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Twins in Death: Chapter Eight – Part Six

Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay


Chapter Eight: Concerning Birds and Clones

July 30th, 1878
2:25 p.m.


 “So is it always a flower you pick?” The Weirdo asked.

 “What ever happens to catch my eye.” The samurai said.

 “But usually a flower?”

 “Usually.” He agreed.

 “Okay.” The Weirdo said leaning back against the stone where they had made camp for the night.

 “There has got to be something else.” The samurai said. “I can’t keep wandering like this.”

 “You could try farming.” The Weirdo suggested.

 “No I couldn’t.” He said.

 “No, I didn’t think so.” The Weirdo said.

 “Sometimes I wonder what use the gods have for us. To have made us, and then let our usefulness die away like this.”

 “You sure it’s all gone?”

 “Our day has passed.” The samurai said. “Now we are either noble children who have never touched a sword or ragged wanderers like me.

 “You’re not so ragged.” The Weirdo said. “For a deadbeat.”

 They both had a good laugh at that, they laughed for a while at that in fact.

 

October 25th, 2002
1:35 p.m.

 The Weirdo came home, feeling beaten and battered in a daze of floating sounds. The front door opened and he stepped inside, feeling like he was moving through a wall of soft cotton. He took his coat off, sliding his arms out of each sleeve. He reflected, as he hung his hat on the hook, how much like armor it was. He took a hanger from the closet and put the coat on it. He hung the coat up in the closet, placing the hook on the rail carefully. He ran his fingers down the coat, and looked at it thinking about armor. He closed the door of the closet and walked away from it.

 As he walked by one of the studies, Judy watched him go by, her blue eyes tracking his pained movements. She got up and watched as he slowly began to walk through the house. He looked like a machine that needed to be oiled and have most of the screws tightened. He heard her following him and turned to look at her, his face tired and haggard. His face looked like someone else had had a rather bad time with it before giving it to him so he could have a bad time. His eyes seemed to not want to stay open, and he looked like every moment was weariness.

 “You don’t look too happy.” Judy said.

 “No,” He said, shaking his head gently.
 
 “Tell me about it?” She sat down in a chair, and looked up at him.

 She brushed a lock of her golden red hair back, and looked up at him. She had learned how to look attractive and make men look at her in the last five thousand years. She looked up at him and batted her eyes, breathing in a deeply throaty way. Her eyes widened ever so slightly when she did open them and her lips pursing just so.

 The Weirdo felt far too exhausted to argue with her, and too tired to take the hint she was trying to extend. He sat down and told her what had happened in the last few hours, as much as he thought she could bear. She listened with rapt attention, paying attention to not only the words but also the grand meaning behind his words. His words said a lot, but so did the rest of him.

 “So what are you going to do?” she asked finally

 “I’m not sure yet.” He said. “Maybe I’ll figure out where he’s hiding and hunt him down or something. Or maybe I’ll wait for him to come to me.”

 “Shouldn’t you find him? I mean if he’s a killer.”

 “Yeah,” He said nodding, “But for now I’m going to go to my room for a bit.”

 “You’ll be alright, won’t you?”

 “Yeah.” He said touching her hand. “Don’t worry, I’m always alright.”

 He walked up the stairs, his feet pushing him up further and further. It was like the walk to heaven when he was tired, the constant pressing upwards of the stairs. He looked up the stairwell and kept at it, unable to stop. He hadn’t realized how tired he was till he had begun to climb the stairs. They seemed to go on forever and ever. He came to his room, opening the heavy oak door.

 He looked at the bare floor of his room and came towards his bed. He suddenly couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. He was parking the car, and then he was up here. He knew he must have gone through the rest of the house, but some switch had closed that part of the world off from him. He touched the bed, trying not to think about it. It was a large bed with a huge canopy and heavy velvet curtains and also thinner silk curtains. The bed was covered with thick velvet and silk blankets, stuffed with down and wool. The bedclothes themselves were actually cotton flannel, soft and warm and comforting. He hated the cold feel of linen, had long preferred a warm bed to a cold one.

 The Weirdo lay down on the bed, and flipped off his running shoes. The world was spinning around him, and he tried to hold on for just long enough. He didn’t need the world to be stable for long, but he needed it to be stable for a while. He peeled off his shirt as thoughts bounce from one part of his mind to the other. Another person’s untimely death zipped past almost without him noticing, the face zipped past without recognition. Random ideas kicking up and down in his brain.  He looked up at the canopy for a moment and thought about life the universe and everything. He mused to himself and finally rolled over, drawing the thick velvet blanket up. 

 “Forty-two my ass.” He said. “It’s obvious the answer is forty-three.”

 He lay there for a long time, but sleep wouldn’t come. The world kept spinning around him. He stared open eyed into the room, his body unwilling to move any more. His mind wouldn’t stop working, no matter how much he wanted it to. He now had the time for his mind to unroll the deaths and displeasures before him. This time it was a particularly bad argument he’d had with someone when he was five years old. The events themselves were unimportant, as he knew for a fact the person he’d argued with that day was dead but the argument still galled him. He had been right, but they had said he was wrong and got everyone to agree with them. He hadn’t had the facts right in front of him so he was called the liar. It still made him angry to think about that long ago argument, and he wanted to sit up at that point.

 He pushed the blanket and felt his hand shudder under the strain. His mind wasn’t ready to go to sleep but the body had been all for the idea. He managed to push himself up though and walked to the desk, thinking about the long ago argument. It had been a stupid argument, but it still made him angry. The point was he had been right, and the other person had been wrong.

 He looked out the window as he sat down at the desk, his body wanting to give up at that point. He was moving his body not so much through the willingness of his limbs as the force of his mind. He felt every string and fiber of his muscles complain with each tiny movement. His body was lodging some serious complaints, but the mind wouldn’t listen. The mind was still angry about an argument that had gone by so long ago that few would credit the fact that it still bothered him.

 He should have gotten over it a long time ago, but it was unfinished business. He didn’t like unfinished business it gnawed at him. There had to be a way to put this open file on the desk of his mind into the closed cabinet. He knew he couldn’t, the people who he had the argument with were long dead. He turned on the computer monitor and opened a web browser. He ran a quick search and looked at a bit of data online. It at least confirmed he was right, if the argument ever came up again he would know where to find the answer. He looked at his bed and stood up, muscles sang out warnings now, not just complaints. They would soon collapse and would be unable to continue. He managed to walk to the bed though and lay himself back down.

 “Anyway.” He muttered to himself as he lay down and drew up the blanket. “Jupiter does have a few rings.”


© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

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June 9, 2013 - Posted by | Fiction | ,

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