, this sickness which ripped him apart on the inside and made him a rabid, feral animal, was a controlled destruction. It was as if his brother's body was an insane asylum, which could be entered and exited at will, and was only left when the other boy had something important to do. Maybe, Amadeus thought suddenly, this actually was his brother's creative genius. He had made a guise so hard, so impossible real, that nobody had bothered to question whether his casual cruelness was anything but his nature. Maybe, just maybe, the man he had been seeing all these years was just an act. Then the other boy sneered at him, and the image was gone. He was a predator once more, alone in a world of unspeakable anguish.
“In that case, I'm out of your life, Amadeus.” the other boy nodded to him, the gesture arrogant and insolent at once. “See you in a few years when you hit the gutter, too.”
With those words, he reached his left hand out and used his long, perfectly manicured fingers to pop the latch on the car door. He stepped away as it swung outward, keeping one hand on the frame and slipping into the vehicle. The door slammed closed behind him, hiding the young man's hard-set face behind tinted windows for a moment. The look on his face was one of loneliness, of quiet fury that Amadeus knew so well. Not because he had seen it so often on his brother's face, but because he had seen it on his own.
He had been fifteen years old, the year before he moved out of his parents mansion in town. He couldn't even remember what had driven him to such infuriation, but he remembered lying in bed for a long while. The feeling had been like a cancer inside of him; dark, ebbing and pulsing, but always there. He remembered shifting the blankets aside as crawling from his bed. He remembered crossing the room. He could almost feel the carpet again, the slightly comforting itch as the soft threats stretched up into the creases of his toes, the way his heel pressed into the hardwood beneath. He remembered staring at himself in the mirror for a long while, watching the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, watching the way the light played through his almost fluorescent blue eyes, letting his eyes run across every curve of his own body; memorizing himself. It had been at that moment that the rage had swelled inside of him, like a storm cloud which began as a small spark on the horizon, suddenly sweeping across to cover the sky. Like rolling thunder, his voice had been more animal in his own ears; part of him, yet distinctly separate. It had been the birth of something terrifying, but he had been unable to stop it.
He remembered the way the mirror shattered, splitting initially from the weight of his fist, rocking back on its fake, painted-gold supports. Then how it had shattered, the first crack spider-webbing across the surface of the glass as exploding outward like a firework of flashing white and silver. It had shivered under the impact, the effect devestating. He remembered the sensation of stinging, and he blinked once at the memory. The stinging of tears in his eyes, and the heat that echoed his roar through his knuckles up his arm and into his shoulder.
Most of all, he remembered turning toward the door and finding his mother there; lounging against the door frame, watching. Those two words, he would never forget; an intoxicating mix of hunger and pride, the first time he had every heard interest in his mother's voice.
“It was always you.”
Amadeus shook his head to clear the memory from it, picking up his bag in one hand and backing away as Laurence cranked the steering wheel sharply and tore away across the driveway. Smoke spilled from the back wheels for a brief moment, thick and gray, but quickly melted into the lukewarm afternoon sunlight. He could taste the exhaust on the tip of his tongue as the vehicle roared past him, the grinding shriek of the engine blanketing all other sounds. The sharp, acryllic scent of gasoline burned his nose as he breathed in lightly, and then exhaled through his mouth. Turning toward his house, he entered a quick jog up the winding driveway. Cutting across the grass alcove at the last maple tree, he slowed to a walk as he approached the front door.
The path leading up to the dark-painted front door was made of irregularly-cut cobblestone, and sounded somewhat like the clopping of horses hooves as he approached. Bordering the door on both sides were spruce trees, trimmed into pillars. Leaning into the area between the right tree and the house, Amadeus quickly punched his pass code into the alarm system. The plastic buttons were silent, but it clicked lightly when he entered it correctly, the light switching from orange to green.
As soon as the light changed, he pulled himself back out onto the path and pushed the door open. The metal bar handle was cold against his skin, and the creaking of the wooden door echoed inside of him as he pulled it open and stepped through the shadow-darkened foyer. As soon as he stepped inside, he sensed that something was wrong. Not quite a sense of something being missing, but as if something was out of place. Closing the door gently behind him, Amadeus turned his head slowly to take in the entire room. The bar at the back of the living room stood dark and abandoned, not having been used for months. The living room itself, constructed of little more than a hanging fan, two couches, a coffee table, and a flat screen TV, looked just as it had when he had left. The stairs curling up the left side of the room and disappearing into the higher story stood empty. Amadeus blinked once, trying to relax.
Maybe his brother had been inside. Or, perhaps, it was simply what he had said that had put Amadeus in this skittish mood. Perhaps, for once, Amadeus had been sad to see his brother go. He almost chuckled, the sound escaping as more of an amused grunt. He had never put himself down as the emotional type. Pulling off his coat, he hung it on the curved silver peg beside the door and slipped out of his shoes. He sighed faintly as he did so, bending his toes toward his feet until he felt them crack. Tucking his hands into his suit pant pockets, he began walking toward the living room.
And that was when something came hurtling out of the darkness and struck him. Amadeus whirled, cold hands clutching his heart, his eyes widening as the blur flew across the room and slammed into him, throwing him backward a full step with its momentum. The world rocked, and Amadeus felt the air leave his lungs as he stumbled.
This was it, he thought. This is why his brother had seemed to self-satisfied, so strangely calm. This is why his brother hadn't waited for him inside the house; why he had been waiting to greet him in the driveway.
This is why his brother had said good-bye.