"TALES FROM THE ASHES ARCHIVES"

"BROTHERLY LOVE"

by Wayne Brown February 1987

(Copyright ©1987)

We watched…singularly, separately, alone and yet as one…We watched. We saw her screams as he came upon her, thrusting the jagged edge with ecstatic glee. We heard her blood as it belched aimlessly from an array of erratic, erotic, and exotic avenues; like faucets left open when the water has been turned off. Exploding crimson searching for a canvas and brush. Our blood boiled with hers…Our tears welled with hers…Our pain coiled as if ready to strike…She was one of us…We were one with her…We were together, a Gestalt Entity.

We looked at him and shivered from the heat of his act. We cringed behind our curtains, our shutters, our stutters, our blinds…Safely masked beneath the veils of our mutual voyeurism. It wasn’t us, oh no…Collectively we could feel it…It wasn’t me. Oh, we knew him alright…We knew him well. He was our friend, our best friend…He had left us alone..

I first noticed her blood upon my little four-year old’s tricycle. She’d been foolish enough to leave it outside. I found her left index finger in my, …Pardon me…Our garden. It was nestled amongst the gardenias seemingly reaching for one last touch of soft, desperate compassion. I then found her right shoe (a black pump with broken heel), discarded frantically upon my (our), walkway. A tattered shred of cotton blouse had grasped the wrought-iron banister as they had struggled up the stairs and upon the first landing, an elbow, or perhaps a knee, had found little resistance against the sheet-rocked wall. The yellowish carpet that flowed through our hallway, had been dyed with the crimson stains of her desperation..

When first we heard the commotion, we had all in turn opened our doors. Of course, Dame Curiosity was a weak mistress and almost immediately the sounds of slamming portals with snapping deadbolts dominated the scene. Yet, still we could hear her screams…His anger…Her pain…His pleasure…Her death…His purpose.

I’d peered from my peephole. I saw the blade…The ripping, the tearing,…The blood, the flesh,…The heat, the passion…The cold…The end…

I thought of my neighbors…My friends. I thought of old Mrs. Jeffers and her three Siamese cats…Huey, Dewey, and Louie. They were probably wailing up a storm, but I was equally sure that she was quiet as a church mouse.

I saw Mr. Melander, the apartment Superintendent, thrust open his door (however briefly), and then slam it like a gust of wind. Collecting rent was more his style.

I could hear Frank, a bouncer at a local bar, yelling something like: “…enough shit to do last night, without listening to it at home!!!”

Joe and Dawn, the couple from across the hall, cranked their stereo so loud, I’m sure at that point someone at least entertained the idea of calling the police.

…Of course, no one actually did…

Not one of us was willing to get involved. Not a manjack amongst us was willing to interfere. There was not a single soul willing to get up and get out and confront the poor girl’s assailant. There was no Don Quixote,…No Captain America,…No Good Samaritan. There was no chivalry…No courage. There was no love…There was nothing. They didn’t even have enough compassion to pick up the phone…

…Except one…

I picked up the receiver and dialed the local constabulary with my blood-stained hands. I’d slid my knife into Mrs. Jeffer’s mail slot. Her cats were quiet now, as they licked the warm blood from the tired, serrated blade.

-The End-

(I have made some minor grammatical changes to the original MS. -Wayne Brown)