kane [d8; fin]

I am not my brother’s keeper.

Age could not define the lack of wisdom that left empty space in my mind, for my thoughts were not hinged on others’ determination of what was wrong to commit or right to avoid.

In a world that so heavily leaned on avoiding or being the victim of circumstance, there was no right or wrong that could be laid with weight upon my heart— all conditional and never considered. My mother called this not having a moral standard and I never cared to mention that she was wrong. Moral standards were recommendations put in place by those who saw the world as black and white— as a two-ended spectrum upon which they could not find the fulcrum on which to balance.

I would say that I tread firmly upon the middle ground, but no such place exists. For to identify the middle would mean that the extremes were also floating around somewhere in the void a thought, a phrase, or word, and none of these truly lingered in my mind. No, everything was continuous, undistinguishable one from the next but never blurred. This line was direct, bold, pointing to nothing and unable to be labeled with a beginning or an end or anything in between.

Simply existent.

And existing was the simple nature by which I shifted from year to year. I had started counting in years, but as desperation took hold as I progressed along that unlabeled line I had began to break down the units by which I measured, from years to months and weeks and days and now from hour to hour I lived a life that seemed to never end.

In choosing to live a life that was never right nor wrong I had also inadvertently chosen a life that never understood the concept of silence. When the world was spinning constantly, never pausing to be considered or labeled or analyzed, thoughts ran one into the next without a second’s rest. The world was constantly awake, filled with white noise and the background voices of every person who tread its surface up to that point.

There were hours I would not move if only not to add to the volume.

Besides, in a world that droned on through all hours of the night, what single voice could be heard above the clamor?

No one says claims that the situation improves; no one tells you that you will be accustomed to the noise with the passage of time. Either no one else hears it or everyone does, and somehow and somewhere along the way it had all become taboo— how ironic it is not to speak about the spoken words that make the air around us heavy.

Sometimes I wonder if that is why speaking has so often mimicked the act of choking on my own voice— I swallow my own thoughts more often than I spill them for fear of them catching. I suppose it would not matter much, I would not call for help even if I was able— I’d find it appropriate to die by that which was always existent, never fluctuating or failing to make its presence known.

Consistency is key, after all.

And though I may not be many things or much at all, consistency was the trait to which I attributed every nuance and every action I undertook and every word I spoke and every thought that crossed my mind. It was a skillset all of its own.

My family has a history of consistency, and my brother’s higher standing was one of those principles that never changed, no matter what occurred or when it happened to strike. It wasn’t spoken about— no one wants to admit that they have fallen victim to the monster of bias that lurks in the shadows of the mind.

I do not believe that it was a certain instance that set us apart— no memory of mine has managed to separate itself as the one of importance that began his ascent and my movement in the opposite direction. I believe that there is simply something about him— simply something in the way he holds his shoulders or positions his gaze when he speaks— that causes the receiver of his voice to be drawn to his center of gravity like the polarized ends of the magnet that lingered at the tip of his tongue.

It was impressive— even I could give him that.

Like the continuation of everything else that existed, I could not place it to a point at exactly which it began. I suppose he had been born with likability engraved into his skin; he was simply the grace of guidance and the forgiveness of a father who had brought forth two boys of merit— he had done his job, and we were to do ours. And so we did— dutifully we carried out the tasks laid upon our shoulders like our bones did not crack with the burden.

Only he was paid in full; my payments were notes of favors to be paid and a light hand on a bruised shoulder acknowledging the job well done.

He said that finances were tight; that my brother needed something more than simple encouragement to keep him motivated but I could see my father being drawn to the magnet on the tip of my brother’s tongue.

I am the sword with dull blade— no longer of use but for the simple tasks that nobody else can be bothered to undertake.

Continuously pacing along the line that did not begin and will not end I forget about my failures on the mornings that I am not held accountable for that which I produce. The outcome of my hands’ work should only be judged by the calloused fingers that carry out the same. Nobody had bothered to study the creases in my palms, so why should they be entitled to put a price upon them?

I’d clasp my hands together once more if not for prayer but for protection.