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Twins in Death: Chapter Two – Part One

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay



Chapter Two: Love Lost



March 27th, 2002

9:24 a.m.


            The Weirdo was happy, there was really no other way to describe his mood, at least no way that wouldn’t spoil the perfection of the moment. The moment had that kind of simplistic perfection that was like making a single perfect brush stroke. You couldn’t and shouldn’t add to it, for that would ruin it. If one tried poetry the words would fall flat and ultimately destroy the simplicity of the moment. There are times when heavy handed words should be pushed aside and the most flowing verses should be told to go flow somewhere else.


            There was no other way possible to explain The Weirdo’s state at that moment, he was simply happy. His eyes opened as the late March sun shone into his room, Shannon’s head on his shoulder. There was hardly any weight to her and what weight that was there was the confidence building sort of weight. It was a weight that told him he wasn’t in a dream; he was in a stark reality. It was a weight he could believe in and belief in her was all he’d ever need. He smelled her hair and felt her warmth against him. He held her tight, squeezing her.



March 27th, 2002

9:25 a.m.


            He was dressed in gray, and stood outside, watching the man with the machine gun. He thought, for a fleeting moment about leaving, but he had to be here, it was part of the narrative that he was entwined in. He could feel his insides gathering up, tightening. He knew what was to come, and it broke his heart to even consider the idea. However, he had a part to play, and he would play it. He watched as the other man checked the breach on the small sub-machine gun. He looked at the piece of jewelry in his hand, and considered again what he was about to do. He wondered if perhaps he hadn’t gone too far.


            There was no time to think about that now though. He had a job to do, a part to play. This wicked playlet would unravel itself, as it had to. He could almost hear the gun clinking against the extra clip of ammunition. He knew that the story was moving unrelentingly forward now. He would play his part as the directors had planed for him to do. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, and began to move to his position.



March 27th, 2002

9:26 a.m.


            “Morning.” She said, a smile on her face.


            “Morning.” He said.


            “How did you sleep?”


            “Well.” He said. “I actually slept well.”


            It was then that the question he had been tossing back and forth in his mind came to him again. He hadn’t been stalling on this question because he was afraid of the answer, because he knew the answer. If anything he was worried about the effect asking this question could have on him. The existence of the question and her observation of it could change both himself and the question.


            He could feel two paths open before him, like waveforms of probability. On one hand he could ask this question, lay down his arms and walk into the glorious sunlight. The other path was much darker, lonelier, and would eventually lead to his ruin. Either was possible, indeed many were possible, but these were probable. He postulated the probability matrix in his head because he was a very odd person and he felt like doing it. He could make his way down either path, but he preferred the one of light. He began to walk towards the lighted path.






            “Would you like to get married?”


            “What?” She propped herself up on one arm, exposing a breast.


            “I mean it. Do you wanna get married?”




            “Good,” He said, “That’s settled then.”


            He fell onto his back and proceeded to stare at the ceiling with his hands crossed humming an old harvest tune from the 15th century. At least it was a song they sang during the harvest of 1432. He didn’t move, simply stared at the ceiling and looked at the ceiling and hummed his tune. It was a happy tune and about eighty percent of the words were double entendre, which he liked. There was something about singing a song and having people wonder, when you say lets thrash the wheat, what you mean by that. She looked at him, and looked at his crossed hands. She knew his little game; he was doing this so that she’d ask him why he was doing it. She’d ask why he was doing it and he’d respond that he was doing it to see how long it would take her to ask him what the hell he was doing. It was one of the things he did to be obnoxiously cute.


            However, Shannon was not going to play his little game today. After all it was she who had the shocker, and it she who was going to get to see the look on his face. She was going to win point match and set. For now though, she was going to defeat his little game, by not playing. It was the best way to win against him anyway. The best way to win was to change the game.


            “You want breakfast?” She asked.


            He thought about this for a moment, trying to see if he could get her to play but figured that in an instance like this he should cut his losses. He considered carefully because even though his manhood could easily survive the loss, it didn’t mean he necessarily wanted her to know that. He thought about this as he did about everything, he was a carefully thought out person. He was also thinking about what to have for dinner and would he shoot a bull elephant if he was being charged by one. It might seem odd to consider such a thing but The Weirdo thought about everything in advance, just in case the situation ever came up. He decided that he would simply try to find cover in the case of the bull elephant, after carefully considering the options that he could see before him.


            What he was considering even more was that Shannon was still leaning over him, her blue eyes piercing into his mind, looking for the nugget that was thinking about her. There was always a bit of his mind considering her, as it was impossible for any one thing to hold his attention, and that part was considering the idea of her naked covered with maple syrup. This was a silly and sticky thing to consider, but he was enjoying the image. It was one he thought he might try to arrange at breakfast if no one else was awake. He wondered what her reaction would be if he tossed her up on the counter and began to pour the syrup on her while lifting her nightgown. The idea he finally came to was this, he should stop acting silly and just get on with his life. This would include answering her question, which meant he would loose this round, and have to admit his adversary a clever one, but what the hell. If you going to loose to someone, it might as well be the best.


            “Yeah.” He said.


            “You wait here then, I’ll go make some.” She stood from the bed, dressing barely in a silk dressing gown.


            “I love you.” He said.


            “I know.” She said smiling; she walked out of the room and began down the stairs. “I’ve got a surprise for you, something very important to tell you about.”


            She floated out of the room like a leaf on the breeze, at least the way a leaf would if it had hips like hers. His heart ached as he watched her walk away from him. Actually, yes it did. It may sound silly to us but he did actually experience a momentary ache in his chest while watching her leave. This is because, as I stated earlier, he was happy. The Weirdo was also in love and love is something that is difficult to discuss on any rational level. Any discussion in which love, real love, enters into becomes very embarrassing, sickening, and uncomfortable for anyone who is not directly part of the love that is being pontificated. There is no other way to put this really. We all know what love is like but when we are not part of that love we all tend to have the same thought i.e. “Is that what I look like when I’m that in love?”


            Besides, all that could be said about the greater points of love has been said on a thousand pop records. The great poetry of love, that was once so important that it seemed that was all anyone sang about, has been sung about so often by so many prepubescent idiots who don’t know the first thing about it that to speak of it has become trite. It has reached the point where to speak of the most important subject makes it the least important subject and an embarrassment to all.


            So since we already know how embarrassing the pontification of love can be and we already understand that The Weirdo and Shannon were very much in love perhaps we should move on. In fact perhaps we should make some attempt to stick to the facts, the true events, and go no further into the perhaps or those sticky subjects than we must. Feelings, emotions and syrup will be discussed later but for now perhaps we should simply let the moment lie.


            The Weirdo was getting up, about to follow her down the stairs, when he caught sight of a figure on the balcony. He stopped cold and looked at the shadow of the figure that was cast on the floor. Usually The Weirdo could sense the approach of anyone, and he wasn’t the sort of person to not observe someone’s approach. He began to stretch his legs to the floor, thinking of how many steps it was to the nearest weapon, and realizing he’d probably just grab the side chair that sat next to the balcony’s door if nothing else. He stood and looked at the figure, watching it with the careful movement of a hunting tiger. The figure didn’t seem to move at all, just stood where it was.


            He walked toward the balcony slowly, making a detour towards the desk instead of directly towards the doors. He reached towards the desk, picking up a pocketknife from the desk where he had carelessly tossed it preceding night. His hand reached out and he noticed for a moment how his fingers looked against the gauze curtain that fluttered ever so gently in the wind. He took hold of them, feeling the smooth soft texture of these particular curtains, which he had chosen for their softness rather than durability. The Weirdo was not someone who could put up with synthetic or particularly rough fabrics.


            The figure was looking at the ground, when the curtain was tugged away, his eyes lifted and the two men locked gazes. The Weirdo’s eyes fix on the sad gray eyes of his visitor, the eyes looked as though they may begin to cry at any moment. They were not gray as in a very light blue, but gray as in the color of a battle ship or the clouds on the prairies of North Dakota. They were the lack of color, or of joy. There was something profoundly sad about the color of those eyes.


            His hair was also gray, not white nor silver but a dull gray. His entire outfit was also gray. Not one single shade that made him look like some sort of computer villain  from a late 80’s TV show but rather a colorless panorama of shades, ranging from one shade of gray to another. The colors ranged from a gray blue to a charcoal near black. It was as if some great stress had taken the pigment from not only his hair but also his eyes and clothes. It was like they had turned the color down on a television screen, yet his face and hands still had their flesh tones. There was certainly the sadness enough to suggest that, such a profound sadness.


            “Good morning.” The gray man looked at The Weirdo as they came face to face.


            “You again?” The Weirdo asked. They had met on a few occasions, but this time The Weirdo could feel a difference.


            The man’s gray eyes had a particular sorrow in them. His gray hair was disheveled and his gray clothes looked as though he had slept in them. He wasn’t as well pressed as usual and looked as if he’d had a bad night, not as if he’d slept in a gutter, but simply he’d tried to sleep in his clothes and failed several times. The sleeping had obviously not gone well because along with the sadness was an incredible exhaustion.


            “You lost this.” The gray man said extending his hand, a small diamond broach in it.


            The stones, in their invisible style settings, were like teardrops that had been collected in his hand, shinning and shimmering as his hand moved. The stones glistened like tears plucked from a young child and frozen in time. A million years of pressure and a volcano’s fire had turned the coal into the sparkling crystals before him.


            “I don’t recognize it.” The Weirdo


            “It belonged to your mother.” The Gray man said. “You should have it.”


            “Ah.” The Weirdo said.


            There was a moment when The Weirdo thought if he reached for it something horrific might happen. It was a sort of precognition, but not like he usually had. This crawled like a worm under his skin, wriggling as it moved through his body. If he reached his hand out towards it the crawling feeling grew, and his stomach tightened. He could feel something emanating from the thing. It was as if there was something evil within the broach.


            There was an unaccountable feeling of dread attached to the broach, like a memory he couldn’t quite get at, or a memory of something yet to happen. He could only think that there was a terrible event attached to the thing. Grandma had put the idea in his head. He couldn’t stop his hand from reaching though. Grandma commanded him and she wouldn’t take any excuses. The Gray Man looked at The Weirdo’s hand as it reached slowly out for the thing. It seemed to be taking him forever to take the broach, but it was time well spent.


© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions



May 13, 2012 - Posted by | Fiction | , ,

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