I came to bury one father and found out I had two. One is confirmed dead, and the other is presumed dead by a family I never knew. Both called themselves Bob. Though they looked identical, the subtleties were there. I thought I was the only one who knew, but I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things.
The house I’m living in now belonged to one of them or both of them. I don’t know. I don’t want this house, or their money, or their obligations. Most of all, I don’t want to know their secrets.
They talk to me from their respective grave sites, intruding my dreams with grotesque images of floating, rotting bodies. They refuse to let me rest until I recognize one of them among the small legion.
Awake, I look at old letters of my father’s mistress, filled with obsession for a man who despised her and their son. I watch the half-brother I barely know as he draws pictures of bridges with floating bodies beneath them. Such excruciating skill and detail for a grown man who can barely count to thirty. Does he understand what’s happening to him?
He’s afraid of our freaky cousin for reasons he refuses to tell me. This guy keeps lurking around, and it has nothing to do with our fathers’ money or possessions they left behind. Something deeper draws him to us, powerful and dark. I can’t see it yet, but I can feel it.
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Excellent piece. Another piece that leaves me asking questions. Are these part of something bigger?
Hi, Ben! Glad you enjoyed this.
Yes, it is part of something bigger. More to come.
I, too, like the overall concept.
It is creepy.
~m
Thanks, Michael!
It’s good to hear from you, too.