Transcend

Transcend
By AnyaKyto
         
As I lay on the forest floor, I find my eyes riveted in annoyance on the trees above me. They form an intricate network of browns, reds, and greens, crisscrossing against the darkening grey sky, swaying back and forth in a rhythm that is the source of my discontent. 
         
I squint, trying to imagine the branches moving at even a slightly quicker pace, a pace that would match that of the man lying on top of me. His hips snap up and down in regular intervals, grinding my body further into the prickly ground. Fingernails dig into my thighs, bruising my flesh. Already I can feel the trickle of blood.
         
Ordinarily, this would bother me – but not today. Today, I understand the reason for his anger, even if he himself doesn’t, not fully. He only knows that his body is betraying him, sending mixed signals to his brain. Perhaps he knows he is dying.
         
He shifts. My knees press into my chest as he leans forward, crushing his lips against mine. It is this I find more revolting than anything, this façade of intimacy. I am, after all, his late wife’s son. He rakes his nails down my chest. Scratches beaded with my blood rise in their wake, and I’m unable to quell a disgusted whimper.
         
I look up into the canopy of trees, struggling to refocus my attention on those agitating branches. It’s more difficult than before as he continues; maybe he’s trying to transfer his impending demise onto me.
         
I could die here, I realize. The coroner would find an overdose of heart medicine swimming through his veins, hastened along by over-exertion. Me, I’d be lying beside him, a skinny fourteen-year old who got good grades in school, an orphan. No one would ever expect I killed him.
         
Someone would take my picture, my death-portrait, as they did in Victorian days. It would be framed and given to my little brother, a reminder of my sacrifice for him.
         
No. I cannot die. My brother is waiting for me. He knows why I taunted him into following me out here this morning.
         
Above me, his face has grown deep red, almost purple, and he begins gasping for air. I fight to escape, but his body collapses. His eyes stare into mine, surprised, furious. He knows.
         
I think he wants my pain to match his own, even in death. Shockwaves of pain shoot through my lower body, traveling like electricity up my spine.
         
When he finally dies, he is causing just as much agony as he did while he was alive
         
I push him off. Struggling to my knees, I feel a repulsive wetness between my legs, on my chest, my lips. I look down – red covers the forest floor almost as liberally as it covers me.  I feel dizzy, but manage to stand. Each step is torture, but I don’t care. I’m free.
         
I limp away from death, ready now for life to begin.