Image

Sometimes I wake up with an image in my head. A gruesome scene. It
just arrives every now and then without notice as if I have dreamed
about it but I can't remember anything apart from the final still. It
makes me want to vomit. I want to tell someone about it to see if it
makes me feel better. I want someone to tell me that it's okay. I think
that's all I ever wanted. Someone to tell me that I'm normal and that
everything's going to be okay.

The image is a bathroom. I think it's our bathroom. All I see is blood
everywhere. Smeared all over the walls and in pools on the floor. I
know that my mother and my brother are in there dead. I can't remember
seeing my Mum's body but I know she is dead. It's a complete and utter
massacre. Someone's head is sitting on top of the mirrored cabinet. I
think it's my Mum's although I don't want it to be. It looks like she
is smiling but I cannot be sure. I can see my brother's face in the
bath where his body is slumped. I am not sure how much more to say
before I start making it up as I write without realising. Telling
myself that there is more to the picture than there really is.

I think I was about 16 and my brother was 10 years older. I am not very
good at remembering ages. It was quite late and I had only just got in
the door. The Sierra wasn't on the drive so I presumed Mum was out with
her insane friends. The ones she sees every other Friday as they take
it in turns to go round each others houses sampling home made sausage
rolls and cheese scones. Mum never could be arsed having them to stay
round ours. She hated cooking sausage rolls and she hated them all
smoking in her lounge. Although she was far too nice not to tell them
to fuck off when they sparked up whilst she went to put the kettle
on.

I was standing in the hall taking off my coat. I knew Robert was there
because I could hear the TV. I presumed it was something crap like
Beverly Hills 90210 where he could dream about sleeping with one of
those dull attractive girls with giant breasts. He wouldn't know what
to do with them anyway, he'd probably poke them to start with and then
maybe try sucking them but then he'd give up once he realised they
didn't offer a beverage. Anyway, it wasn't Jason Priestly and his bunch
of tarts; it was one of my fucking videos! It was actually a tape with
about 6 episodes of "My So-Called-Life" on.

Then I noticed the blood. I also noticed that he was facing the carpet.
His hands were hidden under him and I wondered if he was dead. I
pretended I hadn't noticed. I slowly shut the hall door, still staring
at him trying to imagine what the hell he was playing at. I decided to
leave him there. I walked across the living room forgetting to take off
my trainers. Even in this situation I concerned myself over the fact I
had left my trainers on and what my Mum would say if she saw me cross
her living room floor with my "clumping great shoes" on. I walked
through the house to the kitchen where I found more blood. It was all
over the worktop, the floor, the table and even the kettle. The kettle!
This was probably the best electrical object in the house and it was
covered in his blood.

I gritted my teeth together and snared my nostrils. The selfish
bastard. I was angry because the sight of the blood put me off making
myself a cup of tea. I didn't want to touch anything. Instead I poured
a glass of water and headed upstairs. I don't know why but I went in
Mum's bedroom first. I almost knew what was coming. Predictable.
Perhaps even boring. There was blood on her bed, the carpet and over
the phone on her bedside drawer. I then went in to the bathroom only to
find more blood all round the sink, the toilet and again, on the floor.
It looked like I'd let my niece run around with a paintbrush although
it looked too neat. This had been planned. Thought about. I took a
piss. One of those where you aim away from the water to make as little
sound as possible. He wouldn't have been able to hear me with the TV on
but it felt exciting trying to keep quiet. Like a game.

I walked in to my room which I almost knew was going to be untouched
and I was right. I lay in bed for about an hour before I heard the
front door go downstairs. During this time I had remained angry and
thought to myself that if my brother had killed himself I wouldn't be
at all upset about it. I thought it would be a relief. Something to be
pleased about possibly. I would have my Mum all to myself, which is
what I craved for growing up. Better late than never. We could sit
together and talk about things. She would be able to listen to me
without the distraction of my brother around. She would be proud of me
and she would be interested in what I had to say. I would feel like her
favourite.

I wouldn't have to clear up after my brother's crap. I wouldn't feel
the need to hide my crisps under my bed. I wouldn't have to flush the
toilet after he's gobbed in it and kindly left a floater capable of
sinking the HMS Belfast. I wouldn't have to take my towels upstairs and
hide them in my room in fear of him using one and contaminating it,
forcing me to shower again to clean myself of anything to do with him.
He makes me so angry. I wouldn't have to answer to his brain-numbing
questions like "How long do I have to put these beans in for?" when he
already knows the fucking answer. He just wants to remind you that he
can't read and write and feel sorry for him. 4 minutes. Stir them after
2. He wouldn't be able to ask me if any of my pretty female friends
have got boyfriends and if they would be interested in him. A bargepole
springs to mind. Doesn't he get it? Also why did he never consider that
one of them might be my girlfriend? Okay I may have had pictures of
Damon Albarn all over my walls but he didn't ever think I wanted to
suck his ball bags.

I thought about the peace and quiet I would gain. I'd be able to enjoy
time in the house alone. Even with him downstairs in his bedroom you
can feel a presence that just drains the life out of you to the point
of despair. I imagined what it would be like to never again hear the
sound of his fucking moped revving up the drive when he comes home from
his dregs-of-the-earth "friends" house stinking of fags and tomato
sauce and the feeling of "Jesus Christ" just when you are about to wank
yourself off in the front room over a dodgy Bruce Willis sex scene. Oh
that fucking moped. I smiled at the prospect of sleeping a whole night
without being woken up by the depressing sound of twat-features
speeding up Burnt Hill Way pissed out of his face on one pint of
Heineken and a packet of peanuts. No more listening to him locking up
his Honda Karen in the garage before awkwardly crashing in the backdoor
swearing to himself as he attempts to make a midnight snack of his
favourite, baked beans.

No more karate moves. No more electro tapes, back waxing, weightlifting
or Bon Jovi CD's. Fucking joy!

Mum was home. I listened intently to every sound. She closed the front
door and put her keys in the ashtray we used. The twanging sound of
cupboard doors went so I gathered that, unlike me, she was taking her
shoes off before entering the scene.

"What's going on?" she said immediately as if my brother was wide awake
and jumping around on the furniture.

"Nothing".

Shit. He's alive.

"Get up" she shouted. "Is that blood on the floor?"

She's quick is Mum.

"No"

"Yes it is!"

This could take sometime. But then, "You selfish bastard. I'm not
having this. This is my house. I am not putting up with this anymore.
I've told you, I've told you before, I am not having it. Get up! I've
got someone coming to look at the house tomorrow. Who is going to clean
this up? Do you think I want to live like this? Do you think Jason
wants to live like this?"

She paused. "Where's Jason?"

"Upstairs". My brother was sobbing. It felt weird to listen to.

"Has he seen you?"

"Don't know"

"Don't know?" she snapped angrily as she headed through to kitchen. I
still lay in bed listening. A little scared but a little excited. This
could finally be the last straw. She can't stay in this situation
forever, feeling guilty for the disrupted child she had brought in to
the world. It wasn't her fault and surely one day she would let go and
start living her real life. I could hear her swear, as she must have
noticed the blood in the kitchen. She yelled something to him as she
hurried up the stairs. I didn't call her; I just listened as she went
in her bedroom and the bathroom muttering to herself at her
findings.

She ran downstairs and shouted something at my brother. I can't
remember what. She has never acted like this before. He gets away with
everything. She never listens to me when I tell her about him cutting
his wrists. She tries to ignore it but this time she was going mental.
I'm not sure I like it. She was really shouting at him with no sympathy
whatsoever. I told myself that this is all good.

Some how both of them ended up in the kitchen and Mum was yelling at
him about the blood on the carpets and asking him whom he thought was
going to clear all this up. "Muggins here!" she yelled. Robert replied
and said that he'd "clear it up in the morning". I wanted to laugh, all
that blood everywhere and he will clear it up in the morning. Is that
before or after breakfast? Bloody Wanker. I wanted her to throw him out
the door.

He must have had enough of Mum yelling as he told her he was going to
go out round a friends.

"You bloody aren't going out in this state!" she screeched.

My brothers' eyes bulged out of his head and he went dark red with
anger "I AM!" he roared as Mum continued to shout at him. It wasn't
funny anymore. He suddenly went from this almost drugged up baby to a
raging psychopath. He started punching the walls, smashing them with
his fists.

"Stop it" Mum screeched.

But he didn't stop. I could feel the vibration shoot through the walls.
I hated all this. I hated living with him not knowing what was going to
happen next.

Everything went quiet. I sat up in bed thinking that it might make a
difference to what I would hear.

My brother had got a bread knife and was shaking it at my Mum's face.
She tired to walk back. I could hear her say something in a higher
pitch than usual before he grabbed and sat the knife against her
throat. This was nothing new. He had threatened me with a knife before.
One time he threatened to cut our throats while we were asleep.

"I'm going to kill you" he boiled.

I was shitting myself. I got out of bed and managed to get to Mum's
bedroom to pick up the phone. The bastard thing beeped as I picked it
up. Not sure why it does that. I wasn't sure who I was going to call
but I threw the phone back on the hook as I heard Mum yelling
again.

"Not if I kill you first". I couldn't believe it. Mum ran through the
house in to the hall where she first came in. She sat behind the door
with the other phone we kept there. I thought she was ringing the
police. I looked at my glow-in-the-dark-watch under my duvet, it was
after 1am. I could hear her shout "Who is it? It's Marion! That's who
it bloody is. Get round here now!"

Robert was in his bedroom crying. I could hear him sobbing. I felt
sorry for him but I don't know why. I wanted Mum to call the police and
have him locked up. Mum hurried about upstairs and downstairs, probably
cleaning, until the doorbell went. I can just picture her huffing and
puffing but doing a good job. We had people coming to view the house
the next day.

It was Dad at the door. I can't believe it. She called Dad. My brother
always says that Dads the reason he is like this. Fucked up in the
head. It became clear what she was doing. She was looking for a quick
fix. She saw that facing Rob with his fears would change things. If
they really are fears. I remember Dad going in to Rob's bedroom saying
all the wrong things as usual. Rob was still crying, worse than before.
You couldn't really understand what he was saying. He said he wishes he
were dead. He actually told Dad that it was his fault but the response
he had was "have you been smoking something?" Classic.

Everything was calming down. Both my parents sat with Rob for a while
trying to talk to him about things. Soon an ambulance arrived and he
was taken to hospital. I still think he should have been sectioned
although I think seeing Dad shit him up a bit. Maybe Mum's plan had
worked?

This was all about 5 years ago. Since then we've moved house. So has
Rob. He's been in 6 different places since then but always ends up back
with Mum. For the past 18 months he has slept in the living room. There
is no bed for him here but Mum covers the whole settee every night to
keep it clean and he sleeps there. I think it's crazy. Mum thinks it's
perfectly acceptable. We have three bedrooms but she won't let him stay
in there. I think she hopes that one day he will move out again. The
day the house next door goes up for sale.

I guess the image in my head is something that's already happened. I am
alone in this house and the events over the past few years have shown
me this but it just takes a while to realise. I stopped trying to talk
to Mum about things a while ago. She only wants to hear good things.
When she asks if I'm okay, she just wants to hear that I'm fine so she
can carry on with her crossword. Maybe one day I'll meet someone to
replace the void that has been there since I was 9 or 10. Until then,
at least I can pretend.

Right now, this second, I can hear my Mum downstairs telling him to get
a plate as he's eating something that's dropped crumbs on the floor. He
knows to get a plate. He just wants to be told off. He wants the
attention. It's always there. Bubbling. I think they both like it this
way.

It's a vicious circle and nobody else is invited.