Delta40
03-30-2011, 01:20 AM
I call him Freddy but only to freak villagers out. He doesn’t have a name. He just is. When people meet Freddy, their faces contort in morbid horror when they see him protruding awkwardly from my abdomen. His arms and legs wrap round me like a baby monkey. You can run your fingers from his small bottom all the way along the rigid bumps in his spine to the nape of his neck. My Mother believes Freddy’s head is my heart and it is only through him that I live. Not the other way round. When I study myself in the mirror, Freddy really does look as if his head has disappeared into my chest. His hands, half holding on are just as easily trying to push his body away so his head will pop out and he’ll exclaim, ‘Finally!’
The doctor calls me the Autosite, like I’m some mechanic who keeps Freddy the Parasite going. He should be grateful, all things considered. It is my organs that are doing all the work and let’s face it; Freddy would not exist without me. I have a hole in my heart due to the extra blood that must pump through his body so he can grow at the same rate as me. I tell Mother this, hoping she will appreciate me more but she won’t hear of it and slaps the back of my head instead. ‘You dare think you’re better than your brother? Who are you to come into this world and put yourself above everyone else? I tell you, your brother says more wise things through his presence than you could ever speak in a lifetime!’ She makes me cart an extra basket up the mountain for being so proud and haughty. Freddy’s clinging shape wobbles lifelessly as he holds on. ‘I’m saying nothing,’ is his internal reply as he lets me struggle under the full weight of his body. My mind is flooded with notions of ‘but it isn’t my fault, it’s his!’ unsure which of us is doing the thinking.
At home Mother prepares dinner over hot coals. My Father descends from the mountain and kisses us wearily. He is a quiet man. He strokes me after dinner as if I was one of his goats. He never places his hand on Freddy. Half of me feels happy about this. The other half is very angry. Jealous even.
‘Mother what does amputation mean?’ She screams and hacks the chicken carcass, punctuating each word. ‘You selfish pig! I feed you an extra bowl of rice for the sake of your brother. You think he likes being carried by somebody who wants to chop him into tiny bits?’ Chop, chop, chop. Chicken pieces fly in every direction, till there is nothing left. She collects the small parts and with another smart slap tells me to get away from her or I will soon regret it.
The wind whistles in all directions on the rocky outcrop above our home. Here clouds pass by to rain on the villages below. My angry tears are collected by them and I cheer up since Mother cannot stop me from imagining Freddy stretched out on a gleaming surgical bench, a necrotic remnant of me. I imagine him being placed in a jar of formaldehyde for me to admire like a souvenir when I have nothing better to do. It is my one consolation as I rub the red spot on my cheek and return to the hut.
Each night Mother bathes us in olive oil. It is a ritualistic practice that I have always accepted without question. She sings under her breath while I inhale the labour of her day, her armpits passing over my face. She prays in the dim, taper lit hut. She hurries over me, with her there, there care and then takes her time to caress Freddy carefully, gently. Her weathered features soften and her breathing slows as if she has found peace through placing her hands upon Freddy. My Father rocks in his chair, lost in the depths of the fire while she massages my brother in small circular motions. She blesses his soul and offers up thanks while holding one finger across my sealed lips. She kisses me and tells me I must rise early to help my brother prepare for the journey to town tomorrow. I watch her retreat from my small wooden cot.
Alone, Freddy laughs his head off. Inside my ribs hurt as if something hard is pushing them apart. He does it every night after he is bathed and blessed. I can feel my body jiggle with his joy. With Mother gone, I slap his bottom hard. ‘It isn’t funny.' More chortling and my stomach churns full of mixed emotions, half digested food and unanswered questions. 'I hate you!’ Freddy stops. I would reject him but it isn’t me who has the choice. He is the other son my Mother loves while I wish he was nothing more than an appendage. Only half of me can truly love him. He is the one who is not fully formed but my Mother feels he makes up for this by trumping me with his silent wisdom. I smack him again. After all, it won’t hurt me. I turn my body toward the hut wall, cupping Freddy carefully as I make myself comfortable. I move his hand from under me so it won't get squashed. ‘Thank you’ echoes through me. I sniff and reply gruffly ‘It’s nothing.’ We lie there. I feel the odd one out. How can I ever be complete with something half-finished attached to me? Freddy shakes his head inside of me. ‘You’re a good brother. I shouldn’t laugh at you but I think it is because I love you.' I would turn my back on him but it just isn't possible. 'How would I know happiness without you?’ Freddy’s love flows through my veins and I feel his body glow as we share this mutual moment. He needs me. Perhaps I need him. I kiss my hand and rub his slippery back. Eventually I burp and we both settle down for the night.
The doctor calls me the Autosite, like I’m some mechanic who keeps Freddy the Parasite going. He should be grateful, all things considered. It is my organs that are doing all the work and let’s face it; Freddy would not exist without me. I have a hole in my heart due to the extra blood that must pump through his body so he can grow at the same rate as me. I tell Mother this, hoping she will appreciate me more but she won’t hear of it and slaps the back of my head instead. ‘You dare think you’re better than your brother? Who are you to come into this world and put yourself above everyone else? I tell you, your brother says more wise things through his presence than you could ever speak in a lifetime!’ She makes me cart an extra basket up the mountain for being so proud and haughty. Freddy’s clinging shape wobbles lifelessly as he holds on. ‘I’m saying nothing,’ is his internal reply as he lets me struggle under the full weight of his body. My mind is flooded with notions of ‘but it isn’t my fault, it’s his!’ unsure which of us is doing the thinking.
At home Mother prepares dinner over hot coals. My Father descends from the mountain and kisses us wearily. He is a quiet man. He strokes me after dinner as if I was one of his goats. He never places his hand on Freddy. Half of me feels happy about this. The other half is very angry. Jealous even.
‘Mother what does amputation mean?’ She screams and hacks the chicken carcass, punctuating each word. ‘You selfish pig! I feed you an extra bowl of rice for the sake of your brother. You think he likes being carried by somebody who wants to chop him into tiny bits?’ Chop, chop, chop. Chicken pieces fly in every direction, till there is nothing left. She collects the small parts and with another smart slap tells me to get away from her or I will soon regret it.
The wind whistles in all directions on the rocky outcrop above our home. Here clouds pass by to rain on the villages below. My angry tears are collected by them and I cheer up since Mother cannot stop me from imagining Freddy stretched out on a gleaming surgical bench, a necrotic remnant of me. I imagine him being placed in a jar of formaldehyde for me to admire like a souvenir when I have nothing better to do. It is my one consolation as I rub the red spot on my cheek and return to the hut.
Each night Mother bathes us in olive oil. It is a ritualistic practice that I have always accepted without question. She sings under her breath while I inhale the labour of her day, her armpits passing over my face. She prays in the dim, taper lit hut. She hurries over me, with her there, there care and then takes her time to caress Freddy carefully, gently. Her weathered features soften and her breathing slows as if she has found peace through placing her hands upon Freddy. My Father rocks in his chair, lost in the depths of the fire while she massages my brother in small circular motions. She blesses his soul and offers up thanks while holding one finger across my sealed lips. She kisses me and tells me I must rise early to help my brother prepare for the journey to town tomorrow. I watch her retreat from my small wooden cot.
Alone, Freddy laughs his head off. Inside my ribs hurt as if something hard is pushing them apart. He does it every night after he is bathed and blessed. I can feel my body jiggle with his joy. With Mother gone, I slap his bottom hard. ‘It isn’t funny.' More chortling and my stomach churns full of mixed emotions, half digested food and unanswered questions. 'I hate you!’ Freddy stops. I would reject him but it isn’t me who has the choice. He is the other son my Mother loves while I wish he was nothing more than an appendage. Only half of me can truly love him. He is the one who is not fully formed but my Mother feels he makes up for this by trumping me with his silent wisdom. I smack him again. After all, it won’t hurt me. I turn my body toward the hut wall, cupping Freddy carefully as I make myself comfortable. I move his hand from under me so it won't get squashed. ‘Thank you’ echoes through me. I sniff and reply gruffly ‘It’s nothing.’ We lie there. I feel the odd one out. How can I ever be complete with something half-finished attached to me? Freddy shakes his head inside of me. ‘You’re a good brother. I shouldn’t laugh at you but I think it is because I love you.' I would turn my back on him but it just isn't possible. 'How would I know happiness without you?’ Freddy’s love flows through my veins and I feel his body glow as we share this mutual moment. He needs me. Perhaps I need him. I kiss my hand and rub his slippery back. Eventually I burp and we both settle down for the night.