Dead Clown Barbecue (17 page)

I had to help him go to the bathroom. Pull down my own brother's pants and ease him onto that stupid toilet contraption. You want to know my minimum standard for quality of life? Being able to take a dump by myself. Anything less than that, pull the goddamn plug. I refused to wipe his ass, and I doubt he even noticed.

Two years of this.

Two years. Every single day, having to watch my brother's non-existence. And my own existence wasn't that much better. Mom, Dad, they didn't complain much, at least not to me, but it had to be killing them to be trapped in this life. They were supposed to be
done
spoon-feeding kids. They were supposed to be going on vacations and enjoying having their home to themselves and doing the things that people do when they don't have a crippled son sucking away all of their energy.

Would my parents be sad if Danny died? Outwardly, yes. They'd cry and give each other mournful hugs and ask God why He would allow their son to perish . . . but deep inside, they'd know God's answer:
Quit bitching. I did you a favor
.

A few weeks of tears, and then everybody would be better off. Including Danny.

Especially Danny.

I'd waited two years for my brother to die on his own, and if I didn't do something, he could outlive us all. Once a year some nurse might wheel him out to the cemetery and he'd sit for a couple of minutes, not even realizing our tombstones were there.

Guilt? My life was nothing
but
guilt. Murdering Danny might make me an awful human being, but at least I'd be an awful human being who didn't have to stare at the ruined person he'd created every night. At least I wouldn't have to endlessly relive two goddamn seconds of distraction.

I wouldn't make it hurt. Hell, I could probably take out an electric carving knife and slice him up like bread and it wouldn't even tickle. But I wouldn't do it that way. I wouldn't slit his throat or bash his head or zap his wheelchair with a live wire. I'd keep it simple: suffocation. Pillow to the face. Over in three minutes.

Though I'd considered the idea of killing him a million times, once I made the decision to actually do it, I knew it had to be that night. It was sort of like that big public speaking engagement you're dreading, and you just want it to be over so you can stop worrying about it.

Around 9:30 on Saturday night, I helped Mom get Danny into bed. We watched television for another hour or so. Then she and Dad went to bed, and I waited. I heard the soft sounds of them making love — not a treat for my ears, I assure you.

I sat there until midnight, when the house was totally still.

I slowly walked into Danny's room. I could see him lying on his back in the center of the bed, exactly where we'd left him. It was too dark to tell if his eyes were closed.

His bed had two pillows, not that he had any need for the second one. I walked to the headboard and carefully picked up the unused pillow with both hands.

Danny's eyes were open.

Whether they'd been open all along or if I'd awakened him, I didn't know. I wasn't sure if they were focused on me or not.

I clenched the pillow tightly in my fists, trying to summon up all of my hatred. He'd ruined my life. Ruined the lives of everybody in my family. It wasn't his fault, it was my fault, but if I were in his position I'd have the courtesy to spare everybody else the excruciating suffering and just
die
.

I wasn't a murderer. I was doing something that needed to be done. Taking a human life wasn't usually a win-win situation, yet in this case I truly felt that everybody would be better off three minutes from now.

Danny was looking at me.

That is, his eyes were pointed in my direction. He wasn't
looking
at anything. The sight of your brother standing over your bed with a pillow aimed at your face would seem to indicate that something unorthodox was about to happen to you, but he showed no fear. No understanding. No opinion on the whole smothering matter one way or the other.

I still silently begged him to close his eyes.

I took a deep breath, squeezed my own eyes shut, and smashed the pillow into his face, pushing down on it as hard as I possibly could. I held it there for ten seconds. Eleven. Twelve.

His arm brushed against my side.

It was just a small twitch, but I still let out a startled yelp and quickly pulled the pillow away from his face.

Shit! What if my parents had heard me?

I stood there, hands trembling, listening for any sounds to indicate that I'd disturbed somebody.

No floorboards creaked. Nobody called out to ask if I was okay.

I slid the pillow across my face to wipe away the panic sweat. My waist had been right next to his arm when I leaned over him, so it may not have even been a conscious movement on Danny's part, but it still scared the crap out of me. I breathed in and out, slowly, trying to regain my composure.

I didn't want to look back at my brother.

I had to, of course. And when I did, he was still lying there in the same position, eyes open, looking in my direction.

Looking
at
me this time.

I hurried out of the room, not even caring if my footsteps woke up Mom or Dad. It wasn't like Danny could tell them what I'd tried to do. I just had to get the hell out of there, immediately.

I went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed some cold water on my face. It helped a little, though my hands were still shaking. Though I felt like I was going to burst into tears, at least I didn't feel like I was going to scream.

After shutting off the water, I stood there for a few minutes, staring at myself in the mirror. I didn't look any different. Didn't look like somebody who would try to kill his brother. I looked pale and freaked out, yes, but not like an attempted murderer.

I went to bed. Tossed and turned for a couple of hours before I finally fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep. I woke up and just lay there, wondering if it hurt to be suffocated. Drowning was supposedly a truly horrible way to die, so did smothering fall into the same category? It was probably worse than simply having your throat cut.

"Good morning, sleepy boy!" said my mom as I padded out of my bedroom, feeling groggy and more than a little queasy. "You must've been really tired!"

I nodded and wandered into the kitchen, not even really caring what time it was. I poured myself a bowl of cereal, returned to the living room, and sat down on the couch to eat it. I didn't want company, but I didn't want my mom to suspect that anything was wrong.

"Are you feeling okay?" she asked.

I shrugged, suddenly feeling that if I spoke, the tears would start flowing. I took a small bite of cereal. The milk tasted sour, and I forced myself to choke it down.

"I thought I might run some errands today," Mom said. "Are you okay to stay with Danny?"

"Sure." I took another bite of cereal, trying not to grimace at the foul taste.

"Thanks. I'll try not to be home too late, but it could be a few hours."

I nodded. I glanced over at Danny, who was sitting in his wheelchair, looking at me. There was no expression on his face, but his blank stare shouldn't have been fixed on me. He should've been watching TV. Or staring at the fucking wall. Or looking anywhere else but at me.

My mom got up from her recliner, walked over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Then she grimaced. "What's that smell?" She took the bowl of cereal from me and sniffed it. "The milk is bad, honey. Couldn't you tell?"

"I didn't notice."

"That's disgusting. Pour it out and fix yourself something else."

I returned to the kitchen and poured my breakfast into the sink. I didn't want anything else, so I rinsed out my bowl and returned to my spot on the couch just as Mom gave Danny a kiss.

"See you both in a bit," she said.

I watched television for a few minutes, trying to absorb myself in the lame-ass cartoon but having no luck. I knew my brother was staring at me. He had to be.

I turned to look at him. He was indeed staring at me.

"What do you want?" I asked.

Did he know what I'd done? Had he even been awake? Did Danny understand that I'd tried to kill him last night, or was something like that outside of his ability to comprehend?

If he didn't know what I'd done, why was he still looking at me?

I pointed at the television. "Watch it. It's your favorite show." It wasn't, at least not before the accident, but he didn't know that.

He didn't move.

I picked the remote control up off the coffee table and switched stations to see if he'd react. He didn't. He just kept staring at me.

"Watch TV," I said. "Stop being an asshole."

I was always uncomfortable talking to him when it was only the two of us. Trying to have a conversation with somebody who had no visible response to your words seemed like a sign of mental illness.

I got up from the couch and walked over to Mom's recliner on the other side of the living room. Very slowly, Danny's head moved toward me.

"Stop it," I said. "I mean it."

He continued giving me that blank stare.

Fine. He could do whatever he wanted. I didn't have to sit in his line of vision. I got up, went to my bedroom, and slammed the door shut.

Calm down. It's not like he can tell anybody. All he can do is stare at you. Big fucking deal. What are Mom and Dad going to say? "Oh, my, Danny won't stop staring at you! You must have tried to smother him with a pillow in the middle of the night!"

I wondered what Danny was thinking. Was it driving him insane not to be able to tell anybody about me? Was he desperately trying to figure out some way to communicate the truth about his brother? Or was he silently begging me to actually finish the job this time?

I didn't know. And I hated him for it.

And why the hell was I going to let a quadriplegic keep me in my bedroom? He'd stolen away enough of my freedom as it was; I sure wasn't going to let him control where I went in the house. I wanted to watch some TV. If he thought he was going to stare at me all day, I'd just turn his ass around to face the wall.

I left my bedroom and returned to the living room. He watched me as I sat down on the couch. I gave him the finger and turned up the television's volume, even though Danny wasn't making any noise to distract me.

Then I shut it off.

"You would've done the same thing," I told him. "If I'd been hurt like that, you would have done the exact same thing. And I would've wanted you to do it, so you could go on with your life. I never would have wanted to put you, or Mom, or Dad, or anybody else through this."

There was a thin line of drool dangling from the left side of his mouth. I was justifying myself to a drooling vegetable. Jesus Christ.

"I could have killed you, and I didn't. It would have taken nothing at all. Another minute with the pillow and you'd be gone, and I'd be able to breathe again. So you're just lucky I spared you. I didn't have to. You could be dead right now."

Still no reaction, not that there ever would be.

I walked to the other side of the room, to see if he'd continue to follow me with his idiotic stare. He did, slowly. I snickered at the idea of quickly walking back and forth across the room, faster than his gaze could follow, but then I felt guilty about even thinking it and sat back down.

"C'mon, Danny. We're brothers. It shouldn't be like this. Don't hate me. I was doing it for you. I know you wouldn't want to be trapped in that body. We should have had a living will, but we never thought this kind of thing would happen, not to us, and I'm sorry I did this to you, okay? I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention. I'm just trying to make it all better."

Though my voice cracked, I didn't feel like crying. I wanted to bash his face in. Punch him so hard that his wheelchair fell over.

How dare he make me feel like this?

"Nobody's home," I said. "I could end it right now. How would that feel? That would make you stop staring at me, wouldn't it? You want me to go get the pillow? I'll get that fucking pillow right now and suffocate you in your goddamn wheelchair.
Quit looking at me
!"

He was enjoying this. My own brother was enjoying the torment. Oh, he was having himself a grand old time. He'd been powerless for two years, but now he could make me sweat. Turn me into a complete nervous wreck. Just by looking at me, he could put me through hell.

I wanted him dead.

I wanted to rip his barely functioning head right off.

"
Quit looking at me, Danny! Please
!"

He wouldn't enjoy this for long. I pushed Danny in his wheelchair into the kitchen. I quickly opened one of the drawers and took out the biggest knife I could find, the one Mom used to cut pork ribs.

"You think I won't use this? You think I won't cut you? I'll slit your throat and watch you bleed all over the floor. Want me to gouge your eyes out? Huh? I bet your vegetable body would respond to
that
, don't you think? How about I let you live and just take your eyes?" I jabbed the knife in his direction, twice. "Pop, pop, and we're done! I'll tell Mom and Dad some crows flew in and pecked them out!"

Danny was still enjoying it. He knew I was faking. He knew I wouldn't really kill him.

But even I didn't know that for sure.

"I'll do it. I don't even care if I go to jail. Jail would be a hell of a lot better than here, I know that much. Turn your eyes and I won't do it. Look at something else. That's all I want. Look at something else."

His eyes remained fixed upon me.

"I swear to God I'll do it," I told him. "I'll do it. I'm not going to live with the guilt anymore. I'm not going to let you do this to me. You should have died in the car accident. We both should have died. I'm not going to let you hurt anybody else. You hear me? I'm going to stop you."

I heard the patter of some drops of liquid hitting the tile. I hadn't even realized that I was clutching the knife by the blade, and it had cut deep into my palm. I didn't care. I clutched it tighter, and a thin trickle of blood ran down my arm.