The Price of Expendability

Having found myself under the seeming obligations of setting forth a tale of particular horror, I put pen to paper and expound upon what is truly feared most: an occurrence that which one has no control over - injustice. 1

The following account, true or not, is a tale of great importance, and is about a man often thought not so important. He was an introvert of sorts, even in boyhood. Yes, a strange variety of lad whose preferences remained in the presence of books. Again it shall be mentioned that he was peculiar and added that he was 2

without usual companion. It seemed that in his youth, other children of similar ages shied away from him, as though concerned that prolonged occasion in his company would cause the same affliction of queerness in them. 3

So what does a child such as this do to pass the time in a mundane existence? This recluse of a boy would write. He ached when he was not writing. He was broken when pen was not to paper. His shy exterior barely restrained the chaotic genius of his mind to which he wrote down with fervor his passionate internal discourses – one can only wonder what phantasmagorical visions remained constrained within the confines of his imagination.4

We all knew, though I was the only one to admit this vocally, that he would someday become as many creative minds do: rich, admired and utterly mad. This is truth, and I speak nothing else with him as subject, because though I may not have been his, he was my closest friend.5

On the particular morning where my narrative proceeds, I hurriedly rampaged through my armoire for something suitable to wear, as I was late for an engagement with him, and obliged to recollect, and take into consideration, a curious time in which I had previously been in his company during one of our initial encounters: 6

Ridiculously proud of the new dress shirt that my wife had recently purchased, I wore it to his house with a haughty confidence that I would soon regret.7

Immediately upon answering the door, he compelled me to remove my shirt and toss it away. “You must never bring that color into my presence,” he stammered. 8

I perceived fear behind his veiled glare. “What--“9

“It is a detestable color! A non-color even. And I reiterate, you must never bring it into my presence.”10

“I am afraid I do not understand.”11

He hesitated. “It-- It is a pseudo-color. An ersatz. It wishes it could be silver, but falls quite short--” His cheeks flushed, but I could not tell whether from shame or resentment. “I have a shirt that you may wear in its stead. One of suitable hue.”12

I complied. And as I did not wish for a repeat incident, I carefully avoided any white on my personage from that moment forward, never once giving thought to this bizarre idiosyncrasy. 13

Having at last furnished a modest garment, I made my way towards our usual meeting place, his home, and wondered about the urgency in his voice when first he contacted me: “You must come at once. No questions – just come.” 14

My comrade, though strange on occasion, was more often times than not a lucid, intelligent man – a man whom I trusted and respected a great deal.15

“You think me mad, my friend?” he once inquired of me.16

“Of course not.”17

“Because you cannot fault me for my parentage. I did not choose to be born among the insane.”18

“Nor do I believe you are, or ever will become. What is it that William Henley once wrote? ‘You are the master of your fate; you are the captain of your soul,’ or something like that.” 19

“Ah, yes. I am the captain of my soul, and God in Heaven is my star.” 20

I slapped him on the back, gruffly chuckling. “And with mandates such as that, my friend, sometimes I do think you mad!” 21

I would have done anything for him, and would have hoped that he felt the in the same manner towards me. 22

When I approached his front door, I found it slightly ajar, which was quite odd, for he was a man who greatly esteemed his self-made seclusion. I pushed on the oaken entry just wide enough to peer through and called, “Hallo?” and yet there was no reply. Restrained by a staunch sense of decorum, I respectably made my leave of his residence. However, my concern rapidly bested common etiquette and this time, I shoved the door wide and entered the hushed domicile. 23

I first looked into his lounge straight in from the ingress. Frankly, we had only ever spent time in this particular room – it finely suited our needs and so we saw no necessity to converse elsewhere. Housed within was the familiar billiards table upon which I lost so many games, and beside an oversized portrait of the proprietor, a dart board.24

A few years back, having worn thickly-rimmed spectacles outside in the bitter wintry air and upon coming indoors, my friend was obliged to remove them directly. As a gentleman should, he properly offered me a drink.25

I accepted. “Certainly. Brandy, of course.” To which he promptly hoisted the decanter and expertly poured me a glass. He then picked up a set of darts from the same table as the carafe and hurled a dart into the board’s bulls-eye. “Shall we play a gentlemen’s game?”26

Astonished, I put forth, “Your glasses are unnecessary then? I never realized.” 27

“Appearances, man, appearances.” 28

“And I thought you abhorred façade.”29

“Oh, I do. But not liking a thing does not preclude me from having to adhere to strict societal observances.”30

He always had a way of striking me with his logic. 31

My next search led me to the study, which jutted from the main foyer to the far left. Honestly I can relay that his was one of the most magnificent studies I have ever seen. To the immediate front, on the far wall, stood a bookshelf, spanning from floor to ceiling, that encased the many volumes of Donne, Chaucer, Milton, More, Calvin and the like. A near silent chortle escaped my lips at his affinity for religious litterateur, being a Carew-man myself. Directly before the shelving was his desk, with tea-stained parchment strewn about the top, none with a single blot. To the left, a bay window; to the right, a vast painting with a nondescript subject; and perpendicular, a grand fireplace with my friend before it, convoluted. 32

I rushed to his side. “What has happened to you?” He said nothing, sustaining the tremulous seizures. Looking up, I saw the catalyst. Crudely emblazoned into the hardened wood on the mantelpiece were the words: 33

Come find me out – I, who relinquished-- I, who vanquished.34

I pulled him to his feet. “What is the meaning of these words? Who has profaned your house?” 35

He at once stiffened, appearing rapier thin, eyes, unblinking. “My twin, who is dead. He has returned to torment me – to reap vengeance upon his murderer.” 36

“By what do you mean? Has he come up from the grave? Did you gaze upon his ghastly figure?”37

“You think me unbalanced in mind and of spirit – I tell you, man that I am not!”38

“I accuse you not. But you must soothe yourself. Come now. Let us off to the opium dens and let remedy carry away your fears.” 39

“My brother, the very likeness of me – who trusted… who trusted me so. I am half a man. Not that he was my completion, which he was, but that any man who commits murder becomes half of himself.”40

“Rubbish. You have not murdered anyone. You are a better man than that.”41

“Oh, but I have. Perhaps not premeditated, but what does that accomplish? He is still dead. We were six. Mother took my writing away. I became angry and pushed at her leg. Of course she was unmoved. I then pushed Brother. He tripped over his gimp leg and fell onto a rock. There was blood all around. And now he has returned for me. I must go to him.”42

“You must do nothing.” I looked around the room confounded. It was then that I saw another item on his desk: a piece of jagged flint. I looked to his hand, and a sharp crease of blood distanced across the palm. 43

“Look, you have done this. You have etched the atrocity yourself. Do you not see? Your brother in is the ground, where he has been and remains.”44

“No, I see him there – I must go to him!” He ran to the door. I tried to impede him with my body. Unsuccessful, I watched as he ran into the avenue. After him, I fled. 45

A uniformed bobbie appeared at the distant street corner. From behind us were two unkempt men. 46

Dual shots rang out. From my chest, I felt a tepid fluid sloughing towards my lower torso, though completely without pain. The weight of my friend, who had fallen upon me, quickly became intolerable. “Get you up,” I reproached. But he would not. Again, I yelled, “Get you up!” and then realized that he was no longer – I had raised my voice to a corpse. 47

And so speak you of the injustices in the world? To you, I have a verse – ponder upon and mourn:48

As we sojourn through life in ignorant naiveté Which is to become the price of expendability49