When brothers are born murdered: An experiment with stream of consciousness narration

He takes the gun firmly into his hands and peers down the barrel. Satisfaction. Clicks it back into place-

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He stands there, smoking out of his head, the gun still pointed at his temple. The evening is just as startled, it kicks up the dust and swirls orphaned leaves around with the wind. The town is fortunately empty this evening, families making the monthly shopping trip to the city and the noblemen housed in their castles hosting tea parties. In the town square, we stand in silence: it is both disbelief and terse finality in the air, the smog-tainted drizzle pattering down on terracotta rooftops bringing relief and detestation and peace at the same time.

He starts to cry, the dry sobs haunt me, a reek of guilt. The gun clatters upon the pavement, it seems it will stay there until I decide to move my feet and close the distance between us, the least I can do for a start. The hollow tinnitus of empty tin cans suspended from my father's crucifix on silken ribbons clatter and clamour with greater vigour when the feeble wind rises from beneath the valley, but tin cans don't have to feel guilty. I do. The mercy of the Lord be with me, this man is my brother, but I have sinned. He moves quickly, sensing my hesitation and he hugs me. I hug him back, the war is over. The sounds of bombs going off in my head is dying out, one baleful ring of thunder at a time, until they're hanging suspended in mid-air beyond the valley of shell-charred tree stumps and dandelions. But the bombs will fall once more, after this evening.

He asks after father, whose life he saved almost a year before. Father is keeping well. And- So is mother. I'm curious. How did you survive the war? They couldn't kill me, but I didn't let them know. So I joined them. That was when he left us. Mother was weeping, a traitor had prayed with her in the town church, a traitor had enjoyed her blanquette de veau on the rare Saturday when she made them. Father was livid. Join after the murderers of your brother. The fury was alive in the air, we felt it in our skins returning from the fields that day. I wish father was alive now. I wish he hadn't died with one son and two daughters. I wish and I hope that beyond the joys of this renewed brotherhood was the joy of a father seeing his son return victorious from battle.