My brother David. (Conclusion)

It seems as though I have always envied my elder brother David.

It wasn’t only that he was older, it was just the fact that he never seemed to ever make a mistake, and yet he was always deserting one new interest for another, but always with great success.

Take the time he took up guitar playing. My friends and I were amazed at his progress, and admired just how well he could play in just a few short weeks. We all decided to follow suit, and thought that maybe David would form a group with us and we would all become famous.
So we pestered our parents until they finally gave in and bought our guitars.

No sooner had we all bought guitars only to find that he had lost interest in the guitar completely and had taken up piano playing.
Hey, that was OK, we could still form a group with him playing a piano.
We strummed and strummed until our fingers were raw, but still only managed to master a few chords, and even then, not too well at that.

But the bold David … he was playing like Liberace in no time at all. Was there anything he wasn’t good at?

And girls?, don’t mention girls! With his dark windswept hair and his ever-restless piercing blue eyes, he was a girl-magnet.

There was no doubt in any of our minds that he would pass all of his exams with flying colours and he would probably disappear to some famous university whilst I was still struggling to come to terms with algebra and logarithms.

As expected, David quickly lost interest in the piano and he next turned to painting as his new challenge.
Finally he seemed to have found a medium which was eternally challenging. No matter how good his work was, and it was good, he never appeared satisfied with what he had done, often throwing really great pictures into the corner of his small studio, which in reality was our second garage.

The girls still came around, and initially he was happy to use them for his nude or semi-nude early works, but even those distractions couldn’t turn him from his ultimate goal, whatever that was.
It was obvious that this time he had found his greatest challenge.
In spite of the opinion of others he was never happy with the work he was turning out.
There was a subtle change taking place within David.

He began to neglect his academic studies and shun the visits of his friends.
He even made it clear to me that he found my visits to his studio as an intrusion on his time.
This was another David to the one who everyone loved to spend time with.
He became almost a recluse, often working long into the night, much to the dismay of our parents.

His school work also suffered and the principal began to phone my parents complaining of his obvious lack of interest in nearly all classes, and that he had often fallen asleep during lectures.
That very evening my parents decided to have a heart to heart talk with him in the morning, but that never came about because the next morning David had left home.

The brief note that he had pinned to his easel in the studio said it all… he had to find new subjects to paint, and he couldn’t find them here.
Our parent were beside themselves with worry, but they knew that it had to be left to David to sort himself out. He would surely phone to inform us of his whereabouts.
If only Grandad had not left money in trust for us both David would have had no chance to just up and go as he had done.

It was some time before he contacted home.
He said that he was settled and that we needn’t worry about him.
This of course did not satisfy my Mother and she tried to get the police involved in tracing his exact whereabouts. Unfortunately the police were not that interested, although they did say that they would follow up with some enquiries.
In spite of frequent phone calls the police could be of no further help.

It was to be two years of endless worry before we heard anything about him again.
He had been found dead in a dirty old apartment in a poor part of Manchester.

My parents were distraught, but the police needed someone from the family to make a positive identification of David’s body.
I volunteered to do this and travelled to Manchester that very day.

I was quacking when the police sergeant accompanied me into the morgue.
David’s body was lying beneath a sheet on a long able.
When they raised the sheet I couldn’t believe that this unkempt person was my brother, but it was.
He had aged terribly and had grown a beard whilst alive. He looked like a wild man.

The sergeant said they had known about him for a long time, but under a different name. It was only after his room was searched that his real identity had come to light.
He was known as a good artist and earned money by drawing portraits of people in the street, but his money was spent on drugs. He was a heavy user, and it was believed that his death was due to a drug overdose.

My heart was heavy as I travelled home with the thoughts of disclosing this information to my parents, but there was no hiding the truth. It had to be told.

My parents were standing at the door as I drove up, and my drooping shoulders gave them all the confirmation that they needed that I had indeed seen that the body was that of David.
Although I told them that David was definitely dead I didn’t say one word about the way in which he had died, even though they asked me if I had found out.

My parents were too filled with grief to attend David’s burial, so they were saved the sight of actually seeing his new appearance. I attended on their behalf.
On my return I made sure that I was the first to read the daily newspapers and there was no mention of David’s death in either of them.
I supposed that it was an everyday occurrence in the bigger cities, and hardly worth a mention.

When the death certificate finally arrived my parents read it without saying a word.
My Father turned and threw it in the fire.
We all looked at each other and it was not necessary for any of us to say that this would never be discussed outside of these four walls.

And so, I am now the only son left to carry on the family name. I have a good job and no dreams other than to get married, raise a family, and become the son that they had hoped David would have become.

My Brother is no longer an example that I have to envy.

As you said, the imagination is really taxed here. We have only two characters in the story right now and the main character – the elder brother (if I go by the title) is flawless. There is little I could do to malign his image :slight_smile: And younger brother is not supposed to take the center stage in this story.

I am thinking for an hour about what turn the story should take and all I could see before my eyes is an image of an elder brother in some of the movies I watched before. In one of them, he falls in love and couldn’t attend his younger brother as he previously used to. Soon, he gets dumped and turns back to his younger brother for help. Younger brother leads the story from there and it ends with the elder brother rediscovering his love again. But this story I know very well and most of us too. :slight_smile:

I am just trying to bring up things which go behind when we write. We get to know only finished stories not the hidden ones behind it. Though writing is very much of an impulsive thing, there should at least something which can be learned.

So, I am still not able to write, may be an easier assignment is better for me :slight_smile:

Good morning Gray. I accept your explanation, although I don’t think that every story should need a moral behind it, at least not one that people should view seriously.

Look at “Jaws”. Moral, stay out of the water … how many take notice?