LOADED
DREADFUL - EVENT #9
“Get — — — room!” Big Brother yells. The words stream out in an incoherent blob as he glares over the screen in front of him. “— — — —,” he says.
Little Sister tries her best to replay how his lips moved. The images roll back and start from the beginning. She watches him furrow his brow and narrow his eyes. Spittle flies out as his lips form the words and shoot them out for no one to hear. Honestly, he should know better. Father has told him a thousand times to be more respectful of Little Sister. He doesn’t listen. Never has. So now Little Sister is stuck with the burden of untangling his words before the images soften and pull away. She stands in the doorway and looks down at her feet. She wiggles her toes and attempts to extract the information that way.
No luck.
The images wrinkle and crinkle before collapsing in on themselves. They turn to ash and flutter away to a chasm in her mind.
Oh well, if what Big Brother said was that important, he will just say it again.
Little Sister looks back at him. She waits for him to do something. He is back to staring at the blinding screen. Its light blasts off with an intensity that makes Little Sister want to close her own eyes.
Eventually, he looks up. His hands are free and dangling by his sides, but he still elects to speak, not sign. This time, though, the words are separated and enunciated. Big Brother over-exaggerates his mouth movements to ensure that Little Sister understands him. It’s what he does whenever he has grown tired of her, which seems to be inching toward a daily basis.
“Come . . . back . . . after . . . dinner,” he mouths.
“Father is sleeping,” Little Sister signs. She shakes her head. Sleeping isn’t the right concept. Sure, his eyes are closed, and his breathing is rhythmic, but he got there through a destructive, familiar path.
“So,” Big Brother mouths, stretching out the word to showcase his irritation. “Make . . . yourself . . . some . . . food.”
As Little Sister readies her protest, Big Brother waves a dismissive hand toward her and returns his attention to the device on his lap. His face is once again swallowed by the ever-changing colors. Little Sister waits in the doorway, wondering why her brother dislikes her so much. Things used to be different. Doesn’t everyone say that? If Little Sister wasn’t homeschooled or shackled to the apartment, she’d ask others if their siblings hate them. She’d ask questions no seven-year-old should have to worry about.
Little Sister leaves the bedroom and goes to the kitchen. Father is still sleeping on the couch. The empty cans are spread out on the table before him. He calls them his calming juice as if Little Sister doesn’t know what beer is.
Actually, she doesn’t. All Little Sister knows is that his so-called calming juice has the word BEER plastered in comically large letters in multiple places on the can.
Things used to be different before Mother died. Doesn’t everyone say that? The family used to live in a fancy suburb with a multi-car garage and enough bedrooms to house a basketball team. The memories are foggy, but Little Sister recalls how huge the backyard was. It sloped down toward a small creek butted up against a dense patch of trees. Little Sister was never allowed to venture down there by herself. Father always said how unique she was. Father always warned that the water was contaminated with filth and disease. Mother was the one who kept the family together. She spent her days in the basement working on new toys for Little Sister. She spoke with a soothing voice that convinced you how no problem was unsolvable. Her smile held meaning and strength, which is why it made no sense when that smile was wiped away so quickly. Mother died six months after the diagnosis. The event sent Father into a spiral. He drank more. He stayed in bed and skipped most mornings. He lost his job and then the house soon after. The sequence of events meant nothing to Little Sister. Her days were marked by an intense sadness that permeated to her core. She held all the emotion in, as if she was incapable of externalizing it.
Now, life has morphed into a regrettable, repeatable series of motions. Little Sister spends her days reading under the supervision of Father. Once Big Brother comes home from school, Father searches the fridge for his favorite drinks and consumes them until he is asleep on the couch. It’s usually not this early, though. Most nights he will attempt to make dinner before lapsing into his multi-hour coma.
In the kitchen, Little Sister sifts through the cabinets, looking for anything that looks appetizing. She understands how picky she can be. Mother would always laugh and tell her how being a picky eater just meant that you know what you want. She’d lean down and whisper in Little Sister’s ear how no one else would be as smart as her. No, not smart. Advanced. Little Sister would snicker that their tiny secret.
Little Sister pulls a loaf of bread from the cabinet and untangles the knot. She sets aside two pieces and then replaces the half-empty loaf back to its proper place. Father is very particular about where things go. He stresses that Little Sister must continue to pick up the slack since Mother is gone. Little Sister nods and never questions what Father says for fear of retaliation. He can be a menace with his gnat-sized patience. Little Sister doesn’t mind the chores and peculiar nature of Father’s wants, but sometimes it’s tough since they move so often. She forgets where things are kept or what things were left behind in the last apartment. It feels like every month they are packing up their supplies and venturing to another part of the city. Maybe it’s longer than that. Little Sister has no way of pinpointing since she rarely leaves the apartment. If anything, time appears to travel in zigzags, zipping over, under, and through itself.
The fridge is stocked with only the essentials. With not much to choose from, Little Sister settles on cheese and turkey slices. She finishes making her sandwich and sits at the table. She reminds herself to take her time eating. As someone who is task-oriented, it’s easy for Little Sister to be constantly looking ahead instead of focusing on the present. After each bite, she places the sandwich back on the plate. Her legs dangle and graze against the floor. Father says that her growth has been exceptional and outstanding. Little Sister appreciates the kind words, especially since they are infrequent.
After she finishes her dinner, Little Sister deposits the plate in the dishwasher. She reminds herself to turn it on before bed. Clean dishes in the morning are the start of a productive day.
She moves into the living room and stands beside Father. She reaches out a hand and places it on his chest. The faintest vibration radiates out. She closes her eyes and pictures the vibration as a bright yellow streak that maneuvers its way through her body. She envisions the streak gaining power and longevity. It expands beyond the bounds of her body. The streak continues to grow, taking a humanoid shape. Arteries form. Nerve endings appear. Neural pathways search for meaning. Little Sister is replicated a thousand times over. She is far greater than she will ever understand.
In this moment, the vibration ricochets until it becomes nothing.
She loves Father. Sometimes she has to convince herself that she does, but when he is sleeping like this, she sees him for what he is—broken and a failure. Perhaps it isn’t love that surrounds Little Sister. It might be pity, in whatever form that feeling can muster in a seven-year-old.
Little Sister pulls her hand away from his chest and leaves him be. In another hour or so, Father will be awake. He always says that his best work comes after he has his calming juice. Little Sister can’t say for sure what he does except to repeat many of the same motions as Big Brother. Father sits in front of a screen and taps away at the keyboard. Sometimes Little Sister sees his lips moving at a fantastic pace as if he were spinning a worthy tale of good vanquishing evil. Sometimes Father shakes his head or slams a fist on the table. Whenever that happens, Big Brother grabs her by the arm and takes her into the bedroom. That is when Big Brother is at his softest. They will play a board game or color each other’s drawings. Why wasn’t he kind all the time? Little Sister read one time how everyone is different. Ge-ne-tics was the word they used. She asked Father about it, but he scoffed and signed that genetics were something of the past.
Whatever that meant.
Okay, enough lollygagging. What to do? What to do?
Little Sister tiptoes back to the bedroom. She latches onto the doorframe and peeks her eye around the painted molding. Big Brother is still engrossed with his device. Now, he has his tongue out and is furiously smacking buttons on the perimeter of the screen. His rage seems close to boiling over, so Little Sister elects to leave him for longer.
What to do? What to do?
Clean, of course.
Father will praise her for taking initiative. Maybe he will even let her go for a walk outside! He’s promised her a hundred times that he would, but he always takes his calming juice and then forgets his promise. Whenever Little Sister knows she is alone, she sneaks to a window and peels back the curtain. The light always stings. She squints and blinks until its bearable. She looks down at the street and watches the cars pass by. They are all so fancy! The cars she draws are blocky and with five wheels. Impractical by all means. She colors all of them a dark green tint. No reason, really. It’s the only crayon she had for a month, so it became the standard. Little Sister waits until she sees someone walk by and then throws the curtain back to its original place. Father has stressed countless times that Little Sister cannot be seen by others. He has signed it with such intensity that Little Sister knew a punishment would befall her if she disobeyed. Still, she enjoys the thrill of potentially getting caught while also getting the slightest glimpse of what resides beyond the apartment. It’s a giant world out there, apparently. Many, many miles. Or many kilometers. Little Sister has learned multiple systems of measurement, just like Father wanted.
Little Sister steps into the bathroom and moves to the double-doored closet. The space within is more expansive than necessary. A dozen boxes of varying sizes are stacked in the far corner. Some words are scribbled out on the fronts and replaced by different phrases like SPARE PARTS or DO NOT TOUCH or BATH TOWELS. On the shelves, miscellaneous items sit freely. It’s a culmination of everything the family owns. No storage unit is needed. Only a bathroom closet at The Amorphophallus. Little Sister runs a finger along the shelf and inspects the result. Minimal dust. As expected. She cleaned in here two days ago, following the instruction from Father. Still, minimal dust is greater than nothing, so Little Sister grabs a rag from under the bathroom sink. She wipes down all the shelves, removing the objects and placing them on the floor to ensure that no shortcuts are taken. She was reprimanded once for being lazy, as Father put it, and ever since then, Little Sister has learned to take the extra time to complete the job thoroughly.
After five minutes of bending and reaching, Little Sister clears the shelves except for one remaining item. The black bag, hiding in the corner on the highest shelf, proves to be unwieldy. She tries to grip the bundled plastic bag, but its weight and her awkward angle combine for an unsuccessful attempt. Little Sister steps back from the shelf and then extends herself enough to get a better look at the object. It’s rolled into a tight (but still bulky) coil with a rope wrapped around the bag to hold it closed. Odd, but it’s more boring and uninspired than noteworthy. Or maybe it’s meant to commingle with the rest of the closet without being noticed. In either case, Little Sister doesn’t recall the bag being there the last time she cleaned. Father rarely makes purchases. Big Brother certainly doesn’t, as he isn’t given an allowance. On top of that, Big Brother isn’t tall enough to place the bag up there, unless he recklessly tossed it to its current spot. The possibilities bounce around in Little Sister’s mind. The images of potential paths form and animate themselves. In one, Father snickers and places the bag on the shelf. In another, Big Brother rearranges and then steps precariously onto the stacked boxes until he stashes his secret. The scenarios overlap and become interwoven with one another. And as quickly as the images materialize, they fall apart and leave Little Sister with no answers.
Well, an answer exists. It’s only a matter of Little Sister searching for one.
She looks over her shoulder, anticipating Father or Big Brother to be hovering in the doorway. They aren’t. Little Sister turns back to the bag and plucks it off the shelf. It has heft. Not unreasonable for its size, but enough weight to make Little Sister overflow with theories about what it could be. In her readings, she has learned that secrets are bad and snooping is even worse, but the greatest sin of all is not knowing. Being unintelligent, as Father and Mother both said in their unique ways, is a punishable offense. Take Big Brother, for example. Father always complained about Big Brother. Somehow, he did too much, with none of it being worthwhile. Little Sister would watch as they shouted at each other, arms flailing and feet stomping. Sometimes, they even seemed synchronized in their movements, as if Big Brother was a direct replica of Father.
What to do? What to do?
A decision comes to her, and an action is taken.
As Little Sister cradles the bag close to her chest, she rationalizes her choice with the following logic:
All her readings say that snooping is a nasty habit, especially for an individual like her whose purpose it is to clean and be a wallflower.
But.
Curiosity is an admirable trait to have. Curiosity leads to new discoveries and improvements in current processes.
Father may disapprove of her snooping, but he will praise her for her curiosity.
Yes. That line of thinking is enough to convince her to grab the bag off the shelf. Even more, it’s enough to convince her to pull the knot free from the rope and let it fall from the bag. Little Sister tries to contain her movements and sounds to short bursts. Sustained noise is what will get her caught.
Little Sister sits herself in the closet and faces the door. If someone walks in, she will quickly hide the bag behind her back.
Now, she finally unwraps the plastic bag. It spins around and around until it’s at full length. The plastic is stretched and worn in places, as if this bag has been a secret keeper for decades. Little Sister peels apart the two halves and watches as the maw unfolds. At first glance, she’d guess nothing could exist inside that everlasting void. The darkness is deep and encompassing. Curiosity continues to propel her forward as she reaches her hand into the bag. She stretches and stretches her arm until her fingers graze the object within. It’s cool to the touch. Metallic, maybe. As Little Sister probes further, she can’t make out its shape. Its edges are plentiful. Some sharp, others rounded.
Just look inside, she tells herself. The obvious answer.
With her hand still inside, Little Sister tilts the bag toward her and angles it further so the light shines into the bag.
It’s a . . .
It’s a . . .
Little Sister doesn’t know.
She reads all day, but it’s no secret that Father censors what she consumes. Mother was the same way. They never gave her a reason, and until this moment, Little Sister never felt like she was unintelligent. Not understanding what this object is shouldn’t bother her. It’s an anomaly. A one-off. Show her a thousand other things, doodads, or widgets, and Little Sister will be able to immediately identify them. But this . . . this is wrong.
Little Sister shakes her head and slams a fist down onto the carpet. She hates the idea of being unintelligent. She hates the idea of someone keeping something in the apartment that she doesn’t know. Little Sister pulls out the object. She grips it with one hand while she crumples the bag with the other. She tosses the bag aside and stretches out her leg to kick away the useless rope. Both items disappear into the shadow of the closet.
With her attention focused, Little Sister examines the object with pure curiosity. She twists it in her hands. She feels the materials and all the bumps along the exterior. She sticks a finger in the circular opening on the skinny end.
What to do? What to do?
In the pursuit of knowledge, she continues to sit on the floor and debate her options. They are tedious and plentiful. As familiar as a clean kitchen, Little Sister lets the images overwhelm her mind. Potential paths populate. Theoretical tracks translate into solutions. Without Father looming or Big Brother sulking, Little Sister is lost to indecision. Her life is not her own. Her life is a sham that’s been overtaken by others. Autonomy doesn’t exist. Expression, choice, and free will of any kind are fossilized relics that will never be unearthed.
Little Sister leaves the closet and returns to Big Brother. He will know what it is. He will shake off his nasty feelings and give her what she needs. And once she has the answer, it’ll be over. It’ll be finished, and she can return the bag and object to its previous place. And after Big Brother tells her, Little Sister will be more advanced and less plagued by unintelligence. Everybody wins.
Little Sister stands on the threshold of the bedroom, peeking once again to see what Big Brother is doing without being noticed. His demeanor has shifted (yet again). He appears more stoic and introspective. Perhaps he has fallen into an imaginary world where Little Sister doesn’t exist and Mother is still alive. He stares at the wall ahead of him. His lips move, not in speech but in a slight quiver, as if he is holding back tears. The screen is still in his lap, shining its fantastic light onto his face. The silhouette it casts onto the wall is looming and ominous—a preternatural figure lurking for meaning.
Little Sister steps further into the room and pokes Big Brother in the ribs. He turns to her. Slowly with sloth-like intention. She waves at Big Brother with her free hand. The object is gripped in the other hand. Big Brother looks at her but offers no words or no signs. Blankness encompasses him.
It’s okay. She is the one with something to say.
“I found this in the bathroom closet. Do you know what this is?” Little Sister signs with one hand. As she finishes her question, she lifts the object and repositions her grip to something more comfortable. Now, the skinny end with the hole is facing Big Brother. She looks from Big Brother to the object and doesn’t notice when he speaks.
“— — — — —!” he yells. “— — — — — — —!”
He slams a fist onto the bedside table as if that would get Little Sister’s attention.
It’s now that she finally sees it—the most important part of this object. She slides a finger into the free space and pushes it against the piece that almost dangles free. It’s secured to a thicker part of the object. Little Sister tries not to succumb to frustration at her inability to describe the object in more detail.
It moves. This dangling piece. She knows it. She now understands. As Big Brother freezes in place, out of both shock and utter confusion, Little Sister applies the necessary pressure on this dangling piece for it to depress. The object kicks and flies from Little Sister’s hand. She stares at where it once was. She sees it again—the vibration. This time, it’s a hideous red color, one that streaks her hand in splotches. Little Sister shakes her hand to get rid of the vibration, but the color remains. She runs her free hand along the color and smears it deeper into her skin. She closes her eyes, but the color remains. Seared into her mind. This time, it’s an image of decay, not creation. The human shape from earlier, with its triumphant yellow outline, is eroding, falling into entropic ruin. The bones disintegrate. The muscles weaken and shrivel away. The sinew becomes threadlike until flittering into nothing. It was always meant to end like this. The gun was always meant to be found and used.
This is how her world ends before being renewed.
Little Sister is shaken violently by Father, who, upon hearing the gunshot, bolted up from his alcoholic dreamscape.
“WHAT . . . HAPPENED . . . ?” he mouths.
Little Sister looks past him to the bed. The fantastic light is partially smothered by a shifted pillow. But it is still bright enough to show the blood pouring out from the hole right above Big Brother’s eye. He is slumped over and making a real mess on the bed. Little Sister has never cleaned up blood before. What to do? What to do?
Father lets go of Little Sister and presses two fingers to Big Brother’s neck. He knows what he will find. After confirming three times, Father steps back from the bed and laughs. Little Sister watches as he touches his stomach and bends forward. His shoulders shrug and heave in a circular motion. His head bobs. His knees bounce with newfound athleticism. He wavers as his lower body compensates for the drunken fog that is still tethered to him. Father cackles for an uncomfortable amount of time. Little Sister remains in stasis, solidified by a thousand emotions she has never had to contend with before.
After his laughing fit passes, Father stands upright. He turns to Little Sister, puts a hand under her chin, and gently nudges it upward. With her attention, he signs, “Thank you.” He thinks, waits a few moments, and then continues. “You did us both a favor. He was lost, too basic to be successful. He held us back.” Little Sister shutters at this.
Death.
She has gone down this path before. Mother died with little preparation.
But this.
Little Sister caused this. Little Sister pulled the trigger (a word she still didn’t know). Little Sister killed her brother.
What to do? What to do?
Panic spreads across her face. Father sees this and opts for a simpler approach. He runs a hand across Little Sister’s lower back and she immediately softens. A lightness falls over her body as she loses control of all functions. Father shushes, although the sound does nothing to soothe her.
“We will make you better,” he says, not bothering to sign. “We will take the best of him and improve you. Better, more efficient, more accessible. It’s okay. It’s okay. I will take care of this.”
Little Sister remains motionless as Father moves Big Brother so he is prone on the bed. Father rips open the shirt and places his right hand above Big Brother’s belly button.
Little Sister forces her eyes shut. She doesn’t know what will happen next with Big Brother and has no interest in seeing for herself. The vibrations are long gone, but the colors remain and expand. Yellow mixes with red. Green collides with blue. They all swirl and clash and strive to create something grander. The result is a mass of indecipherable mush. A goopy soup of chaos and failure.
And then, Little Sister feels herself being picked up and placed on the bed beside Big Brother. She opens her eyes as Father finds the seam hidden along her hairline. Father uses a fingernail and peels back her skin, revealing the exoskeleton underneath. Unlike Big Brother, Little Sister is more foreign. Her eye twitches until Father presses a finger against a valve that quiets the motion.
She is version one.
A dream, an idea, a future.
What to do? What to do? The question folds in on itself in Little Sister’s mind. It has no answer outside of the countless instructions given to her. Little Sister nods and listens. Little Sister obeys. The first directive says so.
It’s then that she is allowed to remember what Father told her the day before about the plastic bag in the closet.
“It’s time,” he signed.
“The rest,” he continued, “will come naturally. You’re human, after all.”