Greatest

16: to signify the slaughter of the gods.

Dinner is blessedly quick followed by an early evening with no knife practice. Our father is busy, thank the gods, so my leg is not discovered. My mother fusses a bit and asks if it really hurts that much. She knows my pain threshold. I just tell her I'm trying not to hurt it worse.
Micheal and I put on club clothes, tight jeans, nice enough shirts, black of course to hide blood, and then we depart. The agents aren't expecting shenanigans this early in the visit, and we are cleanly off the property within a half an hour. Peter is prepped to lie for us though he's sad he's not going. We assure him we'll tell him all about it.
"You look like a fag," Micheal says, looking at me as we wait outside of the assgined club.
"Maybe I am a fag," I say, fiddling with my phone. For reference, I'm wearing a black t-shirt, very tight, v-necked, that has long sleeves that fray as they get to my wrists. What little hair I have is severely slicked back and I'm wearing eyeliner. I considered (by which I mean debated for a half an hour) sending a picture of myself to Bradley then I did not. However, take my word, for it I look less like a patient in a trauma unit than usual and more like somebody who might be safe to be out. I'm wearing my best tight black jeans, and black running shoes. I stare down at them and not at Micheal. To be clear, he's also wearing club clothes of a black button up, black jeans, and he's wearing a chain necklace, as well as grey eyeshadow. We have to blend in and look, like we're boys out partying, not murderers. Also, our clothes can't look like we're concealing knives which we are.
"What? Don't say that," he says.
"Would that be the worst thing that I am, Mike?" I ask, lighting a cigarette and handing it to him.
"Where'd you get that?" He asks. We're not supposed to smoke. That doesn't, strictly, stop us.
"My fencing coach, stole it," I shrug,
"Are you?"
"What?"
"You know what?"
"Is who I want to fuck anything worse than everything else I am?" I sigh.
"Don't tell me this. I can't know, you know Dad'll ask," he groans, rubbing his face.
"Tell him. I don't care."
"What is with you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You're gay now? That why you're like this?" he shifts, frowning at me.
"I'm not like anything. And I'm pretty sure I was always gay, I don't know if I was always a murderer. I'm trying to figure that out," I say, showing a fake ID to bouncer at the door. We both get in, naturally.
"Why are you telling me this?" He groans.
"Why not? Shouldn't someone know me before—," before I go. I wince. The music is loud in here. Really loud.
"Not that, no, I can't know that. Is that why you wanted to go away to school?" Micheal asks. "What about—why not—have you not tried being with girls?"
"I think dad has told you and basically everyone how that went," so our father has brought us prostitutes starting age fifteen, anytime we do a killing. He explained it was a reward. He has since told basically anyone ever I'd refused and/or been unable to complete an act with any of them. Not that our father participates. No. I realize I make him out to be a total bastard, and that's because he absolutely is, but if nothing else he is painfully loyal to our mother. So he gets like, a half of a percent of a point for being an okay human being? Maybe? No? Okay, we'll go on with my story.
I'm standing in a crowded club, coming out to my homophobic brother who is one of my two valid family members, I'm gonna be dead in under year. That's what we're doing here.
"You're not just—don't, you don't have to be everything dad hates," he sighs.
"Maybe I do, maybe I'm just made this way. Maybe nothing is going to save me, I don't know, maybe I was never worth it, I don't know. I don't know anything. But you said I look like a fag and yeah I fucking do because I fucking am," I say, holding onto his arm, not so he won't leave, but also because there's a lot of flashing lights and the whole room is spinning.
"You don't—just don't say that all right? Is this about something? Did you meet someone?" He asks, frowning.
"Yes, but that didn't make me gay," I sigh.
"Who?"
I shake my head.
"Yeah, probably best—you know could you not? For you? I realize you're doing a rebellion thing and you want to be normal, but that's not gonna work. We don't get that, so fuck a guy if you want I don't care, but dad is going to so can you be less of whatever it is you're trying to be?"
"No, no, that's the thing Micheal I've done that. Too much, I can't," I say, snagging a drink off a passing tray, and downing it quickly, "I'm going to get completely drunk. And I'm going to continue being gay. Might get gayer, you never really know. And I'm not going to kill anyone. Because this shit tastes fucking great. Boys are very beautiful to me. One in particular, but in general, boys, just stellar, and I am going to be, absolutely, everything that I am and that I can be. And I highly recommend you join me."
"What is the matter with you? You're not like this, Cyrus—," he tries to take my arm again then thinks better of it. "This isn't you."
"No—this—this is me! All that, that was never me. I've never been so much I don't even know who I am—not anymore. And I hate it, I really really hate, hating me and I can't do it anymore, so if you want to do this murder, fine, have your fun, please dad. Because I'm going to get black out drunk and hopefully forget I exist," I say, finding another drink. My head is pounding. I find pills in my pocket and take them with a shot of whiskey.
"Look just—I've got to go kill these people," he checks his phone, "Just—fine stay there if you want. I can do it myself."
"Don't tell dad I helped you."
"I fuckin' will. You want to self-destruct that's fine. But I'm not going to help you," he says, not moving to leave.
My phone starts buzzing. That's the ring tone (well not ring tone but the buzz setting thing I set up for him, it's on silent because I'm under thirty and I don't like noise).
"Is that him?" Micheal asks, staring at my face.
I sigh.
"Just answer it, whatever, we'll talk about this when I get back, try to be somewhat coherent," he says, turning to walk away.
"Not if I can help it," I mutter, as take my phone from my pocket. It is Bradley, trying to call me. But pick up? And tell him what's going on? Where I am? What am I supposed to say? This club is too loud I can't even hear him. I lean on my cane, breathing heavily.
I try to hit it to text him, but the phone tumbles from my hands unbidden.
And then just as I realize what is happening I fall to the floor.
And stupidly, as I begin having a seizure, my thought is that I need to get to my phone. That Bradley can't think I ignored his call I would not willingly do that to him. And that someone is going to step on my phone and that it'll be broken and I won't get to look at that picture of him and that honestly that was the only way I was going to get through the aforementioned sexual encounter that will occur soon here if my father has any say in it. And I need that phone he texts me on it and I like it and his picture is there.
But I can't reach it. I slip in and out of the seizure, vaguely aware of everybody moving around me and the flashing lights and the pounding music as my body jerks on the floor. I'm aware of how much it hurts when my head strikes the cement floor of the club. And I realize that crawling is doing no good because I'm not getting anywhere. And someone steps on me. And they all probably think I'm drunk.
And that if they call 911 or throw me out I won't get my phone back. And I need my phone. And now Micheal and I fought and it was really my fault. And this isn't stopping. This isn't stopping I'm still in a seizure and I can't move and if this is how I die Bradley will never know what happened and Micheal will have us arguing be the last thing we did and he'll blame himself.
And I really need to get up and get my phone and move but I barely roll myself onto my stomach before I convulse painfully again my head hitting the floor. And my head hurts so bad and there's so many lights. And perhaps it would be all right to die eventually but now is very, very, very inconvenient.
And then arms are lifting me up.
"He's fine. He's fine, my brother has epilepsy that's all. I get him outside, don't call anyone. He's fine," Micheal is picking me up, just scooping me up in his arms. I'm coming back and going limp. As the pain fades in out and all the lights glitter above his head.
"What the fuck? Talk to me, what the fuck?" Micheal is less gentle when he gets me outside. We're in just like a back alley. They let him out here, him claiming I needed fresh air.
"Just—just a minute," I cradle my head, "Thank you—"
"What the fuck just happened to you? You don't have epilepsy I know that—since when—? Give me one good reason I shouldn't let them call 911 right the fuck now," Micheal says, he's literally shaking.
I look up at him, tears in my eyes, the usual flood of lies heavy on my lips.
"Did you have too much to drink? Was that it? What were those pills you took? Are you high?" He asks, his voice calming as the reasonable explanations come to him.
All I have to do is say yes.
All I have to do is say yes.
That's it. He even provided me with the lies so easy. I already told Shane it's just epilepsy. He'd buy it certainly. He's my little brother. And I am a fabulous liar.
Or I was.
I shake my head no, very slowly, feeling hot tears running down my face as I sit on the edge of a concrete step, my head still spinning.
"What were those pills you took?" Micheal asks me hands quivering as he tries to figure out what to do with them, stuff them in his pockets, fold them, anything but throttle me.
"Opioids," I whisper, my own voice thin and weak.
"What? You're doing drugs now?" He asks.
"They're from the doctor I go to see," I say, "I didn't—I did lie to you. They are for my head."
"But those are addictive," he shakes his head, frowning.
"Yeah, it doesn't matter. I don't have migraines, Mike," I say, taking a deep breath of cold, smoggy air.
"What?" He asks, staring at me, not letting the realization dawn on him.
"It's called glioblastoma," I say, pushing myself up as I lean against the brick of the club. I have to be standing, somehow, to say this, or I'll stop saying it. "It's cancer."
"What?" Micheal chokes, "What—no, you're not in therapy—they do chemotherapy."
"They do if it's going to work," I say, tears streaming down face now, "I have brain cancer. It's glioblastoma. It occurs in the brain and spinal cord and it's very fast growing. It grows its own blood supply—,"
"Shut up, shut up," Micheal says, shaking his head, eyes glistening with tears in night lights of the city.
"—and so they can't remove it. With surgery that is, because it's too deep in, and too attached to the brain. The little radiation they can do they do every week or so and at the last scan it wasn't even doing any fucking good. Because it's mostly through my cerebral cortex, hence the seizures," I say, my voice weirdly leaden with the truth. "I have brain cancer. An aggressive type. The worst. And there's less than a 5% chance I'll live more than five years. As of August there was less than a 25% chance I would even live a year."
"No," Micheal denies it, boldly, his hands turning into fists.
"Hence the seizures. Hence the headaches, it's literally—filling, my fucking brain. And I'm gonna die. Soon. It already took my leg. I can't feel anything in it because it got that part of my brain and it's gonna get more, and one day I'm not gonna come out of the seizure, I'm not gonna wake up," I say, biting my own lips to stop my crying.
Micheal just stares at me, for a long moment, tears overflowing his eyes, then when he does fly at me I don't expect the rage, he shoves me agains the wall my shirt knotted in his fist as he restrains himself from punching me, "Fuck you! Why—-why wouldn't you tell me? Fuck you, you know what? Fuck you—why wouldn't you tell me!?"
"Because I'm scared!" I cry, my voice cracking with tears.
He lets me go, backing away, shaking his head.
"I'm scared! I'm so scared I'm not—I'm not ready! I'm not ready to be over," I say, tears overflowing my eyes and spilling down my cheeks, "I'm not done yet. I am so—so not done yet and I'm fucking scared. I don't want to go."
He walks up and hugs me, trembling as badly as I am, tears cold now on his cheeks as he clings to me.
"I don't want you to go," he says, his voice shaking.
"It looks like I am."
"Why didn't you tell me?" He sobs.
"I didn't want it to be true. I'm so scared I can't—I can't see you and Peter and mom, I can't see you guys that scared and I don't know what dad is gonna do he'll want me to go to a different hospital and different doctors and I can't I just want to be normal I don't have that much time left and I want to go to clubs with my brother and get drunk and I want to go swimming, and I want to be kissed, and I want to be happy because I don't know what's gonna happen and I'm so, so, so scared," I say, clinging to him, tears just streaming down both of our faces, noses running. The salty tears stinging the lines of acne on my jaw, as we stand, cold and smelling like cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey, in the dark alley.
"I'm so sorry," he says, touching my head, almost gingerly, "Cancer? Did they—they can't—,"
"They can't take it out, Mike," I sigh, "It's like, I said. It's growing into my brain so they can't rip it out and it grows faster than the radiation kills it. I haven't—I haven't got a lot of time."
"And they can't give you drugs—"
"They do. This is it. This is as good as it's ever gonna get. It's only gonna get worse from here and yeah, I knew I couldn't lie forever. I just really wanted to. I don't wanna die from cancer," I say, pressing my face into his shoulder.
"No, no, no, okay, okay we gotta think, I gotta think," Micheal breaths, rubbing the back of my shaved head, "You're right. We can't tell 'em. If you're gonna die here, you don't need to spend your last few days going to different experts."
"I don't want them to cut me open. I just want to die someplace, and you can sink my body in a lake, okay?" I ask, "Don't let them cut me all open and see how big it was or anything. Just let me go."
"Okay, okay, we'll do that, yeah," his breath is coming in short, "No, we can't tell dad he'd want you to go to all sorts of tests and pull out of school—so we can't tell mom she would tell dad."
"Peter?" I ask, quietly.
"Peter," he breaths.
"He's not gonna really remember me, in the end. I'll die before he's eight years old," I say.
"It's okay. Just have fun with him, after you die I'll tell him you had an aggressive cancer, that I knew, and when he's bigger I'll tell him why all that, what it was, so we know, so we can get tested or whatever if it's hereditary."
"No, it's rare."
"Oh great. Lucky us."
"Yeah. Yeah."
We both almost laugh at that.
"You okay?"
"I can't fucking stand. I can barely feel my leg, my brain is infected with poison alien goop. The boy I like doesn't know it. And I'll be dead within a year. I'm pretty fucking far from okay. But this is as close as I'm gonna get. As I'm ever gonna get," I sigh, still leaning against him.
"Okay um—so yeah, you're right. We can't tell anyone um—how—how are you gonna go do you know or—" his voice cracks as he spins his hands trying to make some sense of it.
"I'll probably have some more neurological issues, then, eventually, like, I'm just gonna be comatose. Please pull the fucking plug and dump my alien-goop-infected-ass into the nearest body of water," I say.
"Yeah. Got it. I can do that. All right, what—what about the agents—,"
"They think it's epilepsy. They get to keep thinking that until you know, I don't wake up," I sigh, "I may get super incapacitated but be in hospice, or whatever, and um at that point I'm probably just gonna fucking shoot myself. You and Peter and mom can come and say goodbye that's cool but whatever last conversation I have with dad is good we'll just leave it there it's not like he'd miss me."
"Okay, okay, okay, cool, cool, I can handle this," he breaths deeply.
"You always could. You were always the stronger."
"Fuck no! Don't fucking say that. I needed you, you fucking jackass," he shakes me basically, "You don't get to fucking leave me and act like I'll be okay or it was meant to be this way, it doesn't, it doesn't fucking work like that."
"Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got brain cancer. I'm sorry I'm dying of brain cancer; it's very selfish. And inconsiderate of me."
"Fucking is. You fucking prick," he hugs me.
"So this is worse than the gay thing right?"
"Shut up," He squeezes me tightly. He's grown so strong in recent years, so tough. Like he's made of bricks he can withstand anything. Even me dying of cancer.
"I'm gonna miss you," I whisper.
"Not yet. Not yet we have right now, tonight," he says, "What do you want to do?"
"Did you kill those people?" I ask.
He shakes his head no, "They were shouting, man, they were gonna call 911 cause you were having a seizure I didn't think it was you not at all but something made me—but I looked and you were lying there, twisting on the floor and I didn't recognize you at first like you were all twisted up and shaking. I figured you'd taken some drugs when you took those pills."
"I mean they are drugs, but—,"
"Yeah no, um, no I never killed them, hell they probably left. So, you're fucking dying of cancer. We're still AWOL for the night. Want do you want to do?"