Prompt: If you could see me now...

"In which sanity is nonexistent and torture is acceptable." - B.K.
"If you could see me now..." - E.L.

Note: This prompt is a combination response and is not the best quality writing, but it was what the prompts inspired in me.

A Regrettable Happiness

You often asked me about the meaning of life. I couldn’t be bothered to think and told you to seek it yourself. I didn’t think you would take those words to heart.

~*~*~

“Y…sn…” Startled by the sudden noise, I promptly set down the kitchen knife and look at him.

“What was that?” I ask, quirking my lips in apology. “Sorry, sorry, I was distracted, just silly thoughts. I couldn’t quite—”

“I said you’re insane.” The words are hoarse, trickling from his mouth like the wine-stained bile that dribbled down his chin. My brother hasn’t been feeling very well as of late, and it worries me. He’s taken to curling up on the velvet sofa, just drinking whatever bottles or bowls I leave within his reach. It was just drinks at first, since he couldn’t stomach anything else, but this can’t go on. He needs some proper food in him, appetite or not, so I’m cooking for him now. Porridge. It’s good for upset stomachs.

If I think now, there was a time when I wouldn’t have cared, too wrapped up in myself to care about others, even my own brother, but that’s all changed now.

That’s all changed.

“Well, I did tell you before, when you asked,” I laugh, shaking my head softly. “That sanity was nonexistent. Didn’t really answer properly though, did I. I’m sorry about then, you know. I was just going through hard times in college and I really didn’t think—”

“I never asked you that.”

The words ping through my mind once, strike something odd in me, but the sensation passes swiftly. “Right, right,” I murmur, chuckling. “You asked me about a lot of other things. Life, existence, knowledge, the world – you were always quite the philosopher, now that I think about it.”

~*~*~

You sometimes asked me about existence. You asked me how you could be sure that I was real and not born from your mind. I couldn’t be bothered to explain and told you that you couldn’t be sure. I didn’t consider that those words would disturb you, I really didn’t.

~*~*~

He doesn’t answer. There’s the vague rattle of chains as he rolls over, and I frown. “Honestly, are those kids messing with the shed again,” I mutter, stalking over to the window. The yard’s clear. No children running around with chains anywhere. “Must’ve been the neighbors,” I say, lowering the blinds.

“You have no neighbors.” The words are so unexpected that they delight me. This is the most he’s said in days, so he must be feeling better, and the relief that laces my blood dizzies me.

“What are you talking about,” I say, grinning brightly. “I mean, I know you don’t like Mr. O’Neil, but that’s no reason to deny his existe—”

“I don’t know who the hell that is.” A dull snap of words. “You have no neighbors. You dragged everything to this slum to indulge in your corrupted fantasy – you’re insane.” Mm, that’s worrisome. He’s started rambling on about that stuff again. I guess his fever hasn’t broken yet, but that’s no good. “You’re messed up in the head and I think I know why—”

“Shh,” I soothe him, crouching down to stroke his head. He flinches at my touch. I guess they’re too cold for him. His forehead does feel a bit too warm. “I’m almost done with the porridge, so don’t talk too much. Just rest for now, you’re not well.”

And then he stares at me as if I’ve gone crazy. He always was stubborn, the idiot. Never listened to our parents, never listened to teachers, but he used to listen to me. Now that they’re all gone, I guess his recalcitrant nature had no one else to turn to. Heh. But it’s cute, so I don’t mind.

He opens his mouth, and more words spill out. I’ll have to wipe them up later.

~*~*~

You asked me about sanity every now and then. You asked me why the insane are insane and what qualifies as sanity. You asked me this because of something that happened that day at school, which had taken grip upon the fragile skin of your soul. I couldn’t be bothered to care and told you that sanity doesn’t exist. I didn’t realize that with those words, I had just skinned you alive.

~*~*~

“—on’t care how much I look like him, you crazy bitch—”

“Ah!” I bark, warning. “Language. Just because you’re a legal adult doesn’t give you permission to mouth off in front of me.”

There’s a heavy thump as he throws back his head in frustration. He’s probably just sick of being sick. “Listen, you just have to eat the food I give you, take your medicine, and you’ll be fine in no time,” I tell him, turning back to the kitchen counter.

He gives no response.

“The porridge will be done in a moment,” I say as I resume chopping the vegetables and boiling the grains. “Just a few more s… ah. There we go.”

“… You don’t listen.”

“Now where did I put those bowls…”

“You never listened, did you.”

“The ceramic ones keep in the heat best, right? Right.”

“You were the same back then, too, weren’t you.”

With a wooden ladle, I pour the hot, thick soup into the bowl and then smile, satisfied. Popping the cap off a bottle of basil, I sprinkle the green herbs over the meal. It adds a more professional touch, if I do say so myself.

“It’s done!” I announce, and turn to him smiling. The smile flutters off my face too soon. There’s something almost tender in his expression. It’s the hard kind of tenderness that twists the bad parts in you. It’s the kind of tenderness that makes you feel almost pathetic. It’s the kind of tenderness called pity.

“I can see why he killed himself,” he says.

~*~*~

Just once, you asked me about death. You asked me if I would miss you if you were gone. You asked me this because since that day, you’ve been walking with your soul laid bare, and people had begun to beat it. I couldn’t be bothered with you and I had gone through a bad day and maybe drank one too many whiskies and I said something I didn’t mean. I didn’t know that those would be the last words I ever said to you.

~*~*~

And suddenly I see his face.

That subtle stubble, those hollowed cheeks, the grimace on his face. His eyes bear some strange brew of pity, resignation, and hate. No, this isn’t right. There’s a stranger on my sofa. There’s a stranger on my sofa, there’s a stranger on my sofa, there’s a stranger, not my brother, a stranger, this isn’t my brother, this isn’t my brother, not my brother, not my brother, this isn’t, this isn’t, this isn’t, not my, this isn’t, this isn’t, this isn’t, this isn’t...

“You’re not my brother,” I whisper. The ceramic bowl shatters on the ground near my feet. The steaming porridge burns my toes but I’m trembling as if I’m cold. “You’re not him.”

My sweet little brother, if you could see me now…