The Writer: An Afterthought



There was once a little boy, crying in the highlands of a wolf that didn’t exist. He scared his little brother, bullied him to no end, and sometimes secretly hated his mother. The little boy grew big and tall, scaring the town with his stories. His little brother remained small and spent most of his time writing mysteries.
One day he walked through the park, hearing stories of the woods and saw his little brother hiding away in a hood. He followed him in silence and whispered through the moors, promised the little boy he will be scared no more. The little brother heard the strange voice and made his choice and dreamt of the days when he’d finally rejoice. The big brother walked right behind him in silence making up nightmares in his deep dark conscience.
It started with the neighbor’s dog, he whiled away all day long and whined deep into the night like a song. The big brother went and whispered in the little one’s ear about how there will be an accident this year. The dog would die under a car and be dragged along six feet far.
The sixteenth was special, for she had turned him down. Big brother was angry at her sweet sound; he told his little brother what he’d do. The little wrote it all through and through.
When his mother saw the words “set me free”, the evil of it all she could see. He then told his brother the story of how, a single mom will be hanging herself now.
The little brother was sought by the world; he was no longer scared of the written word. A cop came by one day asking questions about his stories; the big brother stood by him and told him how they were just mysteries. Someone out there was reading his rhyme and doing exactly what he wrote at exactly the same time.
They grew up together, the big brother took a wife, but he also now controlled his little brother’s life. The writer thinking it was all his fault, holed himself up into their house’s vault. The last story the big brother told was of a writer, holed up in a white room, jabbing himself with a pen into his death and doom.
The big brother smiled a little at the thought, this time he had done nothing wrong. The writer expecting the story to come true, bowed down by the guilt took his own life through and through.
The rhymes were never easy for the big brother, he never really wrote or read or bothered. A perfect crime he thought, and went on to sound emotionally fraught. “He’s dead, he’s dead.” He yelled in assumed fright. His wife made the call into the night. “He has killed himself, he couldn’t take it anymore. He wrote he was sorry for the lives he took before.”

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