Follow the Sound of My Voice.

Mikey’s hands are gripping the steering wheel tightly, and I can see the blushed red of the tips of his fingers. I know what he’s angry about. I don’t even need to ask.
I turn to look out of the window instead of the steering wheel that he probably wishes would be my head.
I sit there, debating whether to say something to him.
He’s always angry at me now. He hasn’t stopped seething at me since I opened up to him about my psychic theory.
When we were 10, he believed me. We’d sit on the swings just outside of our childhood home, and I’d tell him about all of these crazy conspiracies and visions I had, and he took every word I spoke as truth; but now he’s 24, and I’m 20. I guess he shrugged it off as my child-like mindset, but now he can’t place it on that. I’m 20.
But I swear it isn’t just a case of my mentality. I swear it. I know the severity of something like this. I’ve read forums, researched it. I’ve even spoken to fellow psychics and mediums.
I don’t know why my brother of 20 years refuses to believe me, but a man I met 2 hours ago does.
Mikey’s always had trust issues. Ever since papa left us, Mikey is persistent in his resistance to trust; and it’s strange, because I’ve never wronged him. I’ve never lied, or scammed, or stolen, and yet he still seems to be weary of me.
Although, I’ve never asked. Never asked why he doesn’t trust me, I mean. I never even thought to. His anger scares me, I guess.
I don’t like it when people get angry at me. They’re scary.
My mum got angry at me once, because I forgot to wash the dishes; I remember crying and locking myself in my room for days. Ever since then, she’s been careful around me as to not upset me.
Hesitantly, I turn to look at him again.
And his eyes are burning into mine.
“What did you talk about?” He asked, and I winced ever so slightly. His voice seemed laced with hatred, despite me saying nothing to him to provoke such feeling.
“Stuff. Therapy stuff. You know, like. Feelings.” I said, nodding. I suppose it was an added manoeuvre to try to get him to believe that. Perhaps, if I seemed certain of it, he would too.
It didn’t work.
“Did you tell him about your conspiracy theory bullshit?” Was the words that came out of his mouth. That upset me.
“It’s not bullshit, Mikes. It’s genuine, I told you- I’ve been telling you my whole life that it’s true.” I tried to protest against his insults, albeit I seemed like a scared bunny caught in the headlights of a speeding truck, but a growl followed by a crash halted my ramblings. The sight of Mikey’s fist colliding with the dashboard created a chilling ringing noise throughout the car. I shut my mouth.
“Shut up, Gerard!” were the words that accompanied his outburst. “Fucking hell, stop talking like you want to be locked up in a mental home!”
A heavy silence fell over us; the kind you could slice with a meat hook. Like a hostage feeling the cold metal of a knife brush over his jugular. One incision and the blood would come spurting. I tried to think of something to say that wasn’t “you’re an asshole”, but the correct words never came. At least, not for 13 minutes and 24 seconds.
“Frank believes me.” It was a blunt sentence, but I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t think that now was an appropriate time for a horribly cliche pun about Luke Skywalker.
He stiffened. I could see it, and yet, his attention never left the road.
“He doesn’t.” Mikey said in response, the coldness in his voice resonating. “He’s a therapist. It’s his job to pretend to agree with any bullshit that comes out of their patient’s mouths.”
I got angry at that, again. But again, I said nothing. Again, I didn’t disagree. Again, I sat there, with my eyes burning holes into the road ahead of me. Again.
“He’s different. He’s unlike any other therapist I’ve ever met.” I muttered, and it was true. Fuck, I’d met Frank once, and he was the only person to believe that I wasn’t insane.
I waited for the insult.
“What? Gee Gee got a crush on his therapist?”
There it was.
Although, it was different this time. Almost playful, as opposed to harsh.
“Get fucked.” Was my simple, mature rebuttal.
“I wish. I haven’t gotten laid in like, a month. Too busy looking after my looney-ass brother.” He muttered, his eyes glancing briefly over in my direction.
I smiled at that. His intentions were good, I could tell. There was a playful nature laced into his voice. The one I used to hear when we were 6, sat on the swingset outside of our old family home. When I’d tell him about my theories and visions and he’d smile and nod.
And then I said something. It came out of nowhere, really. Lord knows why I said it.
“You love me.”
I felt the tension in the room raise between us. The jugular had been sliced.
We haven’t said those words to each other in years.
I turned my eyes to look at him rather than my entire head, not wanting to draw attention to it. I saw his eyes darken ever so slightly, his tongue poking out to lick over his thin, chapped lips. The whiteness returned to his knuckles.
We were never really the brothers that avidly showed affection towards each other, whether it be physical or verbal. Not because we didn’t love each other, just because it didn’t need to be done.
We knew we cared for each other. Saying it, however, displays vulnerability. Mikey can’t show vulnerability. Not since papa left.
“I do.” He said quietly, the faintest hint of a crack in his voice. “I really fuckin’ do. You know that, right?” He asked, using his free hand to rub over his face, trying to will away the emotion.
I turned my entire head to watch him then. Again, Lord knows where it came from, but my hand moved to rest over his, perched on the gearstick.
“I know, Mikes.” I said quietly, feeling the tension escape him. Like those three words released him from some kind of emotionally-isolated cage. Like everything he felt was only validated by my approval. And that felt good.
“I’ve always known.”

Notes

i write these chapters too fast for my own good.
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