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Thirteenth of October. Thirty-one minutes past ten o'clock in the evening. Inside my room, on my bed, in my t-shirt, above me — my little brother.
The events that happened will be imprinted in my memory and for a long time after will constantly appearing in my mind as a blurry picture, as if I am now in an indecent state of extreme intoxication (or if i had conjunctivitis).
I will remember every moment, doesn't matter if it would be unclear, with the amazing precision of the sequence of our actions. I will remember everything, what i would feel, think, want and do in this moments.
I will remember the excitement in the lower abdomen, which will overtake me again and again when i would think about that before bed, in class, during lunch, at a party; when I meet the gaze of green eyes for a split second, going down the stairs to the shower in the morning.
I will remember it really well now: the garland lights catching reflections in red curly locks, highlighting them as if Heavy, looming over me, was glowing from the inside. This image takes the breath away from my lungs, and I can’t exhale, as if my diaphragm and intercostal muscles are no longer able to function. Along with the air trapped in the bronchioles, the smell of the damned "Old Spice" gets stuck in my nose; my upper limb muscles are now becoming incapacitated as well — I don’t try to stop it.
The only question is, can’t I or don’t I want to?
I know for sure that inbreeding — is a bad thing. It's bad because this phenomenon is contrary to ethical standards. This is bad because closely related relationships increases the risk of genetic diseases in the fetus. But if my brother and I are both men, is it really that bad, ignoring the first point?
To be honest, I've always been interested in the question that arises when scrolling through the pages of the well-known black and orange "YouTube": how do romantic feelings for a relative arise? Think about it: how can you want to fuck a man who, it seems, just recently (more than ten years ago) was pooping in a potty, learning to walk, and couldn’t eat without making a mess all around him? How can you feel sympathy for someone who calls your parents their parents too? More importantly, by the way, I've thought about this while considering a case where a brother and sister engage in incest. But I've never considered a situation where it happens between brothers.
Basically, as mentioned above, I was bothered by the thought of how this could happen? Remember? So, know this: if you ask this question in the Google search bar, which will show you the same question on the Mail.ru website, then the only answer in the style of “held the candle” is mine (although I hope you won't have any need to read it).
How can I resolve romantic feelings and sexual attraction to sibling? It's very difficult, from the point of view of ethical standards. And it's incredibly satisfying, from the point of view of my hormonal system.
Thirteenth of October. The first drops of rain left wet streaks on the other side of the window. One, two, three… A limp maple leaf, as if struggling with its last strength against the tenacious clutches of death, clings clumsily to the glass. It was a moment, barely noticeable, but containing something vaguely attractive. A split second later, the wind, carrying the smell of withered leaves and the alarming rustle of trees, suddenly strengthened and blew the leaf away in a whirlwind, sending it on a dying journey across the gray, almost black horizon. And so, as if sentenced to death, the maple leaf disappeared into the distance, leaving only a trembling shadow on the window.
A downpour with thunderstorms, as promised, at the beginning of five o'clock in the evening.
The key turned twice in the lock. The gate slammed. I wiped the glass with the sleeve of my sweater and pressed my forehead against it. The shiny pink umbrella disappeared from view, turning the corner of the street. Pulling the plug out with a sharp movement of my hand, I threw the headphones on the bed, allowing the music to fill the lonely corners of the empty house through the phone speaker.
The parents left, as promised, at about five o'clock in the evening.
— I'm me, me be, — how good is the atmosphere of permissiveness. — Goddamn, I am…
Slowly, clasping my hands behind my back, I left the room and went down the stairs, which creaked on the fifth step. Emerging from the dark hallway into the kitchen, I practically promenaded to the stove. With a distinctive sound, the match head slid across the matchbox's coating. The red phosphorus ignited, causing a combustion reaction to spread through the mixture of sulfur and potassium chlorate. The wax-soaked wood sent out tiny, barely visible sparks like fireworks.
.4Р + 5О2 = 2Р2О5
The chlorine atoms of potassium chlorate were converted into one of the reaction products, potassium chloride, and the sulfur gave up all its atoms to sulfur dioxide. The phosphorus atoms were converted into its oxide. The characteristic smell of a burnt match hung in the air.
.С6Н10О5 + 6O2 = 6СO2 + 5Н2O
This is the dramatic story of a lonely match that has dragged its miserable existence into a cheap communal-type matchbox. It could have been a piece of paper, with information about some oligarch's bank accounts on its ink scratches. It could be a park bench, enjoying the birdsong every day. It could be at least a simple pencil in the hands of a skilled or not-so-would-be artist. But it is just a match, born in an ordinary match factory in a large family of matches, to one day burn for a mug of coffee.
— I can, sing and…— nobody will judge you or laugh at you, even if you have no ear for music and can’t hit the notes. — Hear me, know me…
A click of the lighter. With my index and middle fingers, I brought the cigarette to my lips, barely touching them. Pale clouds of thick cigarette smoke spun in a waltz, drifting out through the open window. The sharp scent of tobacco mixed with the freshness of wet asphalt and the smell of fallen leaves.
I skillfully hid my addiction from the beginning. First of all, no amount of creams, colognes, gum, or even horseradish-flavored croutons will hide the tobacco smell; vice versa — it will make it even stronger. To prevent me from smelling so much of tobacco, I resorted to using ammonia (however, it dried the skin of my hands a lot). Second, I didn't dabble in cigarettes on school grounds, near it, or in areas where I could theoretically be spotted by teachers, parents, or their acquaintances. I smoked away from such places and at home. The last may sound silly, but in practice it has been more than rational and logical. It's simple: in addition to me, my mother always had a bad habit, who always smoked out the window in the kitchen. I, for my part, of course, also smoked out the window in the kitchen. Third, if my parents were at home, I smoked exclusively at night. I set my alarm for four in the morning, woke up, and, just as at night, climbed through the window to the roof and smoked, before closing the window itself to prevent the smell from entering the room. I also used a car diffuser that reads 'SEX' in acid pink. It was hidden between the pages of Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov's "Morphine" and was 'ventilated' only after the act of smoking for an hour or two, filling the room with mango aroma (which for a while made my father sure that I smoked 'nic stick'; It sounds tempting, of course, but that's only for weaklings). Fourth, a pack of cigarettes was safely hidden in a cardboard carton of soda, which was untouched in the corner of the buffet even before I was even born.
And even earlier than Heavy was born. According to my mother, once, when I was three or so, for the new year, I begged her and father for a puppy, even though any pets in the house were excluded even then. As a result, I managed to achieve what I wanted, because we had an animal in our family — Heavy was born. He was almost like a dog: shitting, yelling, demanding a lot of attention, sometimes damaging property, and pissing on anyone who picked him up. Then he grew up and started getting me into trouble. Automatically, everything in our house was divided between the two of us, but to be honest, most of what we were entitled to, whether it was toys or delicious food, went to Heavy. Anyway, things didn't go well for us even then. He'd run after me everywhere, complain to my parents if I didn't want to play with him, and each time, amazingly, he'd break everything that was rightly considered mine.
I don't know, fortunately or unfortunately, at some point Ches came out of nowhere and focused Heavy's attention solely on himself. Since then, my little pain in the ass has bothered me much less, no longer bothering me with his tedious company. We've drifted a lot apart (though we may have been getting closer at all). I spent almost all my time reading books and exercises under my father's close supervision. Heavy spent most of his childhood with Ches, because I guess my parents devoted all their energy to raising me, and were already pretty tired by the time the youngest grew up - my brother was dumped on my uncle. At least I think so. It lasted a long time until Ches disappeared again. Then I was in seventh grade, and Heavy went to fourth grade. His constant presence in the house annoyed me a lot, literally every day we fought. After a couple of months, the tension level went down to almost No. Things have settled down. We even 'made friends': we spent time together little by little over games and dramas, and even went for walks from time to time, not considering going to school and home.
It was at that moment that it dawned on me: the range of emotions I felt for him - from hatred to absolute indifference - coupled with a total lack of communication over the years led to the fact that Heavy, in my eyes, was not a brother at all to me from the word. I looked at him and knew we were family. I was aware that we had common parents. I understood that we had a similar karyotype. But I never got to see my brother in him after long sleepless nights, after which I simply came to terms with this feature of my perception and never thought about it again.
The kettle, releasing steam from the whistle hole, filled the entire room with an ear-splitting squeal. I put out the fire, took off the whistle, and poured in a teaspoon of instant coffee; the boiling water burned the walls of a ceramic mug with a chipped edge. A puff of bitter smoke again.
Nicotine has a weak excitatory effect on the central and peripheral nervous systems, increases blood pressure and secretion of the digestive glands; reduces the oxygen content in the arterial blood, causes irritation of the bronchial mucosa, and as a result leads to the gradual development of emphysema, and then to chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.
Smoke to your heart’s content, because we’re all going to die anyway. A healthy lifestyle is nonsense that will be imposed on you by a auntie doctor in a spotless white coat, patiently hanging on a hook while she steps out for a smoke. That doctor will never tell you that a healthy lifestyle does not guarantee a carefree old age or a painless death. At best, it will help you drag yourself to the age where you start wetting yourself, forgetting your loved ones, and suffering from everything imaginable, clinging with the last remnants of sanity to the hope of a swift death. That doctor won't tell you that you'll end up in the anesthesiology and intensive care unit, where you'll most likely say goodbye to life, if it can be called at all under these conditions. You'll be lying on a hospital bed completely naked, covered by a thin sheet. Necrozized bedsores form on the back of your head, sacrum, and heels, which, God willing, will not cause sepsis. The would-be first-year resident will intubate you into the esophagus, and then the doctor uncle will come and finally put you on a ventilator. Maybe not to him? Or maybe an extracorporeal membrane oxygenation machine, if your alveoli aren't able to let oxygen into your bloodstream. And that's not all the charms of a healthy lifestyle in the long run. There is a high probability that in your stomach there will be a nasogastric probe, previously lubricated with glycerin (in the jar with which the exact same probe of another patient has already been dipped, only contaminated after several unsuccessful attempts). If they insert a probe, you'll eat a nutricomb that'll make you shit further away than you can see. Therefore, you'll spend the rest of your life in XXXL size diapers. And it won't be so bad if you're assigned a decent orderly who'll be able to take care of your hygiene and, by the way, the same bedsores in the middle of the night. Even at the age of ninety, you'll probably be unable to urinate on your own, so a urogenital probe will be inserted into your urethral canal. It doesn't feel good. And God forbid you develop psychomotor agitation, a hemorrhagic stroke, or any other “perk” of old age. You’ll start thrashing around, ripping out IV lines, tubes, or catheters, and the orderlies will tie you to the bed. It will all end in a boring, predictable way. A resistant strain of Klebsiella pneumoniae will enter your lower respiratory tract, you’ll suffer for a week or two, deteriorate into critical condition, and go into asystole. After that, cardiopulmonary resuscitation, and some more time of unbearable suffering, until one compassionate shift decides to let you go, having filled out the death certificate in advance.
Exhale. A frosty wind blows. The cigarette sparkles, slightly fading and smoking.
— If you want to destroy my sweater, — the pleasant smell of wet asphalt draws dizzy from the open window, and a slightly cool wind blows. I took a sip of freshly brewed coffee. Puff. It's gotten really good. After this ritual, I always feel very good. It's literally the most stable thing in my life. Stability is the key to success. — Hold this thread as I walk away…
— Hey, you're drinking out of my mug again!
— Heavy, fuck! - I coughed, and threw the cigarette butt out the window.
It seems the younger one returned just before parents left, so he went unnoticed. And probably on his return, he immediately honored the outhouse with a visit, as usual. After falling over the windowsill, I pushed a hole in the ground, buried a goby of the half-smoked "Malboro" in it.
— Let a meteor smash you, bitch! — I grabbed my mug and headed for the stairs without looking at Heavy. — Then take off my T-shirt if the mug means that much to you. Or stop carrying my clothes altogether.
— You don't wear it anyway, but I drink from my mug all the time!
— I actually sleep in it... That's it, go touch a grass. When I'll finish, I'll wash it and put it back away.
It gets dark much earlier in autumn. Glimmers of light in the kitchen left only the lights of the lanterns on the other side of the glass. Absolute silence filled the house, which was disturbed only by the sound of water from the not fully closed tap. As It glided across the parquet floor, the headlights of a passing car left lace shadows from the curtains on the floor; pale prints hid on the lower steps of the stairs, but disappeared into the gloom as quickly as they appeared.
— What do you want? — I was pulled over the edge of my sweater, as soon as I headed slowly upstairs. Heavy crumpled and scratched the red back of his head, now opening his mouth, now closing; biting his lower lip, as if he wanted to say something but could not find the words.
— Listen, Dee... You know, if you love this mug so much, then take it for good!
— What do you want? - I could see in his eyes that this noble gesture towards me was not made from the heart. Heavy, when he wanted something, always hesitated, not knowing which way to get close, to voice what he wanted.
— Why do you think that I want something? - Heavy made such a grimace of indignation, as if he had just been accused of some mean act — I don't want anything, I just... It's... - Heavy searched for argument, but as a result, he fell silent, staring blankly at me.
— Well, since there's nothing needed, then, thanks — I shrugged and turned around, but he persistently pulled the sleeve. I looked at him inquiringly. He looked at me, still running his eyes across my face, as if looking for clues, opening his mouth and closing it; he looked like a fish, blushing more and more.
— I need to watch porn.
The words came off his lips as easily and at ease as if he had said something different, along the lines of, 'Let's go look at the flowers, draw the sun on the pavement, and catch butterflies.' And it would be better if it were true - I'd just laugh at it and go about my business.
— Oh, my God, Heavy, fucking! — I yelled, bouncing off him a couple of steps up and for some reason shaking my sleeve where the youngest was holding on to it. — Ugh, ugh, ugh!!! No! Ugh! I'm not doing your sex education, no!
— I didn't fini–…
— And don't need to! — almost running, I finally went up to my room and slammed the door. Heavy came in after me. — Pistles, stamens... — I placed a mug of coffee on the table and fumbled in the bookcase, — Here! — my hand felt for the hefty atlas, and, pulling it out of the conclusion of the rows, stretched it out to the side, — I hope you can read.
— No, wait…
— Okay! — the anatomy of the Gloom sank into place, like a bayonet caught between books. — Then ask parents to tell you from where...
— I need to watch gay porn, Dee! Why da hell you can't just listen till the end?!
I burst into hysterical laughter. This was not another innocent prank from Heavy, so I laughed, feeling tears burning the corners of my eyelids, and I didn't know how to respond to such loud, outlandish statements. “You jumped right into that one!” — the mug told me, looking from the table at my tantrum and Heavy hanging over my hunched back. He rested his hand on one of the upper shelves, stood a step away from me and waited for the "laugh" from my mouth to fly out.
— That's it! You know whay? "Watch" whatever you want and as much as you want! — I straightened up and barely squeaked out an answer, almost calming down, — By all means! But only in earplugs and as far as you can from my room!
— I need you to watch IT with me.
— What the fuck?! — and I broke out again in a new wave of laughter, covering my mouth with my palm. The whole thing was like some incredible prank. Heavy must be joking: he'll keep his feigned seriousness to its peak now, and then he'll laugh and say it's just another innocent neighing prank.
No. He grabbed me by the shoulders, pressed my back against the closet, and looked into my eyes excessively, as if global issues were to be discussed on the agenda, rather than videos of two healthy men "sniffing" each other's anuses, periodically changing poses, roles, toys... In short, it doesn't matter. Looking back at it, I somehow got all swollen, wary that some porn movies really deserved this importance.
— For our mother's sake, Dee, I ask you to watch gay porn with me! Don't make me repeat that, dude! It's cringe enough for me to ask you about this, and I'm just as scared as you are, — Heavy took more air into his lungs and continued, — Today after lessons Chipmunk said, that I'm a faggot, and I got really fucking mad, and I said him to fold mouth over his anus, and he said, that he fucked our mom, and i said, that joking about mom in twenty-...
— Get to the point, dumbass!
— Anyway, Chipmunk said I looked like a faggot. And I wondered, what if I really am a faggot?
— And why I need to watch IT with you? — I looked at a laptop well placed nearby on the bed.
— To make it possible to say that you were holding a candle, — he raised an eyebrow. His expression was as if I was asking absolutely stupid questions that even children knew the answers to.
— Heavy, are you stupid?
— What if you're a faggot too?!
— Are you fucking nuts?
— Latent...
— Fuck… Alright, fuck, — I grabbed Heavy by the shoulders too. He flinched for some reason, like he’d been stung, and tensed up. — Do you like your own sex?
— What?
— I say, do you like men?
— Oh... — he pursed his lips, - I don't know, I guess not, but... What if I like them? — It's nonsense. I couldn't figure out what exactly was wrong with his answers, but something about the whole thing was illogical, unnatural. — What if you're a faggot too?
— And what? You want to prove it?
— Yes!
— Fu… — taking my hands off his shoulders, I covered my face with them and threw my head up. The back of my head with a thud was imprinted on the shelf, I hissed, breaking out of my brother's grasp, — Heavy, no one cares about you, especially about your orientation. Forget about Chipmunk and leave me alone!
I forcibly pushed Heavy out the door, then leaned against her, waiting for him to stop provoking me.
— Yes-yes, good job — I'm a faggot, now fuck off.
Yet Heavy finally left, and there was a long-awaited silence. I stepped away from the exit and flopped on the bed, leaning back on the pillow with the back of my head still tingling; closed my eyes and tried to digest what had happened.
"Always knew, that Heavy is adopted".
And to be honest, I didn't even know what to think. I was one hundred percent sure that I wasn't a homosexual. There's never been a single second in my life when I'd think that dude over there looked sexy. I could say the same for sure about Heavy, because compared to me, it would be trite in appearance to conclude that he is more natural than all straight people combined.
He had a pretty, even slightly cute face with freckles under his eyes. However, this cuteness was nipped in the bud by clear lines of the cheekbones. In a way, it gave him manliness, I guess. He had an impressive muscle mass, which was the result of long exercises on the horizontal bar and dates with gym equipment. He was tall enough that, if he used to breathe into my belly button, he now looked me straight in the eye, stretching out in a wave for a couple of months. He always smelled of the cursed 'Old Spice' or 'Ax'. I don't know. It's not that I'm sniffing, it's just noticing. In general, there was no hint of homosexuality in him.
But even if Heavy, who literally reeked of testosterone, was worried that he was a faggot, maybe I should have thought about it too?
Is it normal for two brothers watch porn together? What if someone gets hard ? Even if no one gets hard, it'll still be cringey. Can this be regarded as incest? But if both he and I get hard, it's a combo.
On the one hand, I've never felt that brotherly connection. But on the other hand, it doesn't mean that Heavy is experiencing the same thing as me, or to be more correct, he's not experiencing the same thing as me.
My reflections, absurd as they were, were interrupted by the creak of the door that was opening.
— Maybe you just scared that I won't get hard, and you will get hard? — said the red-head, leaning out of the space between the door and the jamb.
— For gods sake, Heavy! — I rose on my elbows, sighing heavily, — Learn to knock first and then come in, you jerk! I'm not afraid of anything.
— Then what's the problem, dude?
— There is not any problem. That's the point, you understand? You made it up for yourself, and now you're driving yourself into it and you want to drag me into it. I'm not a faggot. And so are you.
– Then why you're so scared to watch IT with me?
— Do I look like a person who would watch gay porn?
— To be honest, yes.
— Listen, I don't want to watch IT with you. First, because you're my brother, and second, because I'm not...
— How do you know that you aren't a faggot?
— Heavy, are you fucking nuts?
— If you're not gay, then what it costs you to see two guys kick their asses once in your life?
I opened my mouth, wanting to object, but I couldn't find the words, and I pursed my lips.
— Maybe you're just not sure if you're not gay yourself?
— Heavy, are you stupid?
— You're the stupid one! Just say you're just fucking scared to discover the world of other men.
— Heavy, what kind of gay porn?!
The rain rammed on the glass, as if demanding to penetrate on the other side of the window. But the droplets, putting all their force into the impact, broke mercilessly, sliding down. Flashes of lightning illuminated the charcoal abyss of the night. But it's just outside the window.
Without reaching the darkest, dustiest corners of the room, the garland lazily sparkled, shimmering in highlights on the glossy posters. It had been hanging over the bed for two years since it was placed there one day on the eve of the new year. Sometimes the garland, unable to bear its own weight, fell on the bed littered with clothes, after which the owner of the room hung it back with gasps and sighs, making new holes in the wallpaper. But fortunately, they were invisible to the eye and lost in the abundance of books scattered on the floor, the desk, the windowsill... There were shelves in the closets to store them, of course, but they were completely packed. So sources of knowledge, some finished and some not, gathered dust wherever they got, waiting in the wings, as did a guitar leaning against the wall in the corner.
It smelled like old paper, tobacco, either machine difusers, or 'nec stick' and... the cursed "Old Spice".
Awkwardness, like a cloud, suddenly enveloped the entire space, becoming an invisible witness to the fornication that was taking place. This uncomfortable atmosphere, like a captivating but deceptive round dance of waiting, is like it's ingrained into the walls of the room, the furniture, and the damn laptop screen. I looked anywhere but not at it and not at Heavy, trying to abstract from the situation. However, the rude moans coming from the speakers brought me back. And it seemed impossible for me to get out of this vicious circle, let alone leave the room.
I'm turned on.
I'm turned on and I could not understand why my body had reacted in this way. It was supposed to fight evil, not join it. It should have responded by vomiting at best... not an erection. And the whole question is not so much whether the erection happened for the process itself, for the actors, or for Heavy? I moved the laptop closer to my groin to hide the 'nuisance', but I only made it worse. The friction reverberated in the genitals with a languorous pull, and IT made a movement. The excitement in a tickling lump gathered somewhere in the lower abdomen, making the body tremble.
It felt like forever. I turned to the screen, looked at the time, realized that only ten minutes had passed, five of which the actors were talking... I looked at the screen. I turned away, tried not to think about what I saw. But my dick thought otherwise. It flinched again, not allowing me not to think about what was happening in the porn filme. And IT was winning that fight.
I was glad that the garland light was not enough for Heavy to notice how a vivid imprint of shame burned on my face. I didn't know where to put myself and was literally going crazy, wanting only to touch myself. Or for someone to touch me. I felt like a fucking pervert, and that feeling turned me on even more.
I didn't masturbate for two whole weeks because I was stupidly tired and went to bed at any opportunity. And now it's backfired on me in a very bad time.
— Dee, do you know how to kiss? - since Heavy turned on the porn movie, none of us have said a word.
— Well, let's say I can, — it's like Heavy's words got me out of a state of extreme intoxication. However, my head was still spinning, not allowing me to concentrate properly. I answered him as if my mind was in a fog.
For a second, I thought Heavy didn’t want to stop watching and split up for the same reason I didn’t.
— How do you do it? — Heavy asked, without looking up from the movie.
— Well, how else? With lips.
— Well, it's clear that with not ass.
— Mm... First, you close your eyes.
— And then?
— You touch her lower lip with your lips, and she touches your upper lip with her lips. Got it?
— Got it.
— Why are you aski–…
An unbearably hot wave of excitement scorched my entire body and insides. I knew I had to push him away, kick him out of the room, and after a while, when we'd both come to our senses, talk.
Heavy's warm, slightly moist lips covered my lips. In a couple of moments, he threw the laptop off my legs to the side, sat on top like an experienced whore rubbing his ass on my dick, and deepened the kiss by penetrating his tongue inside my mouth. At that moment, my mind was completely blown away and all the prohibitions that existed before were lifted. I grabbed him by the hips, knocked him over on his back, and continued the kiss. My hands slid upwards, I dug my fingers into the burning skin of Heavy, wriggling and quietly groaning into my mouth. He wrapped his legs around my back and lifted his ass to my groin. With each passing second, my brother and I were getting further away from Jesus. I stopped feeling my own body because of the pleasure that brought it down. Heavy's lips dug greedily into my lips. I could feel the heat of his skin, the smell of it; I could outline with every finger pad the relief of his muscles.
The truth is, that I was actually lying when I said I knew how to kiss. And that it seems Heavy and I are faggots after all. And that I'm an asshole. But I'll think about that later, I swear.
I've really never been kissed. I felt like this beautiful, warm, overflowing moment was about to happen soon to some charming young lady on one of the rainy evenings we would spend at my house on my bed watching a horror movie. I was almost right in my thinking, if I don't quibble that this same young lady had a dick between her legs, and that gay porn is not the same thing as a horror movie (albeit close enough in meaning).
I've really never been kissed. And when it finally happened, my mind blew off. Perhaps if I did it without feeling, I could take control of my mind and stop what was happening in its infancy. I don't mean that I had any feelings for Heavy - no, fuck, ugh, ugh, ugh, God forbid - but that I just had an erection because I hadn't masturbated for two whole weeks. This may sound like a cheap excuse for what I did (or, to be more accurate, it would be better to say 'didn't'), but it is a very powerful argument to me. I was in the heat of the moment. It was not a sane mind that spoke in me, but my penis, which was dictated by hormones, which were dictated by the hypothalamus. Puberty, as they say, doesn't spare anyone, does it?
And yet, despite the number of excuses I found for myself, I felt an unbearably heavy burden of guilt and responsibility. However, it is worth noting that this feeling did not come to me as soon as my lips touched my brother, but only when it came to the very 'later think about what an asshole I am' - when the front door opened and the first floor of the house was filled with laughter from the arriving guests.
At that second, Heavy was as if cold water was poured from his basin: he fidgeted and pushed me in the chest with both hands, before sitting in the corner of the bed and hugging his knees. The youngest made a facial expression as if nothing had happened, and he has no idea how he ended up in this room at all.
— They said they'd be back tomorrow! What the fuck? — I jumped off after "brother", slammed my laptop lid, and sat on the opposite end of the bed for Heavy; I also pulled my knees up, resting my chin on them.
I desperately wanted to think that if I sat like this for another hour or two, I would necessarily become a stone statue without feelings, reason, memories, or any thoughts; or I would grow into a wall, stuck in a chip of cement crooked between the brick rows. However, right after thinking like this, I suddenly imagined that these very walls would definitely condemn me for having to ripen just a couple of minutes ago - I changed my mind. After all, time passed, and I did not become a statue.
— What are we going to do now? — after a brief silence, Heavy's voice sounded first, reminding him he was still here. It was naive of him to think that I knew what to do now. The thing that pissed me off the most was <we>.
— I'm staying here, you go to your room, and later you and I will talk about what happened.
I didn't want to talk about what had happened. I'd like to pretend nothing happened; that day doesn't exist. I wanted to blink, and when I opened my eyes, I wanted to find myself in bed. The morning sun would beat on my eyes through the veil of gray clouds. Everything would have turned out to be a bad dream. However, into the harsh reality, hand tremors, tachycardia, and dizziness were pulled out.
I hated myself, then I hated Heavy. And I hated him more. I even suddenly thought that it would be better if he had never been born at all. Such thoughts were very wrong, but I couldn't get rid of them.
I can call myself a fairly detached and withdrawn person. I am smart, talented, and beautiful. I don't need any care, support, or anything like... Feelings? Only a cold, sober voice of reason.
At that moment, he left me. I tried to recover, breathe evenly, and calm the trembling in my hands. For the first time, I felt panic fear. There was a nasty lump in my throat that I could not swallow. He stood across the larynx, preventing air from filling his lungs. I tried my best to keep my face, not to let Heavy see what I actually thought, felt; that I was panicking too; that I didn't know what we should do now.
The seconds went on for an unaffordably long time. I kept waiting for "brother" to get out of my bed and go to his room. But nothing was happening. I couldn't look at his face for an answer, because even just being next to him, I could feel my disgust curling up my stomach into a tube. I felt so lousy and gross that I wanted to wash my mouth with soap and water, burn the clothes that came into contact with Heavy, throw away the blanket on which... The stomach juice came to my throat.
— Why don't we talk now?
— Heavy, you're not in right mind, — I replied as confidently and calmly as possible. — Go to your room and get some sleep.
I didn't need to look at him to know that he had opened his mouth, wanting to object, but still waited and looked down. The spring in the mattress made a muffled grind. I felt the bed free of the weight at its other end. The door creaked, letting a strip of light inside the room from the room behind it, before clicking quietly.
My whole body was trembling. The limbs, as if poured with lead, resisted, not wanting to straighten up and take up a different position of my body. I lay on my back, staring blankly at the ceiling. I usually liked to do it with musical accompaniment. Especially before bedtime. As ashamed as it was to admit, I often imagined scenarios that would never happen in real life. And with each song, a different story was invented in my head. But each of them was always interrupted somewhere near the middle, when the brain, immersed in slumber, distorted the situations I imagined: participants in the fantasies began to do somersaults, run into walls, invite me to take part in the war against the rebellious helminths... The locations quickly followed each other, were illogical and sometimes even frighteningly distorted. My house was only on the outside of my house, and inside it was a completely different dwelling with unfamiliar finishes, layouts, and furniture.
So I was lying on my back, staring blankly at the ceiling. From the first floor, guests' laughter and my mother's screams could be heard occasionally, making me not forget that I am still 'here'. I would like to surrender to frustration. But the voice of reason, sobering, insistent, demanded to come to your senses and think.
I need to talk to Heavy. No matter how hard, disgusting, suffocatingly unpleasant, shameful - I need. I heard a switch in Heavy's room flip - he'd gone to bed. At that moment, a question that should have arisen much earlier was born in my head:
«What the hell?»
Heavy's dumb, of course, but he's not dumb enough to want to gouge with his 'brother'. Although, to be honest, I would rather believe that he is really imbecile, and this action was prompted by a severe degree of mental retardation - in which case the situation would not be so absurd.
What Heavy did was conscious. I even dared to suggest that everything from Chipmunk to (Lord, I'm sorry) the kiss was fabricated. But to think that Heavy could have set up such a thing is naive - he's not that smart.
The main question was something else. And it was a question I was afraid to voice even in my mind.
It's a base when little boys say they're marrying their mom, aunt or big sister, and little girls say they're going to marry their dad, uncle or big brother. The key word here is 'little,' and it doesn't apply to Heavy.
Maybe if I were a girl - his older sister, there would be even the slightest explanation for his action, even if it's base and shameful. However, there was a dick between my legs, just like between his legs. Do you understand? '“A nice, proper manly little pee-pee" is as my younger "brother" would say. Penis.
Have you ever thought about how funny the word 'penis' is? Penis, penise, penis, penis, penis. Isn't it funny? It's not funny. It seems that dementia is transmitted through saliva after all.
I was under pressure from the room. I was pressured by what was outside it, or to be more accurate, who was outside it. I was going crazy, unable to get out of my own thoughts or the cage of the ramping walls.
I tried to sleep. I tossed and turned, counted sheep, imagined ridiculous scenarios in my head (at most for about five minutes, because Heavy was wedged even there), stared at the wall and ceiling, tried not to think about anything, but constantly thought about what I'm not allowed to think about.
Two hours passed like that. I slid off the bed and headed for the door on my toes. If you press it by the handle down, the hinges won't creak. From Heavy's room, I went out to the stairs, deliberately not looking at the sleeping 'brother' beforehand. The fifth step is creaking too - we have to step over it. Aunt Anna and Ches slept on the sofa in the audience, and in extreme fun: she pressed against the very edge, bent in the foetal position, when he, sprawled limbs, occupied almost the entire sleeping space. Parents must have had a third dream, too. I didn't go in, so I went back to my room, still overcoming the obstacles of creaking steps and door hinges on the way back. And Heavy. It's not like he's getting in the way of my little intelligence. Not at all. Now it seems that he was bothering me simply by existing. The thought evoked both shame in me and, perhaps, a sense of justice.
I know I should have stopped it. It's my fault. But he did get up to kissing.
‹‹Disgusting››, — I thought, jumping off the windowsill onto the wet, raindrop-darkened roof tiles.
The lighter clicks. The faint tongue of flame, resisting the merciless wind, burns the tobacco leaves, tightly wrapped in paper. As thunder clattered and the drumbeat of a downpour, I took a deep puff. It painfully crashed into the front wall of the larynx and went downstairs, burning the airway. I cleared my throat.
My smoking history began on a September evening a couple of years ago, when I was thirteen. In fact, I was offered a try, and I agreed because I thought the company would then take me for "one of its own". It's a shameful truth and not a very impressive story. I had another reason to do it, though.
I wanted to prove that I could easily give up something that was addictive on both a physical and psychological level. I wanted to outsmart myself: dangle my reflection in front of my brain like a "fuck you" grin.
«Here, look! I'm above it. I'm too intelligent to handle some nicotine wand. It won't break me, my will, my cold, pure inner voice».
This is not a conversation about how harmful smoking is; not about what diseases develop in the human body with long experience of using tobacco; not about what is depicted on cigarette packages; not about yellow teeth and a fetid smell. It's a conversation about the sovereignty of mind. I like not to depend on anything or anyone. I like the lack of leverage over me. I like sobriety, mindfulness.
But I like smoking better, as it turns out. I can't quit smoking. I don't want to quit smoking. The aesthetic component of the issue may have played a role in part. My friend told me that with a cigarette between my lips, I look more than attractive. I was captivated by it. Does this mean that I still depend on the opinions of others, on my own image that they draw in their perception? If that's true, I'm doubly miserable. I try to think that my friend actually opened my eyes to something I myself wouldn't have been able to notice, and it found really entertaining. I don't depend on outsiders' opinions. And I don't depend on smoking.
After casually shoving the steer back into the tutu, I got up from my squat and turned to the window.
I managed to fall asleep only an hour after I took my mundane walk through the window. Fortunately, I didn't think about anything for this hour — forget what happened in that damn room. I didn't remember what happened when I woke up. The sun, finally emerging from the curtain of rain clouds, filled the room with light, faintly warming the sheets. I stretched lazily, rubbed my eyes, and, from the comfort of my bed, reached for my laptop, comfortably perched on the bedside floor. I lifted the lid, entered the password, and before the sound reached my ears, two young, feminine, naked male bodies appeared before my eyes. The actors, slumped against the tiles in the bathroom, had sex. And they did it very loudly, as it turned out when the site uploaded the sound. I was horrified and probably lowered the lid of my laptop at almost the speed of light.
«Shit!»
Thus began my new day of life. A life that I almost voluntarily put an end to because I didn't push away my "brother".
I didn't want to get out of bed, go down to the bathroom, have breakfast, and just do my own thing. No. Right outside the door was Heavy. Even if I walked by with my head strictly down, all I needed was a red hair on the floor to fall into a stupor or kill my head against the wall. However, I could not escape my responsibility and end my life so stupidly.
I got up and headed for the door, pulled the handle, pulled the door on me, and... Heavy wasn't in the room. But I was happy early, thinking he was off to his rusty, filthy horizontal bars with his friends.
— Good morning, Dee! It's great that you're up - I wanted to ask Heavy to get up and wake you up! — the father said.
I deliberately didn't look in the direction of "brother". I knew he wasn't looking at me either. And I knew he wouldn't say anything. Fortunately, at breakfast, we didn't drop a word or a look at each other. He was looking exclusively at the plate, and I was looking at anyone but him. Ches, as usual, was talking some nonsense that I didn't even want to listen to, and I was indescribably happy not to try to pretend that everything was as good as ever in this family. No one paid attention to the unexpectedly quiet Heavy, who just by looking at him was shouting that something was wrong. It was bound to be angry. God knows if he was really worried or just wanted to talk to me, but there was no time to think. We had to act now, and as quickly as possible, before our father's insightful eyes matured to the root of the problem we had born yesterday.
— Come up to my room when you're done, — I said to "brother", but still hesitant to look at him. — We have to finish your algebra today. I hope you wrote the equations I noted for you?
— Of course, — he replied extremely fake.
«What a dumbass», — I thought, putting a clean plate on my towel, and then went up to my room.
I still didn't want to talk to him. The minutes of waiting lasted painfully long. I felt as if I was counting the last seconds before my death sentence: my mortal body was about to be dragged to an empty, God-forgotten playground, brought to its knees, and shot. Somewhere down my abdomen, a lump of excitement twisted, then slowly spread the spasms inside me. My body was crawling with parasites that were chewing through the flesh. The lump stretched into a string and froze, giving no opportunity to take a breath when Heavy entered the room. He threw an algebra textbook and a green notebook in a cage on the bed, and they, in turn, opened up and froze in the pages of equations like conspirators. "Brother" sank to the bed and sat on the opposite corner to where I was. Everything was like then, except for a couple of moments: there was a lack of glass-ramming rain, garlands light, and a porn movie on a laptop screen. I unwittingly cringed. Heavy was looking right at me. No. The green eyes looked directly into the soul. I felt a prick of shame, but for some reason I couldn't look away. And we just stared at each other for almost a minute, never speaking — probably each of us was looking for answers in the pupils. I couldn't make up an explanation for his action and thought I didn't want to. It seemed like some great, incomprehensible mystery that I didn't need to know at all. I can't live with it if I find out THIS. The old aggression, hatred, disgust still filled my being, but the situation was not the same now. Deciding to talk, I stepped on the thin ice, on which I intended to dance rather than just walk. I had no room for error and no right to be emotional. It was a piece of jewelry that not only my life depended on the quality, but also the life of Heavy, my parents. What happened must remain in this room forever, never leaving its limits.
— Let's start, perhaps, from afar, — I took a deep breath. — What happened, dare I say it, is called...
— Dee, I'm not stupid! — Heavy put his hand to his forehead, his eyes closed. - You don't have to say or explain to me what it's called.
— If you know what it is and why it's reviled, then... Why did you do it?
— Wait, wait, — he chuckled, waved his hands in my face. — I didn't do it, we did. Why is it just you who asks questions? I might have them too!
— I'm not the one who wanted to watch fucking gay porn in front of my brother, who I then jumped on, you fucking pervert! — I replied in a whisper through my teeth, jumping up to him and grabbing his T-shirt sleeve, intending to punch him in the back of the head.
— I hear it from a fucking pervert! If you didn't want to watch THIS with me, you'd deny it to the last. Yeah, maybe my idea was really stupid. But you agreed nonetheless, Heavy grabbed me on my forearm, which I used to cling to, tightening my grip.
— I agreed out of the goodness of my heart, idiot. I believed until the last moment that you were being silly and it was all just your next moronic joke.
— Or maybe I was fooling around the moment I did it? Maybe I didn't really want to do it? Maybe I wanted to scare you so we could have a laugh together later? You went beyond the joke when you did THIS! And I was just confused.
— Are you fucked up? — I was losing my temper. I started shaking with anger, and I squeezed his sleeve even harder in my knuckles. My free hand itched with the desire to hit "brother". He was probably definitely laughing at me and wasn't going to talk about anything. — Do you even realize the problem? Heavy, this isn't a fucking joke. You can't do that! We're fucking brothers, — without realizing it, I'd move little by little into half-crying. — I could turn a blind eye to where it all started, it'd be an innocent silly prank. But what happened after the 'innocent prank'... If the parents find out, then...
— What should we find out?
I could always find out by steps who was coming. My mother, for example, did not hesitate to step on a creaky step; she climbed the stairs loudly and quickly. Heavy would jump the steps one or two at a time, and if he was in a hurry, he would always trip and get bruises. My father was a 'ghost'. His footsteps were barely perceptible to the ear — it was like he was floating in the air, without needing any ladder. He was never in sight at times like now, but he was always nearby.
— Heavy threw yeast in the school bathroom for a joke. He just said it himself!
— Wha?...
— Don't make excuses! — my hand pressed tightly against his lips. What an abomination. I prayed that it would dawn on Heavy's empty head that I was saving our family from imminent disintegration by telling my father a lie. A second later, his face depicted a grimace of indignation.
Father called "brother" to his office. I even felt a little sorry for Heavy, because now he'll have to prove that what "him" said was not true. Most likely, his father will let him go with God only after calling the homeroom teacher. By and large, the conversation never took place.
I spent the whole day in a fog. There was a kind of emptiness in my head, my gaze was directed as if through. I walked to the store, read a book, took a nap, scrolled through the social media feed... I watched for about five minutes through the window, as older ladies like to do, thus replacing CCTV cameras. I was in an unclear expectation of something. And in fact, I was aware of what that 'something' was. But it was not clear if it was 'worth anything'. What should I say? About what? How do we solve the problem now? Remove the skin of your lips, pour antiseptic on the affected area, and go to confession in church, light candles (rectal, just to be sure, with the words: "From a dick of the "brother" in the ass". Desirable blessed by Holy father)
I was about to go to bed when there was a knock on the door. The red top of head looked out awkwardly from behind the door.
— Come inside.
He sat down, as he had done all the previous times, on the corner of the bed when I was seated at the table on a chair. He fingered and stared at the floor, seemingly trying to find the words. I could feel the tension in the room rising to titanic proportions. Remembering that I am more responsible as a senior, words came to mind.
— Okay. Listen, we've made a joke and that's enough. I read on the Internet that this sometimes happens to siblings as children. Even though we can hardly be called children, let's say we just find ourselves in a similar situation, and everything that happened was, of course, a mistake, but not a fatal one. Things will definitely get better and be fine. Let's make a deal that you won't make jokes like that again, okay?
— Deal.
I forced myself to squeeze out a smile to somehow dispel the awkwardness. Heavy also gave me a weak smile. As soon as the door slammed behind him, I shuddered. I still found it frustrating - that's an understatement.
«You can't go back in time, but I'll remember it all the time» — my brain gave away a line of the poem as soon as my musculus gluteus maximus sank to the soft mattress. I didn't want to remember. The thought of living with the memory of that ill-fated evening destroyed me. The image of Heavy will keep me coming back here every time—to my room, filled with moans from and beyond the laptop speaker. Even when I'm an adult, move out of this unfortunate city, and stop seeing "brother", the memories of him and the fact that we have more than just kinship will haunt me. If hell exists, we'll burn together in it. In one cauldron. What if I really should visit the church? Although, honestly, after such a fall, Heavy and I should have been sent to a monastery in the first place! But on the condition that they're different, because otherwise I'd have committed another sin - I hanged myself.
With that in mind, I closed my eyes. I didn't dream all night. Who knows, it might be for the best: the devil knows what would have happened to me based on recent events.
In the first days after the accident, I believed that I would not be able to recover from the trauma; that my life would henceforth be as torture as those to which sinners are subjected in the underworld. However, I have to say, I actually started to let go of the situation little by little, to forget which was a miracle. I didn't want to jump off the roof every time I got out at night "get some fresh air". I no longer thought about how nice it would be to wash my body with sandpaper instead of a washcloth, or to wipe my lips with a bleach solution until they bled. Life was really getting easier! I was even able to get myself a girlfriend. We've known each other before, but we've never been this close before. Increasingly, I was able to pull myself together and go for a walk or hangout. And I've started smoking a lot less.
Heavy, fortunately, has also begun to forget. He was often away from home, spending most of his time on the horizontal bars or with Ches. Although maybe "brother" has a crush too. But I wasn't at all interested in that. I haven't spoken to him. I'm not referring to the basic conversations that needed to be started and maintained so that parents wouldn't think about anything. I mean, we no longer went for walks occasionally, as we used to; we no longer watched any movies; I no longer helped him with his homework; we stopped getting to school and home together. He never came into my room again, and I didn't stay in his. He stopped texting me to bring him toilet paper to the outhouse. I stopped texting him to tell him if his parents were home. More importantly, we stopped arguing and yelling at each other like we used to.
Parents seem only happy that my "brother" and I had an end to our endless exchanges, and thought, I guess, that we had "grown out of it". Earlier, I thought my father would notice something was wrong before the situation stabilized. However, nothing was happening that made him wary. I was fully prepared, and I even came up with several versions of why Heavy and I were acting a bit strange.
Our friendship is sunk into oblivion. And that was normal. There was no need to rush because we were each other's family - there was plenty of time. Isn't it?
Two months passed like that.