Monday Flash Fics — Last Performance
Over on the Monday Flash Fics group, the latest photograph was moody and conflicted, to my gaze, so I tried for something in that vein. I pondered on reasons for someone to be studying their reflection so very much.
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Last Performance
The laser eye surgery wasn’t pleasant, but now I’ve recovered, I can see how far I’ve come.
Almost.
The beard pulls double-duty, hiding the little scar on my chin.
The gym is helping, too.
And, okay, I’m getting used to the hair. It takes forever, and it’s fussy, and who knew it could take so much time to look like you just rolled out of bed, but there you have it.
He used to mock me for taking so long. Now I know it took him longer.
I’m not sure about the tattoo. The fake I’ve got right now might be enough at a glance, but then again, by the time my beard grows in enough I don’t think long-sleeves would be out of place.
“I’ll find out,” I say.
In the mirror, someone with almost my brother’s face says the words with me.
*
No body, no charges. But I know. I feel it. He’s gone, and it was either the son of a bitch he worked with, or his wife. They’re together now. I’ve seen them.
Maybe it was both of them, but I hope not. I don’t want it to be his wife.
She was always pretty nice to me. His partner was the homophobic ass.
But they’re both living in his house, running his business, both have access to the money he left behind.
No body, no will. Just the same-old, same-old.
*
As plans go, it’s not complicated. They think I’m on the other side of the country, mourning in some small theatre in a mountain town. Now and then reach out. Maybe they’ll come visit?
Right.
*
Months. Almost years, and when I see the calendar, it’s too perfect. I wait for the anniversary. The business partner works late, like usual. Getting in to the building isn’t hard—they never did change the keys or codes, and they probably didn’t know he gave them to me.
A little stage presence. Working the light. Voicemail I’ve had cleaned up and reorganized.
It’s the role of a lifetime, really.
I tap the phone, and the voice calls his name.
“Hello?”
It takes him longer than I expected to come out of his office, but when he does, he sees me.
Well, no.
He sees him.
*
I tap the phone again, hidden in my pocket.
“Why?” It’s his voice, not mine, but I make the right movements with my lips. And in this light? With the make-up I’ve used?
I am my brother’s ghost.
“Oh God,” he says. He falls back against the wall, slides down it as his legs go out from under him. “Oh God, no,” he repeats. “She… She said you knew… she said you found out… she said she had to…”
He babbles on, and I let the phone record. I jerk toward him and he cries out and covers his face and whimpers, begging and whinging.
I shoot before he opens his eyes.
*
One more performance, then. My sister-in-law’s house.
