The Zodiac Brother

Part Two

My hands lacked fingerprints. My blood was a glorious tinge of red that shimmered like new snow. I didn't have a story to tell. No interrogation could make me recall where I was from or who I was supposed to be. We didn't seem to exist. 

A boy who claimed to be my younger brother was leaned forward on the large desk, picking at the chipped oak finish. Information rattled from his mouth, in regards to half of the questions. "Oh, and my name's Shawn. Shawn Holmes."

The man seated behind the desk was eyeing his computer screen like a hawk. His dancing eyebrows lowered as he glanced at my brother Shawn. "According to our database, there is no Shawn Holmes."

Shawn tapped a finger to his chin. His voice went deeper and drier. "Last I knew, I existed." 

A sigh trailed from the man's mouth. He wasn't amused towards the back of of the room, where my other six brothers and sisters stood in blank defeat. Six diverse people were watching us, waiting for me to approve of the stranger. 

"Well," Shawn told the man, his thumb pointing my way. "I know his name is Vincent."

I glossed over my hands, and down my body to my feet. The hands and body of Vincent. I suddenly felt more comfortable for some reason. Maybe it was the proof of my existence, or the implication that I had a purpose and identity. Even if that meant existing to only Shawn, it was a start.

"I remember, because of that one movie about the cousin." 

"Vincent Holmes?" The man's fingers raced along the keyboard. "We're slowly getting somewhere," with a raspening tone, "I fucking wish."

Shawn added, "He's eleven."

The man gave me a brow as high as his scruffy hairline, and a mouth gaping beyond his draping mustache. "Eleven years old?" I could see my stocky 7' build reflected on his cornea, which is what I must've appeared like to him. Regarding Shawn's similar 5', the man snarled, "And you, Shawn, in this fantasy cast, must be eight? Nine?"

Shawn dragged his hand through the dreads of hair that spiked up from his head. The red patches on his arm glowed like roses against his tan skin. "Seven, I told you." 

"You would like me to believe you're seven years old-"

"Yes."

"-And that these white teenagers are your siblings?"

"Am I allowed to be half black?" Shawn's eyes abandoned the man and his fingers began stumbling around the desk. Streaks in his diamond eyes were reflecting off every trivial staple and pen tip. A dull shimmer came from underneath the clutter as Shawn uncovered a scratched name plate. "Cunningham? Fan-cy."

The man I'll call Mr. Seth Cunningham gave another look towards the other side of the room. As his face fell into his hand, the other hand fished through shimmery snack wrappers to find his phone. 

Shawn picked up a huge jar of bubblegum, nearly sliding a bundle of papers off the desk. When I went to help him open the jar, I couldn't help but notice a face hanging from the stack. An intricate pencil sketch of a man named Tatum Priatt. The deadness in his stare was only magnified by box frame glasses. Blood red lips were plastered into a sneer. The paper was ripped from my hands. 

The clamminess of Cunningham's hand was soaking into the corner of the paper. He said, "That's no business for an eleven year old!"

I told him, "It's probably not yours, either. Give it to me!"

Shawn snatched it from him. He feasted upon the sketched face as earnestly as his mouth chomped on the gum. He propped himself on a bookshelf, presenting the face for everyone to see. "Now, we all know Tatum, right? But I don't think we remember exactly who he is, or why his face is so familiar. That's the real mystery here. Why we're here, and who he is, are the questions we need to answer, not how old we are."