Petty Rage by Thandiwe Mpofu

 

Prologue

NOAH

Ten years ago: Friday the 13^th

Something’s seriously fucked up.

The heavy silence in the house settles over my shoulders as soon as I step through the large, double mahogany doors of the monstrosity I call home.

Almost immediately, the hairs at the back of my fucking neck stand up on end as goosebumps race down my arms.

Something’s definitely wrong here.

“Hey, Montreal. Say, where is your fucking faggot brother today?”Some senior kid from high school had shouted at me as I made my way to the robotics lab, texting my mom who wasn’t replying as I went.

A second later, I was charging for him.

In two heartbeats, I was on top of him and pounding his fucking face into the concrete, as other kids cheered on and others winced at the brutality they didn’t think I was capable of.

In a minute, my fist was covered in his blood and the punk’s nose was broken.

I wanted to do more damage, but his fucking question was my current dilemma at the moment. Where is Craig?

“Mom? Craig? Is anyone home?” I call into the hallway, dropping my neon green Balenciaga backpack on the decorative sofa my mother put there for some unknown fucking reason.

I walk further into the conspicuously decorated foyer that seems to be choking on gold, beige or whatever priceless shit mom chose to show her elegance and wealth—while simultaneously hiding her pain and shame—which to me is a failed attempt.

There’s no hiding the chilly emptiness and unhappiness in this mansion. Or the brutal words and sinister actions that have happened in almost every room of this mansion—all where no one else can see or hear, of course.

God forbid the neighbors hear the ruckus and the fighting, or the name calling and shaming. What would they say? We wouldn’t want that.

The opulence and wealth can hide almost everything, but once you were on the other side, you realize money doesn’t really buy everything and it sure as hell can’t hide the stale atmosphere in this damn house.

But even then, I know there’s something else going on just underneath the surface.

I’m more aware of the farce and the fiction now than I was before last night. The curtain was ripped down the middle and I finally saw and heard the chaos that would make anyone shit their pants.

With each step I take on unsteady legs I can’t help but take uneven, shaky breaths, trying to calm my heart.

“Craig?”

Where is he?

He’s never missed a day of school in his life, but then again, last night was…

I race toward the kitchen, unease trickling down my spine, leaving even more uncomfortable goosebumps in its wake.

Don’t go in! Turn away and run!

I hear the voice so clearly in my head that I almost think someone said it out loud.

But when I burst through the kitchen doors, I find nothing but an empty, clean kitchen.

I take in the stillness with my heart thundering in my chest. Everything seems to be in order, a far cry from the shattered crystal glasses and priceless china that littered the floor, the counters and anywhere my mother’s aim could reach.

“Craig? Mom?”

Why isn’t mom responding to my texts? Where is my brother?

That should be a warning, and it was, but somehow, denial made me reject what was happening for some reason that I can’t explain.

Instead, I turn on my heel and race out the kitchen and peep my head into every room I pass.

With each empty room I pass, dread seeps deeper into my bones until I’m almost trembling with it.

My phone starts ringing. I notice it’s King, but I ignore, aware that he’d never try calling me twice.

But he does.

It’s out of the ordinary, as is everything else that has happened today.

When I woke up, mom was gone, leaving a note that was so unlike her, my heart skipped a beat. But I chalked it all off when I saw my brother at breakfast.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Hell, he even drove me to school, and we debated on whether Post was a better singer or rapper. Of course, Craig said singer.

We laughed, we roasted each other’s fashion sense, again, nothing out of the ordinary. Except, there was something about the way he looked at me when we parted ways at school.

He had this unreadable look in his eyes, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his Italian custom pants—something Craig would never be caught doing. But somehow, I failed to register that.

“You good, bro?”

“Noah, being a Montreal…”

“It’s the best fucking shit in the world! Everyone wants to either kiss us, kill us or be us.”

He didn’t smile at the half sarcasm, half-truth. He just stared at me with that gaze that made me feel funny inside.

“Just remember, never be fooled.”

“No one can fool me, Craig, come on. We’re dissecting frogs in our advanced biology class, and I personally plan on making Emmett’s day a living hell.”

“Noah. I’m being serious. Smoke and mirrors. Don’t let them sink you with lies and deception.”

I heard that. I’ve kept that close to heart, but I feel like I’m sinking right now.

I can’t shake this feeling in my chest, like I’m sinking in quicksand, slowly and so damn fast all at once.

See, up until today I was fucking clueless as to what was going on right under my fucking nose.

Guilt churns in my gut as I think back to the way Emmett, King and George all hurdled around me at lunch, solemn looks on their fucking asshole faces as they broke the truth everyone knew, but me.

Dude, listen, we need to talk.

I didn’t want to talk to either one of them, for all I knew, one or all of them made Astraea leave me. Our friendship between the Blue Boys had been strained since she left a few months ago.

You can’t freak out or act out. Just breathe.

I was fucking breathing.

We need to tell you something, but you have to be calm.

I was fucking calm.

Something’s been going on with your brother, man. And it’s not looking good at all.

I didn’t have to say a word as they told me about how my big brother, the guy I look up to in all this fucking world, was being tormented, ridiculed, locked up in disgusting out-of-order toilets, called names, stuffed in freaking lockers, picked on, thrown food at, dismissed and ignored by high school kids at Westbrook Blues High.

The same kids Craig himself told me were his friends, and now, he’s nowhere to be found.

Shaking my head, I make my way as quickly as I can to the study, but Craig isn’t there.

Nor is he in the sunroom, or the library, or my mother’s office or her trophy room where she keeps her Golden Globes, the few Tony’s she racked up in her scandalous youth when she still had some semblance of life in her beautiful eyes, and the one Oscar she keeps hidden at the very back of the shelf, like she regrets the biggest achievement of a career that died a very short, very sudden death the day she met the asshole who impregnated her, Dave Montreal.

Frantic urgency makes my heart beat a little harder, a little faster as I look around.

The alarms in my head go off even louder, a pitch that I’ll hear in the back of my head for the rest of my life, but I just didn’t know it in that moment.

I blaze down the hall to the east wing of the mansion.

This is Craig’s side, but the moment I punch in the code—Mom was pretty nosey for some damn reason and she didn’t give a damn about privacy even though she might hold the biggest secret in the estates of Westbrook Blues—I halt to a stop.

The hallway is dark, which should’ve been my first red fucking flag.

It’s never dark wherever my brother is.

Craig was all about light, peace and positive vibes where I was short-tempered, a little fucked up and in serious need of an attitude adjustment.

It was Craig who calmed me down.

He was the one who drew me back and restrained the inner mess that I still didn’t understand and now, he’s nowhere to be found? It makes no fucking sense.

I reach for the light switch, but nothing happens.

Frowning, I turn on the flashlight on my phone and take a step through the door.

I don’t know why I feel like I shouldn’t be venturing past this door, as if it’s my signal to not go in.

But I’m stubborn as fuck. I never listen, even when my life depends on it.

The first assault to my senses is the staleness in the air.

I wrinkle up my nose. This is off. Way off.

“Craig? Where are you, buddy? Talk to me!” I call out.

There’s only silence instead.

Goosebumps and chills rack my body more violently than before.

A smarter person would’ve known that the body reacts to impending doom in a subconscious way.

A smarter, less angry jerk would’ve known to turn back and seek out the light.

But I’m not that jerk.

I’m the asshole with secrets I’ve never told anyone. A crappy life that I live undercover, hidden by my billion-dollar brilliant—but blinding—smiles that never betray the turmoil I’m too young to feel.

Something heavy settles in my stomach.

“Craig, are you in here?” I call out, my voice now strangely hoarse and low for some reason.

Tick.

Tock.

I’m running out of time, and I don’t even know it, but that vague sound of a clock ticking puts things in motion for me.

I race up to his bedroom, passing an open door that stands out as odd to me, but I don’t stop.

He usually hates it when I just burst into his room without knocking but today, I don’t have that luxury.

“Craig, I’m coming in!” I call out for good measure, but I already know there won’t be an answer.

I barrel through the double doors like a trigger-happy SWAT team trumped up on pure adrenaline and immediately go crashing down to a pile of…

“What the fuck?”

I stare at the shitstorm before me, trying to analyze what I’m looking at, but it makes no fucking sense at all.

California’s prone to a lot of shit.

Fires. Earthquakes, Assholes United and whatever else God decided to dole out, but did He choose to specifically target my brother’s room because what in His Holy name is this?

There are clothes strewn everywhere. Shoes scattered on the floor, the bed is unmade, the sitting area in a state of chaotic disarray.

It’s as if his room got ransacked or something. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing.

Craig gets pissed when anyone walks into his room with dirty shoes on. He’s orderly and keeps a neat and clean room—unlike me—so this… this isn’t right!

But when I take a closer look at what’s right in front of me, my heart stops.

“No.”

The word rips out of me, sounding choked, mumbled as it escapes my dry, chapped lips.

I stare at what tripped me up when I entered the room.

Right in front of me, I see Craig’s ‘leaving Westbrook’ luggage set with his name custom printed on each piece.

These bags had only one use—for when Craig finally left this hellhole. Why are they out now?

That dread I felt before? It turns into a full-on panic attack.

When I was younger, I used to have panic attacks for no apparent reason. He was there to help me through it.

But now, as fear creeps into my soul, my anchor isn’t here.

So, like a fucking broken punk that I’ll later develop into a full-fledged asshole, I shove my feelings as deep as I can, turn on my heel and race back toward the open door I passed on my way up here, while dialing my brother’s best friend.

I don’t give him a chance to say a word, blood roaring in my veins.

“Is he with you?”

“Who? What’s going on, young blood?”

“Is my brother with you, Spider?” I grit out.

“Craig? No. I’ve been trying to reach him for a week now.”

“A week?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he tell you he was leaving?” I bark. There’s silence on the other side. “Did he, Spider?”

“Noah, listen to me. You need to calm d—”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down! What’s going on, Spider? Where’s my brother?” I demand, barely aware that I’m shouting until my own voice echoes back to me.

“I—”

“Talk to me, damn it! I heard what those lowlifes at school were saying.”

“Fuck!”

“And I know they were talking about my brother, Spider! I fucking know they were talking about him, not anyone else!” He’s silent on the other end of the line. “Did you hear me, Spider? I know Craig was being bullied! I know he’s been going through something and guess what, I was just in his fucking room, and it looks like he was packing to leave. So I’m going to ask you one more fucking time then it’s game on. WHERE. THE. FUCK. IS. MY. BROTHER?”

I hear a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Listen, Noah, there’s something strange that’s been going on—”

But I’m no longer listening.

As soon I rush into Craig’s studio den, I come to an immediate stop.

Last night’s clusterfuck is still very much right there.

The broken shelves, the shattered glass from the picture frames, the strewn about papers, everything is still there.

Including the blood…

But this time, there’s an impressive pool—no, there’s a lake—of blood on the floor.

“No,”a broken whisper tears from my lips.

That’s too much blood.

A broken nose can’t produce that much blood.

It’s not possible.

My God, why is there so much blood?

Run!

But I don’t.

Instead, slowly and beginning to tremble as if I have ice cubes down my pants, I start shivering from head to toe.

Tremors and tremors go through my body like I’m being whipped over and over.

“God, no…”

I shake my head repeatedly.

My chest feels tight.

Blood. There’s so much blood on the floor, like a road map.

I stare at it, something in me telling me that I should run, but I don’t.

I stay put, knowing I’ll find my brother in a heartbeat. If I just follow the blood.

All the movies, all the documentaries, they never cover this part. The part where everything happens in slow motion.

Time seems to stand still. Nothing makes sense anymore.

My senses narrow onto one thing and one thing only, as the world falls apart in the distance.

And true to the fucked up reality of chaos and devastation, I find my brother.

He’s lying on the floor… his eerily similar eyes wide open as they look up at me, completely lifeless.

“No!”

He’s dressed in the same clothes I last saw him in, but now, they’re all soaked in blood, his blood, with half his face blown all over the room.

And then the world comes rushing back at me at full force and speed.

“Craig!” His name is like bellow born from an agony I hadn’t grasped the depth of in that moment. “No, Craig, no!”

I slowly sink to my knees, holding his lifeless, bloody body to my chest, shaking him violently, as if he’ll miraculously wake up and pretend to play dead, but he doesn’t.

Something in me rips apart, grinding to powder.

“No, no, no,” I mutter to myself, but something deep inside me already knows. “Wake up, Craig! Wake up.”

I shake him, scream his name, pat his cheeks as I frantically search for signs of life, but he doesn’t move or twitch.

We both lie in the blood that keeps pouring out from the gunshot wound in his temple that left a massive hole.

A gunshot wound that was later declared as self-inflicted.

My brother, so full of life, so incredibly in love with his bright future… had committed suicide, by blowing his own brains out.

And I didn’t do a damn thing to prevent it, too oblivious and drowning in a special kind of misery that will be the death of me one day, to notice the shadow that flitters past in the hallway right in front of me.