Jacob Matherby, Part II

The house was empty. I figured my grandmother had gone about her errands for the day, and there was no evidence that she was going to return anytime in the near future. A plate covered in plastic wrap sat in the refrigerator, but I decided to leave that until later. Instead, I reached past it, grabbed the remaining cans of cheap, domestic swill, and slowly descended the stairs into the basement. It was partially finished; discarded squares of carpeting and old furniture was scattered about, most surrounding a television up against the stairs. It was my sanctuary, of sorts. The one place where I could be left alone with my thoughts. I collapsed into the overstuffed recliner, a puff of dust rising, causing me to sneeze. I sat staring at the blank television in front of me.

"Jacob! JACOB!" I had just lit a cigarette and turned around to see my brother shove his hands into my chest, momentarily causing me to lose my balance.

"What," I said as I calmly exhaled the smoke, directly into Mike's face. He sneered back at me waving his hand in front of him. I could see his girlfriend standing behind him, looking distraught. She had never seen this side of him before. I had.

"He was my father too, asshole;" his voice started to break, somewhere between yelling and starting to cry. He dropped into a cruel hiss, staring at me "of all the times to pull the shit you pull, you chose today? You decide to honor our dad's memory by insulting me at his goddamn funeral? You're a piece of work. God, no wonder everyone hates you."

I smirked back at him, "everyone hates you. They hate you because you weren't here. You decided to run away, flee, but I stayed behind. I could have left, but I stayed behind because our father needed someone to be there for him. He needed me there, even before the illness. He didn't want to be alone. I didn't ever complain. But you come back here, waving your goddamn MBA in everyone's face, with your super-model girlfriend and your fancy fucking car. Because heaven-fucking-forbid that Michael Matherby show a little humility. Be an actual person, give a shit about something other than yourself and your possessions."

"What? Like you? And your selfish pursuit of your 'art?' You know he almost lost the house, right? Because you refused to get a real fucking job. After he let you live there for nothing? You were his greatest regret. A son who would amount to nothing."

In books and movies, the term used is that "everything goes red." No red. Fury. Chased to Scamander, caught, victorious, leavings only for the scavengers. The only thing I saw was his girlfriend dialing her phone frantically and his blood covering my knuckles. The crowd of friends and relatives standing in the church doorway. Father Donovan holding his hands over his mouth in horror. And the blood. Creeping across the wet sidewalk, pooling with the rainwater. I dared not look at him, look at what I had done. I almost didn't notice what was happening until I was tackled to the ground.

A loud knocking startled me from the recliner, and caused me to drop the still-unopened beer on the ground as it rolled towards the wall. My eyes adjusted to the dim light as I walked towards the basement door, and opened it. No one. The knocking came again from behind me. On glass. I opened to the basement curtain and saw a smiling familiar face. She motioned towards the front door and gave a slight shrug. I shook my head reluctantly as she knocked again and crocodile tears welled up in her big, blue eyes. I sighed, deeply, even though she couldn't hear me, and nodded solemnly. She disappeared from the view of the window. I stared up at the grey clouds that had obscured the sun, before turned towards the stairs.

When I opened the door, she almost hit me in the face with a book, her arms thrust out so sporadically in triumph: "I bought you this." I blinked rapidly, before placing my hand on the cover and easing it off to the side. Her smile faded when she saw my eyes; "Don't you like it?"

"I don't know what it is."

"It's a book."

"I see that. But you almost hit me in the face with it. What book?"

"Sorry. It's like an essay collection or something. About all sorts of stuff, from philosophy to society. I thought you might find it interesting." She looked towards the ground as I took the book from her and grabbed her hand.

"It's very thoughtful. Thank you, Beth."

She smiled up at me before lurching forward and wrapping her arms around my neck: "Can I come inside?" I barely had time to nod before she started dragging me up the stairs.

Before we entered my bedroom, I already had my shirt pulled halfway over my chest, her hands acting swiftly. I fell backwards onto the bed, my eyes staring up at her as she closed the door. The room darkened, the light barely reaching through the solid curtains. I felt Beth land on top of me, the feel of her breath against my face. The feeling of her staring at me through the darkness. The feel of the warmth of her skin against my hands, her shiver as goosebumps travel across as I caress. It's a fleeting comfort, but a comfort none the less. She's such a sweet girl; it'll hurt her, but it can't last forever.

I feel her shift in the bed next to me, and I open my eyes and adjust to the minimal light. I release a heavy sigh, which gives me away. She turns and stares at me, her eyes full of questions and comments, but she only asks one: "Were you sleeping?"

"Yes," I reply, "I have a lot on my mind today."

"It's ok. You can go back to sleep, I'll leave when I have to," she said softly, her voice saddened by the realization that she would eventually have to go. A minute passes as I stare up at the ceiling, the small cracks in the plaster showing through the paint, a spiderweb of thunderbolts crisscrossing the room my brother and I used to share. Beth grasps my hand in hers, and pulls it towards her breast, as I faintly feel her heart flutter. She thinks she loves me. She exhales as she kisses my cheek; "were you dreaming?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

My mind raced. A thousand images and ideas surged through my head, like the switch had been thrown and lightning began coursing through, from my mind to my fingertips. I clenched my hand tight in hers, reflexively, and she gave a sympathetic squeeze back. I thought of court, and every event that lead to this point. I knew where I was. The poet stood on the threshold, and gestured towards the entryway. Every instinct in me screamed for me to run, but I knew it was futile. I was drawn inward.

Beth caressed my face with her free hand and kissed me again; "Jacob? What were you dreaming about?"

"Hell."