Why?
What is wrong with my brother?
Forcing myself to focus, I flip through the pages of his journal because this is where I’ll find answers. There’s a tarot card hidden in the pages, which is odd, but I tuck it back in and fly through the pages until I get to where I’d left off the last time I’d read it. The writing is bold and heavy, which is odd since Finn’s fingers and arms are light as a feather, scrawny and thin.
My chest constricts as I read his words. They’re written in all different sizes, in scratches and scrawls, the scribbles of the insane.
Nocte liber sum Nocte liber sum
By night I am free.
Alea iacta est The die has been cast. The die has been cast.
The die has been fucking cast.
Serva me, servabo te. Save me and I will save you.
Save me.
Save me.
Save me.
The entire page is more of the same, desperate Latin phrases and random words. And of course the weird symbol. I don’t even bother trying to interpret that. My brother loves cryptic symbols and scribbles them all over the place. I don’t even blink until I come to the bottom of the page, where there are stick figures with their faces scratched out. Two of them, a man and a woman. The woman has flaming red hair.
Me.
I swallow hard and slam the book shut, staring out to sea, willing my mind to forget what I just read.
What does he need saved from?
Insanity?
Save me and I will save you. From what?
Do I need saved, too? Is that why he scratched my eyes out?
A lump forms in my throat, heavy and hot and acrid.
I can’t do this. I knew it would be insane in his journal, I just didn’t know how much. And I just…can’t do it today. I need a break from the crazy.
Because my brother is crawling into my bed and scribbling MINE across an intimate, nude sketch of me. If anyone else were to see it, they’d think he was truly sick, maybe even sexually depraved. That’s not the case. I know that because we’re two halves of a whole. We’re connected and because of that, he feels like he owns me. Like I’m his. Like he’s mine.
My thoughts are swirling together and nothing makes sense and I don’t know what to do.
I can’t think about it right now.
It’s too much.
It’s too much.
I pull out the little bag with the lighter, and then I light the drawing on fire, because no one can ever see it. If they do, they’ll lock Finn away because they won’t understand.
I can’t let that happen.
I watch it burn, I watch the corners curl and turn black, then I let it go up in flames, the ashes blowing away into the ocean.
And then I tuck the journal in my pocket and walk through the rain (when did it start raining?) to the house. The stones on the trail are wet and I slip a few times, scraping my hands, but I still don’t hurry.