by Keith Knapp
Ah, that’s what Jimmy had told him to do.
* * *
Now Brett was fifteen and in the tiny bathroom of his parent’s apartment. Although it wasn’t his parent’s apartment anymore, was it? No, it was his and Jimmy’s. Mom was dead and dad had high-tailed it out of California. Later today they’d be moving into foster care, but Jimmy had a plan for that: they’d instead be moving to a cheap motel a few blocks away. And Brett, although a little slow in the noodle sometimes, knew what a burden he’d be on Jimmy. But he had no idea that what he was about to do, if successful, would create a burden for Jimmy so great he’d never be able to carry it at all.
Hot water ran into the sink and a cloud of steam rose from the basin. Brett squeaked away a clean spot in the mirror and looked at himself. Worn, beady eyes looked back. He didn’t look as frightened as he felt. He looked tired, haggard—but not scared. The water flowed down the drain, through the pipes and down to the lower floors. The stream-like sound gave life to the otherwise empty apartment.
Two plastic prescription bottles, both Brett’s, sat on the side of the basin. One to help him sleep and the other something his mother said would “keep the demons at bay.” But mom had gone the way of the dodo and the demons were still there. Dr. Stone had called these demons night terrors. Brett thought there must be a bigger word for what he felt inside, a more adult word, but he didn’t know it. Night terrors worked, though. Except it was really only one terror. Only one demon.
He had told Jimmy about Other Brett. His brother was the only person on the planet he felt comfortable enough with to let that particular cat out of the bag. Not Dr. Stone, not Rachel, and certainly not his mother. Brett had pleaded with Jimmy to keep Other Brett a secret, and as far as he knew he had. Of course Rachel had eventually found out; Rachel, like Jimmy, was family. Jimmy thought it’d be best if Rachel was in on it to help with the burden. If his brother thought it was a good idea, then it probably was.
The simple trick of yelling at that phantom in his mind, of shoving Other Brett against the wall and yelling “GO AWAY NOW!” usually worked. Sure, Other Brett would always pop up again sooner or later, but all he had to do was simply use Jimmy’s patented trick again, and soon enough Other Brett went back to wherever it was he lived.
It had been three hours since the funeral. Dear Old Dad hadn’t shown up, and not only were both Brett and Jimmy not counting on it (really, did they want that abandoning asshole at their mother’s funeral?), they were kinda relieved. For all they knew the old man was dead himself, away with the dodos and mom, and that was just fine with them.
After all, Brett still had Jimmy. And Jimmy had Rachel, which meant that Brett had Rachel. They had their own little family going. Jimmy was picking up the pieces just fine.
The pronunciation of the pills eluded him—hell, he could hardly remember to take the pills every day—but they were just as much a part of him as the hair on his head or the skin on his arms. The pills had been with him since he was seven. Eight years on those medications and what did he have to show for it? He still had to go to therapy twice a week, although Jimmy said there were only two more visits left on their insurance. He still had to have Jimmy help him remember things like tying his shoes and brushing his teeth. He was fifteen, for Christ’s sake. His brother kept telling him he wasn’t retarded, and mom had said the same, but wouldn’t that be just the thing you told your retarded brother or son? Brett thought so. He wondered if retarded people knew they were mentally handicapped.
Tentatively he grabbed the first bottle, the one to help him sleep. Something called Trazadone, according to the label. There was a good supply left, maybe two weeks worth, about twenty “poppers” as Jimmy called them. They all popped into Brett’s mouth with one scoop. He quickly filled a glass with water and washed them down. Twenty of these things may not be enough, but he figured with the combination of pills from the other bottle there was the good chance he’d be able to get the job done.
The second bottle contained Prozac. He twisted the lid off and tossed the remaining thirty or so pills into his mouth. They were larger than the Trazadone and it took two gulps of water to finally get them down, but down they went.
Carefully, Brett placed the glass onto the basin. He closed the cover to the toilet and sat on it.
And waited.
Two bath towels hung on the wall across from him—one Jimmy’s, one his. This week Jimmy had the Chicago Bears logo. Brett’s showcased the forever-static golden face of C-3PO.
Too many times his brother had gotten Brett’s nose out of the fryer. Like the time when Gerald Kendall had been two fists away from punching Brett’s clock (for no reason other than Gerald was Brett’s mortal enemy, his Darth Vader as it were) and whammo—in came Jimmy to punch Gerald’s clock. Or the time Brett got lost in the Sherman Oaks Galleria and instead of calling security, Jimmy had employed Rachel and two of her friends to search the mall. This was probably just as much for Jimmy’s sake as it was Brett’s, as they’d both have gotten into a world of trouble. But the ploy worked, and Brett had been found staring at the puppies in the window of Pet Smart.
But soon Brett would be dead (so would Other Brett) and Jimmy would never have to fight for him again, never have to look for his lost ass again, never have to help him make the demons go away again. Who could pass up a deal like that?
Was Other Brett responsible for making him so forgetful all the time? That jerk kept him up at night, crying and shaking. The Trazodone would get Real Brett to sleep, but Other Brett would eventually wake him up more often than not. Trazodone didn’t work all the time on Other Brett.
The acids in his stomach gurgled as they did their job. So far all he felt was nauseous. He was gonna puke, he could feel it. There was that sudden hot feeling, the one you get just before blowing chunks. Saliva filled his mouth. Here it came.
Brett slid off the toilet seat and lifted the lid. His mouth opened and-
Wait. He couldn’t puke. Wouldn’t he just be barfing out all those pills? Wouldn’t the chunks he’d be blowing be the very chunks he wanted to keep down?
Puke ‘em out, puke ‘em out, waaaaaaaay out!
Other Brett knew the pills would kill him. Other Brett didn’t want to die. Other Brett wanted him to puke. Barfing would save Other Brett’s life.
Violently, Real Brett shoved Other Brett against the wall in his mind. I ain’t gonna puke ‘em out, puke ‘em out, way out. I’m not listening to-
Just barf already, Other Brett thought.
No. Go away now. Please don’t make me come in there, just go away now.
Brett closed the toilet lid and rested his head on it. It was cool, so cool it held back the vomit. He listened. Not to the noises of the bathroom (the slight flowing of the water in the pipes behind the toilet, the soft breeze just outside the window in the shower, his labored breath going in and out and in and out of his lungs) but to the noises inside.
Or rather the lack of noise.
Other Brett was gone.
Taking a few deep breaths, Brett focused his attention on the breeze outside. Another Jimmy Trick: when the mind was twirling like one of those rides at the carnival, focus on one thing in the room—and only that one thing—and the twirling will stop.
The screen in the window was loose. The breeze pushed it in.
There was a tree outside. The wind moved the leaves ever so slightly.
Eyes closed, Brett could feel the cool air against his skin.
His mind slowed down.
And the twirling stopped.
Every Tuesday and Thursday Jimmy got home at five from Rachel’s softball practice. Jimmy didn’t play, he just gave Rach a ride. Brett thought he liked to watch her play, though. Today was Tuesday, right?
Another swallow. Keep those pills down.
Jimmy would find his body. He didn’t wish this upon his brother. It made him sad that in order to free Jimmy (and himself) he had to put his brother through this. But Jimmy was strong and he’d ultim
ately see that this was the only way out. He wouldn’t have to worry about his little retarded brother anymore.
That’s right, keep feeling sorry for yourself you little baby.
The voice startled Brett out of the slumber he was slowly succumbing to.
Other Brett was back.
* * *
The inside of Brett’s mind was nothing more than a giant room in the shape of his skull. There was no brain in there—not because Brett felt he was that stupid, but because how else could he move around? This was where he went to face Other Brett. Over time he wouldn’t have to come here at all—he’d be able to make Other Brett leave with nothing more than a few simple chants of “GO AWAY NOW! GO AWAY NOW!” But that expertise was still a few years off, so into his head he went.
In front of him were the backs of his closed eyes. Slowly he turned to face the back of his head, positive he’d see that old nemesis of his leaning against the wall of his skull, smirking, slicking his hair back. Other Brett loved his hair and loved it even more slicked back. Real Brett wasn’t sure who Other Brett was trying to look good for.
But no one was behind him. He was all alone. And there was nowhere for Other Brett to hide, either—the room (his skull) was a full 360 degrees. No corners, no caves, no holes to hide in—just skull.
The rear of his head was about one-hundred feet away. The place wasn’t any larger than a small apartment. There was just enough room so that he could toss Other Brett against a wall when he was being really bad, when things had to get physical.
The dome above him—the top of his head—provided light, a subdued red. When he first came to this place he had had the light enter through his ears, but that just ended up creeping him out so he’d moved it.
Where are you? Brett thought.
Brett walked along the floor, which looked like mushy muscle but felt like tiled linoleum. He looked to either side of him, at the insides of his ears and-
-there. Darting past his left ear.
Other Brett raced to the back and stopped. Turning, he squinted at Real Brett and slicked back his hair. He wore the stylish leather jacket he always wore—what Real Brett called The Fonzy Jacket. And just like The Fonz, Other Brett wore a white t-shirt underneath and faded jeans. Why Other Brett chose the attire of Arthur Fonzarelli Real Brett would never quite figure out. Real Brett never cared for Happy Days, but apparently Other Brett based his entire look on it.
“Go away now.”
Other Brett gave him a tiny smile. Daring him.
So Real Brett charged, covering the distance between them in only a few seconds, but by the time he got there, Other Brett was gone. Real Brett didn’t see him disappear or anything—the jackass just wasn’t there anymore, as if he had never been there at all.
He’d done it. Didn’t even need to fight him this time.
“I’m not in there, genius. At least not only in there.”
The voice had come from his ears.
From the bathroom.
From the real world.
* * *
Brett opened his eyes.
Standing next to the door, inspecting the C-3PO towel, was the very image of Other Brett he’d held in his head for so many years. Except maybe a little taller—or that could have been just because Real Brett was on the floor and had to look up at him. Other Brett still had that daring smirk on his face, but he didn’t need to slick his hair back—it was already perfect. His shiny leather jacket crinkled as he moved. The fingertips of both his hands were smeared with something red. Brett was pretty sure it was blood.
“Go ahead and keep feelin’ sorry for yourself,” Other Brett said. “It’s what you do best.”
Maybe he was still in his head and only envisioning it as his bathroom. But he could still hear the breeze outside, the flutter of the water in the pipes that would need to be replaced in a few years, a car honking down the street. He was in the bathroom alright, on the floor, waiting to die.
Other Brett was in the same fucking room as he was.
Too tired to give Other Brett the look of confusion he felt, Real Brett instead remained immobile in front of the toilet seat, his hands hanging limply between his legs. His arms were heavy. So heavy. Sleep, that’s what he needed now. Lots and lots of sleep.
“Pills won’t fix me or make me go away, Bretty-boy. No sirree.”
Other Brett slicked his hair back even though it didn’t need it, and from his hand, like a magic trick, came a single cockroach. As the roach tumbled to the moldy tile below, Other Brett’s perfect hair began to fall away with it, a patch of it following the roach to the ground. Then a clump from behind his ear. Other Brett shook his head, combed his hair with his fingers and released the rest of the locks from his head. Soon he was bald and there was nothing left to slick back. He shook his head again—a violent, almost obscene move—and with each shake he aged a few years. Within thirty seconds Other Brett was pushing seventy.
His body shivered and the leather jacket was replaced by dirty rags of clothes. Brett could just make out the v-neck of the sweater he was wearing. Blue? Looked like it may have once been blue. And ratted jeans, probably not washed in weeks. Then there was the smell. Oh boy, the smell. The old man reeked of rotten fruit and week-old coffee. This new guy, this old man, was more muck and dirt than skin and clothes. His eyes sunk deep into his skull, making his cheeks pop out. His eyes: like a snake’s. Clearly he wasn’t going for a beloved character from Happy Days. When he moved, which wasn’t often, he did it with reason, cocking his head at Brett and smiling.
“You’re not-”
“You? ‘Other Brett’? No, I ain’t him.” The old man knelt down to come eye-to-eye with Real Brett. “All you ended up doin’ was makin’ yourself sick. Messed up your liver an’ that was about it, mastermind. Your brother came home, and when he saw those empty pill bottles…whoa, there was hell to pay, boy. Yes sirree bob, it was a nightmare.”
Brett looked away from the old man and down at his hands, which weighed a thousand pounds each. The cockroach jumped between Brett’s bare feet.
All those pills must really be doing a number on him. He could feel the meds coursing through his veins. Before he died, he’d go crazy. He was okay with that. Death was coming, and it sure was a strange thing. One last crazy fit, then-
-Brett had the unnerving sensation of déjà vu. The feeling that he had already been witness to Jimmy coming home and the verbal thrashing that followed. Jimmy’d gotten so mad he let the cuss words really fly, f-bombs and all. Not that swearing was anything new coming from his brother, but there were more f-bombs than usual. Then there were the days and weeks afterward of visiting countless doctors, talking ad nauseam about the suicide attempt, (but never about Other Brett, no, never, that was just for him and Jimmy). Oh, the fun that had been.
The memories were up there in his head, but he couldn’t have done all this before because he was still in the bathroom, waiting to die.
“No, you’re right, little guy. You’ve done this before. This is your life flashing before your eyes. Your weak, cowardly life.” Brett saw that the old man was missing some teeth. “Now stand up. I’m gonna pinch the back of your neck with my ninth arm. I have nine arms.”
Before Brett could try and figure out what the hell this guy was talking about, a small army of cockroaches and spiders crawled out of the old man’s arms. The skin just above his wrists opened up and out came the bugs. The cockroaches and spiders multiplied enormously, engulfing the old man. Roaches exited his twisted mouth and covered his face.
Seeing all this, Brett did the natural thing and screamed.
“Let go,” the Bug Man said, “and you can be with Jimmy again. You don’t have to stay in the town—I got other places. That little town just happens to be a favorite of mine.
“You’re weak. A coward. A child that never grew up. I can change all that. Or make the pain last forever.”
Brett stared into the eyes of the Bug Man, only they weren’t eyes anymore—spider
s had taken their place. In those spider eyes, Brett saw truth. A real f-bomb of a truth. He saw a reflection of himself, a reflection that was more Real Brett than Other Brett: a weak coward, nothing more than a child that forgot things and that others easily forgot.
The rest of his life flashed in those crawling eyes. In high school he would never find a girl and always be alone, an outsider; he would get bad grades and have to repeat his sophomore year; his brother would look out for him, sure, but that wouldn’t be enough. In fact, it would get him in trouble more often than not.
This bug guy was right: he had done all this before. Brett’s heart weighed a ton and he couldn’t take another second of it being in his chest.
“You’re weak,” the Bug Man said.
“Go away, please,” said Brett.
“You can’t toss me against the wall and force me to leave, no sirree bob. Now say it: you’re weak.”
“I’m weak,” Brett admitted, mesmerized.
The Bug Man laughed. It was a hearty, rude laugh that echoed off the shower tiles. Brett could see deeper into his mouth. His teeth had been replaced with tiny snakes, and this made Brett feel like barfing all over again.
“Jimmy’s here with me. Just take my hand and you can be with your brother again.”
The Bug Man held out a scrawny hand.
Brett stared into the spider-eyes. Yes, he wanted to be with Jimmy again. Jimmy would help him through this. Jimmy would make everything alright.
Brett took the Bug Man’s hand in his own. Five long icicle-like fingers closed around Brett’s hand.
Cockroaches formed a crude smile on the Bug Man’s face as he covered Brett’s mouth with his other hand. Brett smelled paint. That’s what had been on his hands: red paint, not blood. He had found their phantom painter.
Bugs crept over Brett’s head. He felt like screaming but couldn’t.
* * *
The Bug Man, who had gone by many names but was warming up to this group calling him the “bug man,” leaned over Brett’s body and let the cockroaches and spiders encompass the boy’s limbs. Once off of his body, he resembled the old man Brett had briefly seen.
