I can’t stop thinking about that asshole. The guy I did not kill. He becomes or I make him, a phantom, a spectral looming regret, large like a building, always there like the sun, or at least as often. I turn corners expecting his stupid fucking face, his wanton slack if there is such a thing, his stupidity, his sun burned laziness, his stupid fucking face and I dream of it, of killing him, I want to so bad. I don’t dream of him for real, like In a dream, I just wish I could kill him now or take it back, the NOT killing of him and trade it for his blood on my hands, it would be a skin softening lotion to me now. Not for real, not like washing my hands in blood, I’m not sick, I mean it figuratively. Fucking blood is disgusting. If it wasn’t hidden in our bodies we would have nothing to do with this life, any of us.
I think that my brother has forgotten him. He may not have. Do you forget the life you save? I do not think that he thinks of it that way. I do not think that he regrets sparring him, or suggesting with his silence that I not kill him.
He’s boiling water now and though I do not think he is avoiding me, it feels like it. I know or fear he may wish I was different and there are times that I want to be. Rice is another one of those foods there seems to be a lot of. I tell him that our life has dissolved into a cooking show. He never watched them. It’s a cooking show for days on end, then I kill someone and we move on.
It was easy to take the climbing legs off the tower as I climbed up for the last time until when we would leave. Its high enough but not too high, shady, no mess, holes for shitting, holes for shooting, flat spaces for sleeping and metal for a place for fire, holes enough for a breeze, for smoke to leave, holes for light.
We can see far enough that I am never without something to do. He reads aloud about Silk. The whole world has slipped from what once was not a cliff. It is now. We will never get back up there again, never.
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