The light of day scatters across the room through the slates of the blinds. As my eyes adjust to the incisive light, images of last night seem to glare gravely in my mind’s eye. A barrage of remorse settles over me.
Last night, all was well. That was, until I allowed myself to be swept up in the intoxication of obsessive love and impetuous actions. That obsessive love and my impetuous actions fueled me to kill a man. One is amazed at how much damage and evil he can do when he is intoxicated. It is important to note that the man I killed wasn’t just a man, in fact, we were rather very close; in fact, he was my brother.
As I sit here on the edge of my bed, I allow my mind to recreate the sordid account. It was late when I visited my brother, around9:00at night. I had decided to go over to see what he was up to. I’d had a bad day at work and wanted to relieve myself of stress and anxiety. Though it was fairly late in the night, I knew he would be up and inviting. Approaching his house, I saw it engrossed in darkness—the porch light wasn’t even lit. Deciding to inspect every angle of the house, I did. I found a dim light shining through the shade of a window in the back of the house. It was coming from my brother’s office; he was still up. I went to the back door and knocked softly. I heard the scooting of a chair on the wooden floor and heavy steps. Behind the door, a muffled inquiry came through.
“It’s your brother,” I said.
The latches and locks were released, and I was greeted by his silhouette. Except the faded light in the background coming from his office, there was none. He let me in, and we walked to his office. The house was quiet. Everyone else was fast asleep. The lamp situated on the edge of his desk cast our shadows across the walls. They were long and exaggerated, almost grotesque. He offered me a seat across the desk, and I took it. We exchanged pleasantries. I talked about my problems with my job and how it needed to do this, that, and the third to make everyone’s life easier.
He asked if I wanted a drink, I complied. He left to fetch the refreshments. I took this time to scan my eyes across his desk. I laid them on a pile of accumulated papers. They were creased from being folded. Also scattered on the desk were envelopes. Some were opened, and others were still sealed. From those partially exposed, I acquired the knowledge that they were love letters. Wondering why my brother would have a collection of love letters casing his desk, I picked one up and read it.
Reading the letter brought back a recollection of thoughts. The words, phrases, concept, and topic reminded me of an instance when I had written something of the sort. I placed that letter down and confusingly picked another to read. Again, I remembered writing a letter with the basis of love as its topic in the same format. And then it hit me—they were the letters I’d written. Panicking, I tentatively selected a closed envelope. Written across the center of the envelope, lay the name and address of Maria Little. Moving my gaze to the upper left corner, my name and address were scribbled.
The realization settled heavily on me, and I began to panic. Maria was my brother’s wife. My brother had found out that I loved his wife, and that she was contemplating leaving him for me. I did not want him to know that for obvious reasons of course, but also because this was the first time I had truly loved someone intimately. It was my love I felt for Maria and no one else’s. I had finally possessed something that was entirely mine. The love I had to offer her was exclusively mine, and only I could give it to her. And now, he had found out. He learned of our plans to run away together. Sure she would come and visit the children sometimes, but she would always come back to me.
I began to wonder what was taking my brother so long. Though I was in really no condition to drink anything, I was curious about his delay. Then he came back. He did not have a tray of drinks in his hand; instead, he had a gun pointed straight at me. Getting up slowly I raised my hands to show that I was in no fashion to put up a fight. My brother stood there with damp and fuming eyes. I agreed to leave his home and never write Maria again.
Those were my pleas as we stood alone in the dimly lit room. He promised that if I ever stepped foot in his house or wrote Maria, he would kill me. I said I understood and was ready to take my leave. He followed me to the back door with the gun pressed against my back. It was quite painful, and I was getting irritable that he led me like I was some condemned criminal walking to the noose.