This will be my last chance to hit my twin brother, Matt.

His funeral is pretty well attended. Would so many people come and wish goodbye to my corpse? Probably not. I’m forty, unhealthy, and single.

I hung back and waited to be the last in line.

We're not very tall, Matt and I, so it looks like I'll be coming at his body from a side on angle. I've never hit someone lying down, but I'd still wager that side on is ideal. I mean, it's the best way to sucker punch, the ideal way for a clean knockout. In case you didn't know.

***

            The first time I ever hit Matt was in 2000. We were fifteen. This was a Friday night. Well, a Friday. My brother had this crazy habit of picking fights with his girlfriends. Verbally, I mean. He never touched a girl in anger, not so far as I know. But for some reason, out of insecurity or wanting perverse attention, he was always starting these loud arguments. And this began back in high school. He did it with every single girl he ever dated.

It became a pattern–he'd date a girl and pick these silly things to pout about and then explode until the poor girl got sick of it and dumped him. This must-have killed a dozen relationships.

 Girls always preferred Matt, even though we were twins. I guess we're still twins. Even though he's dead.

            So, it's 2000, on a Friday night, and our basement is full of our high school friends. That was the hub–our basement–for all the guys to meet up on weekends. We shared a group of friends. All the guys would come over and drop off their cars, and we'd go out somewhere–the bowling alley, our town's only coffee shop–shit, we'd go to Wal Mart sometimes looking for girls. There was nowhere to go. We lived eighty miles east of Nashville. There was nothing.

            That night, Matt was upstairs in the bathroom shouting at his girlfriend, making everyone wait–probably four other guys, plus me. I got embarrassed. Matt had no real sense of empathy for stuff like that. I mean, to the point where I always thought there was something wrong with him. If you tried talking to him about a movie or a video game, he'd immediately change the subject to some movie or video game he liked–selfish, self-centered. I don't think he could help it. Until he was older and started therapy, he never realized he did it.

And I kept going upstairs to tell him to get off the fucking phone, and he was ignoring me. The guys downstairs started talking about going without us, so I lost it; I just went up and knocked the phone out of his hand–it was a flip phone–and he yelled, and we shoved each other, and I slapped him. I'd never hit anyone with a closed fist. So he tackles me, we roll around, we get up, and he tackles me again. This time I went back into the vanity, and I thought I broke something–my ribs, or even my back–so I told him we had to stop. To his credit, he stopped.

I think we all just went out that night. More or less like nothing had happened. Other than hearing us thumping around up above, I don't know that the guys really knew that anything had happened. I wasn't going to tell them I slapped Matt; I was embarrassed; I'm still ashamed. I remember the look on his face when I slapped him, bug-eyed with surprise.

***

            My mom's looking at his body now.

Mom's so frail. She's lost almost a foot in height in the last several years–she fell and broke her back, stepping off her porch. Actually, it's not really a porch–just two concrete steps out of the kitchen so she can go on the driveway and smoke. Everyone–Matt, his wife, and I keep saying we're going to install a rail.

My mom's always had arthritis, terrible arthritis for as long as I can remember. Now the fingers on her hands are twisted sideways at a right angle from her knuckles.

            I think this might kill her–what Matt did to himself. We were all trying to help him, and we'd finally talked him into seeing a therapist. Also, he and his wife, Maggie, had a kid after a long time trying. Shit, I don't know if we're going to see the kid anymore. I wanted to watch my nephew grow up, of course, but with my brother's depression and my health problems–I got my mom’s heart–this was something my parents finally had to look forward to. Grandparents.

***

            The second time I hit Matt was in 2010, in Asheville, North Carolina. Our shitty punk band had just played a show in some kid's living room.

            For a few years after college, we dicked around with this band; we'd go out on the road on "tours." These tours were mostly played in somebody's living room, basement, or kitchen. Every once in a while there was a bar or–holy shit!–an actual club.

            I don't think it ever dawned on us that we'd play better if we didn't get piss drunk before going on. My brother got stage fright, and I'd get headaches from shouting into the mic for thirty minutes. So those were our excuses–for drinking, I mean. Our drummer was just drunk all the time; I'd still be drunk all the time if the doctors hadn't told me what would happen if I didn't stop.

            But that night in Asheville was the last night of the tour, and the plan had been to play, then drive on to our current home in Knoxville. We were twenty-five and drunk and stupid. Yet something had happened while we broke down our equipment–a girl had approached my brother. Now, this had never occurred to us during a show. We didn't put on a sexy act.

 At age twenty-five, Matt naturally insisted that we stay the night so he could bang this random girl–a random girl who'd told Matt she was homeless and had been riding the rails (like trains). She was an honest to God hobo.

            Cole, the drummer, and I said, "No–fuck that, we'll leave you," and Matt was throwing a fit. I wanted to go home because, by this point, I had a girlfriend of my own–a girlfriend who'd end up my wife–briefly–and I missed her; I wanted to go home and get laid. I imagine Cole had some similar situation (except for the upcoming marriage; Cole remains married to Evan Williams). So Cole threw up his hands and left Matt and me shouting at each other in this gravel parking lot by our tour van. It wasn't actually a van; it was a pickup truck with a covered bed.

Soon enough, I saw the glassy-eyed look that meant that Matt was beyond discussion and/or reason, so I hauled off and punched him. Although, to be honest, it's a good thing he was blacked out because he was heavier than me by that time and probably would have kicked my ass sober.

I imagine that the Train Girl–none of us ever recalled her actual name–saw us rolling in the parking lot and disappeared. Needless to say, Matt was incredibly pissed. He pleaded that we scour all of Buncombe county (for the Train Girl), but he didn't have a leg to stand on, so he gave that up. Cole and I tossed him in the truck, and he fumed the whole way home.   

***

            My sister-in-law, Maggie, now stands over Matt's body. She's broken up, though remarkably composed. Beside her is our cousin, Luke, whom she dated before Matt. I always thought that she harbored a thing for Luke–I mean that she continued holding feelings for him–and I was always jealous on behalf of my brother. If that makes any sense. Now, seeing him with his arm around her like that, comforting her, makes me ball up my fists. I wonder who's going to end up raising my nephew?

            Matt, you shouldn't have done it, buddy.

I'm getting close to the body.

***

            The last time I hit my brother–well, the second-to-last time, I guess–was in 2015. My medications were giving me these brutal mood swings. He and I had started getting into arguments after years of peace.

            The big fight was over an audition. We were sitting in Matt's living room with a couple of Matt’s guitars and my sister-in-law Maggie came in to tell us that she'd heard the "Drama Center"--which is what everyone calls the local Performing Arts Center–was auditioning for Othello at the end of the month.

Before I got sick, theatre had always been my thing. Matt had his things–writing and guitar–and I had my thing. But when I started having heart trouble, I'd had to resign myself to acting in the occasional community theatre production. At least, I typically had my pick of roles because of my experience in regional theatre.

Matt put down his guitar–he'd been showing me a few chords when Maggie came in–and announced that he thought that he'd go to the audition.

            I flew into a rage.

            "You can't," I said.

            "Why?" he said.

            Sensing oncoming drama, Maggie made herself scarce.

            My rationale was that if Matt and I auditioned for the same play–something we'd only done once, way back in high school–then we'd greatly diminish my chances of getting a lead role. Because we were twins, having the two of us onstage would necessitate sticking us in more minor roles.

            Did this make any sense? Of course not. Matt pointed this out. I did not listen. Instead, I told Matt that I would not allow him to audition, that I'd always wanted to play Iago–like most white male actors–and he could not jeopardize my one and only chance.

            He told me I was being ridiculous.

            I cried. I always cry when I’m mad.

            Justifiably, he told me that I was behaving inappropriately for a person my age–thirty–and that if I acted that way in his house, I could "get the hell out."

            By this point, I was begging him not to audition. Although Matt was a kind man, despite what I've formally described as a predilection for selfishness–he remained steadfast and told me that I was being childish and irrational and he'd audition if he wanted to–

            I punched a hole through his wall.

            So, technically, I did not physically strike him this time, though I've always thought it was more-or-less the same. However, he certainly didn't take it well. In fact, he threatened to call the police and told me that if it weren't for my meds, which were "making me act crazy," he would have done so in a second.

            That only made me angrier. Now, in my head, he was denying me a chance to play my "dream role" and discriminating against my medical condition. I've been told by Maggie, who couldn't help but overhear, that I was babbling, weeping. And I left the house on foot to stagger almost a mile until they found me, forced me into the car, and drove me home. It's a miracle I didn't stroke out and die in a ditch. 

            We both auditioned. I earned the role of Roderigo–which I enjoyed–and Matt played Cassio. So, we split things down the middle by both getting principal parts. I sulked for the first few weeks but would later see how it worked well.

            After that production, I started writing because I wasn't doing enough acting in town to exhaust my creative energy (that's what I always said, anyway.) Conversely, Matt started acting in community plays.

For a time.

But also, Matt stopped getting out of bed in the morning. My father and uncle suffered from depression, and Matt endured short bouts throughout his twenties.

            Four years to the day of Othello's opening night, Matt hung himself in his garage.

***

            I'm standing over Matt now. I don't like the way he looks with this make-up on. I've seen him in make-up before, but he looks waxy. And although they're closed, of course, his eyes look puffy. The anti-depressants caused him to put on weight, and he grew a beard because he thought his face looked bloated.

            I always hated the beard.

            I stand for a time over him. Everyone gives me a respectful distance, expecting as much–he and I were always close, best friends.

            I pat his cheek.

            "You fucked up, Matt," I say. "You really fucked this up."

Travis Flatt is a teacher living in the dead center of Tennessee. He is an epileptic man but writes about a wide array of topics. In his free time, Travis enjoys fluffy dogs and (most) fluffy dog related activities. His stories appear in Bridge Eight, Fauxmoir, and many other publications.