the third person

01

ARTHUR

Have you ever lied down on your bed and stared at the ceiling on that one day when your life wasn't feeling like shit, and you're just like, yeah, maybe the world isn't that bad. And then your mind just quiets down, yet two seconds later, you're like, I still wish I were dead, though. I don't get why is it so difficult to understand, the lack of experiencing humanity is not what made me this way. I've experienced humanity, I find a little worth in this world every day, I have reasons to live, and I have a family. I have people who would cry if I died, I'm sure many don't, and I'm grateful. 

It's the ache. The body aches. From your bone to the inside of your heart, it aches. I'm not sure why, and I don't have the words to explain it either. I've never been good at explaining my feelings in the first place. Why, you ask? Well, because I have spent a long time pretending I didn't get any feelings so that people didn't see me as too emotional or feminine.

I have a twin brother. I wouldn't call him my polar opposite, or my carbon copy. We're alike in some ways and different in others. The thing about being twins is that even though you both look the same, you have different ways of treating your body, clothing, food, etc. We look the same, but anyone can tell who's who. 

For one, I have no tattoos and no intentions of getting any. 

Two, he lives in his loose tank tops and I never wear anything apart from oversized hoodies and sweatpants. 

Three, he has a buzzcut, while I haven't gone for a haircut since 8th grade.

But we're still brothers. Our father, Frank Joy, always says that we started looking different in 4th grade, which was when I started getting bullied and Asher (Ash) started getting into fights with the bullies. I never understood the need for violence, I have been quite reserved my entire life. But then I was told that my brother has been trying to take care of me ever since our mother died.

I have never looked at him the same.

It was also bizarre, that even though I am the 'emo roaster' of the school, who hardly talks unless talked to, and who hardly wakes up smiling, Asher was the one who got cancer. 

Stage 0, we were told. It was diagnosed when he was sick with pneumonia. The pneumonia never went away; the family doctor got suspicious and asked our father to get him further checked. Stage 0 lung cancer is curable, it would be fine. But the medicines didn't work for some reason, or maybe our father didn't have enough money to get treatment in a big hospital, but the cancer advanced to Stage I.

Lung cancer sucks. My brother went from straight-up bad boy to sad boy. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't do anything. Our Aunt forced him to join this church gathering every Sunday. Everyone acts as if he's going to die. It doesn't help. Our father is the only optimistic person, and that doesn't help either.

My mother's family never really talked to us after she died. But when they heard about the cancer situation, they showed up with billions in their bank account, a Lamborghini, and bodyguards. I will never forgive my father for not telling me we're half rich.

I did not hear the entire conversation, but my Nana didn't want another person in her family to die. My father refused and declined their money but they forced it in. I sat with Grandpa during dinner, quietly. We didn't have a lot to talk about. 

Suddenly he began answering an unasked question. "Your father was unbelievably in love with her. He was not in the same position as us, economically, but one look at Frank was enough for us to believe he would take good care of our daughter. Money is not what you need to shower someone with love, kid, remember that."

I blinked at him blankly for a moment. "So, after mom died-"

"After Mary died, he was devastated. But he took it as a challenge. He became your mother and your father." Grandpa's old and frail hands shook as he picked up the wine glass. The ice rattled softly. "Frank is a good man, Art. Learn things from him."

"Why did you never come to visit?"

He took a sip and set the glass down again. "He asked us not to. He didn't want his kids to be reminded of something they didn't have. He wanted to prove to himself that he could do it on his own, without any help from his in-laws. Your father's parents died 2 years after his marriage. He was alone if not for Mary. Then he became alone again." Grandpa sighed heavily, picking up the glass again and leaning back in his chair. "He will not let either of you slip out of his hands, mark my words."

I nodded at my grandfather as he smiled through his bushy white mustache, the wine glass touching his lips. I sighed quietly as I looked down at New York. You couldn't see a lot from this excluded region of the city. 

"He's going to get better," I spoke aloud, all of a sudden. Grandpa looked at me in surprise. "Asher. He's going to get better." 

After a deep breath- "He'd better."