☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"AND MY MOTHER / SOBBED EACH DAY AT FIRST; HER SWEET FRIEND / GONE AIMLESSLY CAUSTIC. AND FEAR / opens the body the way of a fist / through teeth. the chicken wire / one morning blown open, mouth / of strewn feathers and jagged space. Probably coyotes / in the coop, but his tenderling body / was never found, and we who know / the way of once-gentle boys think maybe / he ripped a hole in leaving and just left."
"AND MY MOTHER / SOBBED EACH DAY AT FIRST; HER SWEET FRIEND / GONE AIMLESSLY CAUSTIC. AND FEAR / opens the body the way of a fist / through teeth. the chicken wire / one morning blown open, mouth / of strewn feathers and jagged space. Probably coyotes / in the coop, but his tenderling body / was never found, and we who know / the way of once-gentle boys think maybe / he ripped a hole in leaving and just left."
I would kill my brother, if it were the kindest thing I could do for him.
I would make it quick – I would snap his neck, or I would slit his throat, or I’d inject him with something that would put him into a sleep that he would never wake from. It wouldn’t hurt, and I would make sure that he wouldn’t suffer. If it were the kinder thing to do – if it were the kindest thing to do -, I would kill my brother.
I don’t think that I would feel any remorse for it, either.
I spend most of my days around the dying, in emergency care or the hospice ward. (It is because dying does not trouble me quite like it should.) I see patients, sometimes, and I know that they are not being kept alive for their own sake. I know that they are suffering, and I know that they are too far gone to recover through any means short of divine intervention. (Of course, their friends and family always hope for divine intervention. Sometimes the patients do, too, but most of the time they don’t – and that just means they’ll deteriorate more quickly.) I know that they are suffering, and I know that they can’t be saved, and I know that they are being kept alive for the sake of the people who love them, not for themselves.
I have professional ethics, of course. I watch them slip away slowly, like sand from the hourglass, until the inevitable overtakes them. I do my best for them, in the time that they have, and I try to shake the feeling that I am being cruel with my complacency.
I don’t doubt that my siblings could kill each other, sometimes.
I doubt that any of them but me could do it quick. (Even Corradh, and he spills blood for sport.)
When I go looking for my brother, the party is already over. The halls look ghastly; the guests have left them a mess that the servants are already struggling to clean up. (My siblings will want them pristine by the morning.) The lights have gone dim, and the entertainers have already left – the painters fled out to the desert, the living statues to the city streets. My hair is unbound, and all the pink flowers that adorned it at the start of the evening have fallen out.
As I stalk the halls, I see one or two littering the floor, crumpled and blackened beneath the hooves of passers-by. They were expensive, I think, to end up so utterly wasted. (But, then, most lovely things are wasted on me.) Ishak is on my heels like a shadow, sweat-slick and watchful. I don’t know where my brother is, but I doubt that he has moved far from the hall where he spent most of the party. (He is practically a statue himself, nowadays.)
I sidestep broken glass, a fallen and half-concave vase. I try not to pay attention to the chagrined expression of a maid in the corner, tasked with cleaning a particularly grotesque stain.
When I step into the hall, which was one inhabited by just as many living statues as inanimate ones, I find that he is still there. I nod the servants out of the room, and Ishak, though I am sure that he will linger on the other side of the door. (It is probably for the best – it isn’t as though I keep anything from Ishak, and he will prevent anyone else from listening in on our conversation.)
It feels strange, hiding in my own home. Still – Adonai is sick, and not through natural means, and I can never be sure of who is listening.
I look at Adonai without flinching. I should probably feel horrible, seeing him so utterly deteriorated, nauseous, but I don’t feel anything at all. The only thing that I think is that he will be dead soon – that he is dying. I’m not sure if he can be salvaged. I know that the most talented medics from most of the courts have been gathered, at one point or another, to examine my brother, and I know that they have found no cure for what ails him. I am not so sure that I am the most talented of medics, or the most practiced, or the most valuable; I simply possess a unique set of skills.
(And – an ugly insight. And – certain, ugly suspicions.)
I would prefer to salvage him. I would prefer, at least, to have the chance to.
“Adonai,” I say, softly, without bothering with pleasantries (there would be no point), “would you like me to take a look at you?”
@Adonai || ruth, starting this thread: yeah I'd commit an ethical violation if I thought it was ethical, and what about it || erin slaughter, "all the gentle boys grow spurs"
I would make it quick – I would snap his neck, or I would slit his throat, or I’d inject him with something that would put him into a sleep that he would never wake from. It wouldn’t hurt, and I would make sure that he wouldn’t suffer. If it were the kinder thing to do – if it were the kindest thing to do -, I would kill my brother.
I don’t think that I would feel any remorse for it, either.
I spend most of my days around the dying, in emergency care or the hospice ward. (It is because dying does not trouble me quite like it should.) I see patients, sometimes, and I know that they are not being kept alive for their own sake. I know that they are suffering, and I know that they are too far gone to recover through any means short of divine intervention. (Of course, their friends and family always hope for divine intervention. Sometimes the patients do, too, but most of the time they don’t – and that just means they’ll deteriorate more quickly.) I know that they are suffering, and I know that they can’t be saved, and I know that they are being kept alive for the sake of the people who love them, not for themselves.
I have professional ethics, of course. I watch them slip away slowly, like sand from the hourglass, until the inevitable overtakes them. I do my best for them, in the time that they have, and I try to shake the feeling that I am being cruel with my complacency.
I don’t doubt that my siblings could kill each other, sometimes.
I doubt that any of them but me could do it quick. (Even Corradh, and he spills blood for sport.)
When I go looking for my brother, the party is already over. The halls look ghastly; the guests have left them a mess that the servants are already struggling to clean up. (My siblings will want them pristine by the morning.) The lights have gone dim, and the entertainers have already left – the painters fled out to the desert, the living statues to the city streets. My hair is unbound, and all the pink flowers that adorned it at the start of the evening have fallen out.
As I stalk the halls, I see one or two littering the floor, crumpled and blackened beneath the hooves of passers-by. They were expensive, I think, to end up so utterly wasted. (But, then, most lovely things are wasted on me.) Ishak is on my heels like a shadow, sweat-slick and watchful. I don’t know where my brother is, but I doubt that he has moved far from the hall where he spent most of the party. (He is practically a statue himself, nowadays.)
I sidestep broken glass, a fallen and half-concave vase. I try not to pay attention to the chagrined expression of a maid in the corner, tasked with cleaning a particularly grotesque stain.
When I step into the hall, which was one inhabited by just as many living statues as inanimate ones, I find that he is still there. I nod the servants out of the room, and Ishak, though I am sure that he will linger on the other side of the door. (It is probably for the best – it isn’t as though I keep anything from Ishak, and he will prevent anyone else from listening in on our conversation.)
It feels strange, hiding in my own home. Still – Adonai is sick, and not through natural means, and I can never be sure of who is listening.
I look at Adonai without flinching. I should probably feel horrible, seeing him so utterly deteriorated, nauseous, but I don’t feel anything at all. The only thing that I think is that he will be dead soon – that he is dying. I’m not sure if he can be salvaged. I know that the most talented medics from most of the courts have been gathered, at one point or another, to examine my brother, and I know that they have found no cure for what ails him. I am not so sure that I am the most talented of medics, or the most practiced, or the most valuable; I simply possess a unique set of skills.
(And – an ugly insight. And – certain, ugly suspicions.)
I would prefer to salvage him. I would prefer, at least, to have the chance to.
“Adonai,” I say, softly, without bothering with pleasantries (there would be no point), “would you like me to take a look at you?”
@
HE FEEDS ME RED MEAT / HE WATCHES THE BLOOD POOL IN MY MOUTHlaughs at my red teeth❂please tag Ruth! contact is encouraged, short of violence
