* GONE / ROT.

there are no words spoken, his questions fall on deaf ears as he averts his gaze back to the scripture sitting on his table. words attempted to commit to memory.    a book he wanted to slam shut, to throw in the trash - hide away.  he was repulsed.     repulsed by his lack of understanding- by the need to spend more time learning.    repulsed by his inability to match the ranks of her brother, how easily it seemed for the twin to excel when all he seemed to do was fall short.   fingers slip under the cover of the book, flipping it shut.  he’s done for the day.   confidence falters and he rises from his seat, carrying the book to his shelf and slipping it between the vacant space, allowing it to find home there.

        “were you? i’m never sure anymore.”    how badly he wanted to believe him. how badly he wanted to feel as if for once, there had been someone on his side.   how he hoped that his brother would be that person.  seat is taken at the edge of his bed, feet dangling slightly, swaying with soft kicks through the air.  it’s raining outside, the sound of droplets hitting the windowsill sings a sweet melody in his ear from behind him.    drip.   drip.   drip.  the momentum is soothing, there’s a comfort in the simplicity.       “what is it?”  it’s a mocked question, voice rising an octave.      “why do you care to know?  what makes you think you’ll even come close to understanding?”

            as a little boy you watched         the crashing waves of a beach with a name you cannot recall. you could swim against them , take your pace , watch your mother clap her palms & your father’s pearly whites. oh but you could almost hear them without the words being spewed , make the waves higher , stanley. make them go higher ! we want more ! parents with a desire to receive too much from two boys who grew into their polished shoes by the age of eight. your shoulders seem to slump lower.   ❛     oh that's real cute. you never tell me anything , stanley.    ❜      you have it easy , jonathan. your parents love you , jonathan. you’re their jewish pride and joy , jonathan. it came as natural as breathing , the way you could recite in hebrew without so much as a stutter. though your brother resented you for it.

quiet and still, he never had much to say - of course, found that those who spoke too much often spoke ones that lacked much importance. straight to the point had been his motto, no breath wasted. torah sits on his table, opened to the page of his fathers recommendation.   ( you’re a failure, stanley! a failure! )  this he new too well, never could he please his father, now he was desperate to prove them wrong.    -    silent concentration breaks, spitting image breaks the empty air of his room, a greeting and an offer.  eyes fall on the offered kippa, smooth fingers seek the tattered remains and hold it within his palm - studying it.    -     it’s as if staring at aghost,   haunting and quiet.  there are too many memories within that kippa.   ones he cared to forget – ones that still kept him up at night.  

            “it’s garbage.”   the words are harsh, foot kicking garbage bin from under the wooden desk brushing the mud stained kippa into the trash. there was no use for it.    no ,  no more skeletons in his closet should he be able to help it.  save for the ones that still kept him up at night.  he offers a sigh, kicking the bin back into place, casting gaze to his brother; posture upright and prim. head shakes, waves of hair dance effortlessly.    “you’re secret is safe with me.”

              ❛     what is your deal-io ?   ❜         own words are just are sharp , one could almost think jon was hurt. hockstetter nearly hung him up on a tree by his underwear when jon tried to get it back. for a second , gaze burns ‘pon pages of script ; script that you had long since memorized like the back of your hand. golden rabbi’s son ! you hated the name as much as you hated the way your brother looked at you when you were addressed as such. shit ! shit ! shit ! nice going , dick stick. stan’s eyes reflected something darker , something yearning that you never understood. you never understood because your brother never talked about it. not ever with you.

              your mirror looks stone cold ,         stoic & dry seemed to be his NATURAL STATE !. he carries himself your slouched shoulders almost seem to mock his stiff form. upon seeing him , an object appears from almost thin air from your back.    ❛     hey stanley , i found this.   ❜     it's stan's kippa , dirty almost long since forgotten in THE DYING GRASS in front of the school. don't ask jon how he got it !    ❛     hockstetter is shit ,   ❜     tone is blunt , too casual to have been such a sentence yet jon’s lips twitch upwards. a silent thought itching the back of your head : there was something     terribly wrong   with that patrick boy , something sinful / putrid.       ❛     but tell anyone i actually care about you , i’ll skin you.   ❜     though of course you care ! care so much it even burns. something in your chest , that something beating , feels a tenderness for your only brother , in the   most obscure way possible. 

              grime taints your pallid skin ,         crimson like a CAN OF COLA like splattered paint. there had been a moment before this , when solemn cries for mercy were escaping your lungs. there had been something unspeakable ! horrible / unforgettable. but now there was silence. the melody of birds tweeting through summer’s heat. young boy ! swamp boy ! dead boy ! 

              there is something bitter         ‘pon tongue , something tasted cold / abandoned when you swallowed your horrors. it was your corpse ! staring right back at you !  MUTILATED !! TORN !! forgotten in the swamps of derry, maine. but then she speaks ! suddenly , & perhaps it startles jon , but he is too fixated. too hurt ! too hollow ! what she says is beyond you.    ❛     is that me ?     ❜     oh how he aches for the tremble in his tone to fade.    ❛     did i        ?      ❜