The Love of a Brother by Olivia Jenkins

Memories make up a person. Every event, every detail of a person’s life, lodged in their brain like a tough nail or a stubborn splinter. We keep them playing on a loop: a constant reminder that we are alive.

Jack, however, lived in a repeating cycle of questioning whether he was, in fact, alive. He had very little to prove that his heart was working to preserve this twenty-year-old, burdensome body. It was as if, somewhere along the way, he’d shapeshifted into a completely blank brain with no evidence of ever having lived. The hands that helped elderly women with their shopping bags didn’t feel like his own, the blue-green eyes that had witnessed the laughter of friends and the soft smiles of brothers and sisters now seemed dull and grey, and without knowledge of life’s small but meaningful pleasures.

Jack was reluctant to speak. He kept himself silent until the time came when speaking was unavoidable. Speaking his mind did not come naturally. Jack was not anti-social and did not despise speaking in public places; on the contrary, he loved spending time with other people and much preferred how he was when other people were around. He thrived off other people’s energy. It was the constant questioning and worrying of whether people approved of what he said that made him more reserved.

‘Jack, is it?’ the lady started, receiving just a nod from Jack. ‘Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?’.

About myself, Jack thought. About myself, about myself, he repeated in his head, as if the mantra would somehow conjure up the memories that answered that question. This quietness could play to his advantage. He didn’t have to be the man everyone dared not look at, in fear of glimpsing what grief can do to a person.

Up until this point in his life, Jack had been a replica of his older brother, although they weren’t twins. Sibling relationships are unique; no one understands a person like their brother or sister.

There’s a peculiar juxtaposition with siblings. You may simultaneously want to banish them to a state of eternal suffering, yet wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet for them. However, the connection between Jack and his brother was particularly unusual. It’s one thing to admire and copy your older sibling; it’s another to parallel their entire personality.

When his brother laughed, Jack studied the way his lips moved up into his cheeks, and how his entire body leaned back as his voice bellowed with joy. When his brother was uncomfortable or scared, Jack studied the way his back slumped forward, in an attempt to shorten himself and become invisible. These habits became a ritual, until Jack could no longer recognise his own characteristics or behaviours and was practically a clone of his brother.

Jack hadn’t needed to live up to people’s expectations,  because his brother was already a perfect example. For twenty years - Jack thought now - he couldn’t recall any flaws… until there came a day when Jack was left a hollow shell of a soul. Until, for the love of God, he couldn’t possibly think of an answer to a question so simple as ‘tell me about yourself?’.

‘My name’s Jack.’ He coughed and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, I live in the city. A very pretty city, very “me”, I think.’ His eyes tried to catch onto absolutely anyone else in the room, and he grew more paranoid when the attempt to validate his answer failed.

‘The city makes more aware, I think. People say it can rot your brain into an automated person, rather than a living, breathing soul… but I don’t feel I’ve been subjected to that yet.’

‘How so?’ the woman asked.

‘Well, I sometimes notice things; things most city people tend to overlook. The girl in front of me on the bus here: she was reading one of my favourite books. She…. She was about to finish a chapter I had re-read about six times to take in every single detail: everything there was to know. I could tell it was her first time reading it. She was engrossed and her head was barely above the page… And she didn’t care that her hair was sliding out of her bun. At one point, the bus driver started having a row with someone trying to board without paying, and not once did her eyes lift from the page. It reminded me of someone I used to know.’

When Jack stopped talking, the room felt suddenly quiet to him. He thought to convince everyone that he wasn’t some eldritch stalker who had found his next intriguing victim, though he decided against it. Best not to add fuel to the fire.

‘I wouldn’t. Best not to add fuel the fire,’ someone said. Jack snapped his head up to stare at the man sitting opposite him. He studied the way the man was gazing at his shoes; the way he was attending to his shoelaces instead of whatever was going on in the room; and Jack found it hard to believe he was the one who had repeated the words in his head.

‘That’s not the one you’re looking for. I’d thought you’d recognise my voice.’

The rhythm of the words, paired with that coarse yet calming voice, hit Jack like an out-of-body experience. His thoughts descended into disarray. He’d hoped to hear this voice more times than one would think was possible, and thought if - by some unimaginable miracle, it happened - he would forget whatever grudge he had against religion and praise God for as long as he lived. Yet now, in this moment, witnessing the man with his own eyes standing in front of him, he was unsure whether to feel elated or horrified.

As an adult, Jack could conceal his inability to understand himself enough that the general population of people he met didn’t question his existence. As a child, though, he stuck out like a sore thumb. 8-year-old Jack was incapable of making or keeping friends, and 12-year-old Jack was perpetually unsure of what he liked or wanted to do with his life. Which is why everything he ever did, he did with his brother.

If his brother made a friend, it was their friend. If his brother took up a hobby, it was their hobby. There was some resentment between the two, as their parents and grandparents quite clearly preferred his brother; a perfect, handsome, sociable young man. Jack loathed him at times, but his jealousy quickly turned into a crippling desire to be just like him.

Every day, when his brother’s attention was occupied, Jack would sneakily take a couple of his clothes, borrow his hair wax and style it in the same, neat updo, then spray his aftershave, and smile with the same number of teeth showing.

He attended his brother’s football matches and eventually made the team, both of them scoring and assisting every single game. ‘Double trouble brothers’.

There was one incident, back in high school, when his brother got a girlfriend. There was some jealousy at first, but then Jack also got a girlfriend, and felt at ease again… until the day came for his brother to meet her, and all hell broke loose.

She looked exactly like his brother’s girlfriend, even down to their noses; they were pretty much identical. That’s when his brother finally lost his shit, and they didn’t speak for two months. Neither of them stayed with their girlfriends very long. Jack had cursed his brother without even knowing it; it would forever be just the two of them.

Until it wasn’t.

‘What’s the matter, Jack? Seen a ghost?’ The woman asked.

The irony in this joke would’ve spelled Jack to the floor with laughter, had he not actually been staring into the eyes of a ghost. Jack searched for signs he was no longer amongst the living – surely he wouldn’t still feel their heart beating if it was no longer doing its job?  Pulse still there, my heart is beating, I have a beating heart. I’m still warm, my body isn’t cold, I feel warm.

‘Your pulse is still there, your heart is beating, you have a beating heart. You’re still warm, your body isn’t cold. You feel warm.’

Jack stared at Josh. Joshua, his dead brother. He interrogated the authenticity of the man: his eyes, lips, skin, clothes, hair, and hands all seemed normal. Jack didn’t think of himself as a spiritual person, and rarely indulged in the belief of ghosts, demons, angels… But how was he supposed to rationalise this?

For the past three months, Jack had been dedicated to erasing the memory of watching his brother die. But now he found himself clinging to it: torturing himself just to cling to reality. The last movement of his body, the shattering silence that weighed over everyone cursed to watch… this harrowing memory meant nothing if Jack’s twisted wish had come true. Jack let out a huff at the sick joke life had played on him.

‘You’re not dead Jack, yet. Your body isn’t, at least.’ Josh paused. ‘I know you wake up with the fear of having to live another day – that you’re desperate to close your eyes. You think I haven’t been watching you?’

Josh had been loved by all who looked at him, so of course everyone was grieving and falling apart. However, they all would live. They would find a part of themselves that made it worthwhile to carry on, and experience life with the memory of him.

But Jack couldn’t live without his brother. There was no life without him. Any trace of his brother left in Jack himself, he’d made sure no longer existed: his family didn’t deserve two bereavements. The guilt Jack felt was almost as unbearable as the memory of him.

‘Jack, I can help you. I can make all of this go away.’ Josh moved slowly towards Jack, until he was looking down at him. Then he knelt in front of him and held out his hand. It was only then that Jack noticed his brother was wearing white. It made his blue eyes welcoming and kind.

‘I can fix everything. You will no longer feel empty, afraid, alone. You don’t have to steer anymore, Jack, you can let go. Hold out your hand,’ Josh whispered calmly. ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hand. Hold my hand.’

 Their fingertips touched, and palms melted into one. Jack felt his brother’s presence envelope his soul – not like an invasion, more like a much-needed hug.

Jack knew he was finally free.

‘Jack, are you alright?’ the woman asked.

Josh switched his attention to the man directly opposite once again, only this time he met his gaze and locked eyes immediately. Wisps of silver painted his pupils, with wrinkles and scars to match his wisdom.

‘You’ve got the most fascinating blue eyes.’

Josh remained still and silent for a moment before smiling.

‘Thank you.’

Illustration by Sky Costello-Ross

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About the author: Olivia Jenkins (@livvjn). My name is Liv and I'm currently a second year student at UWE studying creative writing. My love of writing actually started when I was pursuing acting. For two years I studied at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama, and was given the opportunity to write my own pieces. I write mostly fiction, drawing on not only my own life experiences but also those closest to me. I find it gives me a strength I never knew I had but simultaneously helps others better understand themselves through characters similar. I feel my experiences, traumas and moments travel through my work, but in a different light.