Weight of Living {Duncan+Tweed ft.Cody}

duncan {♔} bowers-fox

From the edge of Owen’s bed, I could see the multiple boxes of his belongings stacked against the far wall. Old flannels and pieces of paper overflowed from both, as if the job of putting his things away had been done only to the point of partial completion, like the memories that clung to them were too fragile to handle, even with the most delicate touch. They hadn’t been handled as so, however, and soon after his cannon sounded (though it hadn’t stopped since), Cody had come barging in, tossing miscellaneous things to the corner in which they now sat and talking through gritted teeth before slamming the boxes down and stomping out.

He had told me it was my job, my task, my duty to take care of Owen’s belongings, as if that would somehow make up for the fact that he was dead because of my own selfish life, of the wants and needs of a boy who didn’t matter to the world that so quickly forgot his presence, but not near as fast as he would’ve like. For I wanted to be gone in an instant, lost like the cannon that signaled the end of Owen Bowers-Fox, and maybe something similar would signify the end of myself as well.

I just wanted it over.

I suppose now is just as good of a time for closure as any, and so I lift myself from the floor to place myself beside the multiple boxes stacked against the wall, already the items spilling from the top causing my breath to catch and my fingers to tremble as I pull one of them close enough for easy access. Prying apart the pieces of cardboard that had done a poor job of containment was the simplest of the tasks that were to follow, and even though it had only taken a matter of seconds to do so, my breathing was heavy and it felt as if I had run a marathon, and the end still failed to be in sight.

Cody had put no thought into the organizations with which he had thrown Owen’s belongings together, as the first box held a variety of objects, from a pack of pencils to a few old shirts to a few pieces of paper that held no meaning until I turned them over, the off-white pages coming to life underneath my shaking fingers. There were four of them, each one depicting something completely different, and though all depict scenes nothing short of beautiful, one catches my eye in particular, with both its components of familiarity and those that leave a question mark embedded in my mind.

It was a simplistic scene set in a wooded area, trees springing up to form the boundary of a clearing, and from the leaves drawn on the ground it was safe to assume the time of year was fall. Yellows, reds, and oranges could be pictured behind the grey shades of pencil graphite crossed the page, and it was if the world didn’t need color to be seen as beautiful. The scene didn’t just display the magnificence of nature, however, for the real beauty laid in the girl who sat upon a large stone, her legs crossed as she turned a flower between her fingers, a contented smile hidden partially by long hair falling over her shoulders. It didn’t take me long to place the identity of the one who seemed so finely tuned into the world around her, the name Andromeda quickly filling my mind as multiple questions fired through it at the conclusion. Why would Owen have drawn Drew? Was she there for my brother more than I was?

I don’t want to know the answer, for guilt already hangs heavy above my head and one more ounce of weight might bring it crashing down.

I turn the paper back over, for upon first inspection I had missed the sloppy handwriting scrawled in the top right-hand corner, and upon scrutinizing my brother’s poor penmanship I was able to make out “Oblivion.”

Oh how wish that was a world I lived in.

For maybe Owen wouldn’t be dead and our family wouldn’t be ripped apart, and maybe, just maybe, the blame of it all wouldn’t fall to my shoulders. I only wanted to be ignorant for a moment more.

But the boxes of Owen’s belongings won’t allow it.

I can’t bear to look upon the other pages of art with the same eye for detail that I did the first, and instead of accomplishing the task at which I set out to do, I pull the pages close to my chest and push the box away, my breath hitching as I clutch the pieces of paper with trembling hands as the uncommon feeling of regret rose in my chest and burned like the fire that accompanied Siren Baitwell’s axes as they struck down Owen Bowers-Fox.

My brother had never lived in oblivion, but he had feigned ignorance until his demise.