Fractured Reality

The three brothers were never apart.

“Come on guys, get in here,” shouted Connor, diving under another wave on his board.

“Ok ok I’m coming. I’m bored of this book anyway,” exclaimed Michael as he stood up from the sand. “Are you coming?”

Brenden peeked out from behind his canvas and shook his head from side to side. Thick oil paints streaked the right side of his face, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Alright, suit yourself.”

The Davies brothers were identical. They had thick brown hair with wispy blonde streaks running through it, naturally flopping over their dark hazelnut eyes. The central parting between the eyebrows had developed several wrinkles due to frequent frowning, while their sharp nose with slit-like nostrils accentuated their intense gaze.

Despite their identical physical appearances, their personalities were polar opposites. Connor, a boisterous and outspoken individual, was always on the move and consistently the centre of attention. Whilst Brenden, was an introvert and rarely opened his mouth unless spoken to. When he was forced to speak, it would bring out his nervous leg scratching tic. Michael was somewhere in between, a confident, politely spoken and meticulously dressed individual, who typically buried himself in the pages of a crime novel.

“Go on then, give me the board so I can have a go.”

“Yeah, give me a minute, I see a good wave on the horizon.” Both Connor and Michael dived under another wave as it rose out of the water with crisp white peaks. “Did Brenden not want to get in then?” Connor asked.

“What do you think? You’ll have to tempt him with more than freezing cold water and choppy waves to pull him away from that canvas.”

The water was always ice cold in March, but Connor insisted it was the best time of year to surf, not that good surf bothered the others. A harsh wind rippled across the surface of the water towards the deserted grey sand that coated the beach.

“Where is Brenden anyway? I can’t see him,” asked Connor, sweeping his hands through his hair.

“He was just… oh I don’t know; he must have gone back to the harbour; he loves to paint down there. He’s got the right idea though, let’s head back, it’s freezing out here.”

Michael and Connor always took the short cut up the winding beach path, before the sharp ascent through the forest up to the bungalow. That is if you can call it a bungalow. It was more like an abandoned shack. Shutters hung from their hinges, flapping back and forth beside odd-shaped windows. The wooden slats were badly splinted and mouldy, and the wind whistled through the cracks of the structure, creating an unsettling cacophony of sound. But it was completely isolated from society, which suited Brenden, who distanced himself from all social interactions.

The wind caught the door as Connor crashed through the entrance with his surfboard, sending splinters across the reception area.

“Brenden! Are you here?” Connor called out. The only thing to fill the silence was the creaking floorboards as Michael entered behind him.

“Strange, I wonder where he’s gone, it’s getting dark soon,” Michael noted.

“He’s probably still painting, he’ll be back soon,” replied Connor, in an unconcerned tone.

Michael had already disappeared into the heart of the shack. Lights switched on behind the hallway door and rock music started to thump from the speakers, blocking out the scowling wind outside. Connor smirked and made his way toward the kitchen.

“Throw me a beer mate,” Connor slicked his hair behind his ears and slumped into the torn purple sofa across from the kitchen counter. A cold bottle landed next to him, and a flash of light caught his eye from the adjacent sofa, where Michael was laying back lighting a cigarette.

The night continued like any other. Beer bottles and cigarette butts scattered the lounge floor, and the music gradually increased in volume as the night raged on. Suddenly, through the barrage of sound, a door smashing against a frame could be heard.

“What was that?” Connor blurted out, dropping his beer onto the tattered red carpet.

“I don’t know, it sounds like it came from the hallway.” Both brothers turned to stand up, when Brenden appeared through the main kitchen door, his eyes fixated on his brothers as he scratched his knee.

“Bloody hell Brenden, where the hell have you been? It’s been hours,” Connor jumped out of his chair to confront him.

“Can I have a beer?” Brenden stopped scratching his knee, stopping Connor in his tracks. This was very off character. Brenden had never really had alcohol before, despite Connor’s relentless encouragement to get his brother to ‘loosen up’. Connor and Michael looked at each other for a moment, before breaking into laughter.

“Brenden, get a cigarette off Michael, have one of these and go and sit on the sofa over there,” Connor patted Brenden on the back with a heavy hand, knocking Brenden forward slightly. Michael pulled out a cigarette and offered it to Brenden, who hesitantly put it in his mouth. Michael lit the end for him, as he perched himself by the window on a rickety wooden stool.

“Brenden, where have you been?” inquired Michael.

Brenden ignored the question, “it looks like a storm is b-brewing out there.”

“Yeah good point Brenden. Michael, turn up the music will you.” Brenden spluttered as he forced himself through the rest of the cigarette, still staring out the window.

Outside, the wind had picked up. Black branches of poplar trees thrashed side-to-side, hail buffeted the side of the shack and the wind howled through the splinted slats. Despite this, the deafening music in the house reduced the sound of the wind to a light murmur.

Michael sat quietly, rocking his head back and forth to the music and Brenden looked searchingly out the window. Connor, who was getting progressively more drunk, bounced around the kitchen, shaking the floorboards as he did. He enthusiastically clambered onto the kitchen counter and leapt into the air. From this point, it all happened so fast.

He landed at the base of Brenden’s stool, shattering it on impact. The floorboards below crumbled, spraying strips of carpet, and splintered, mouldy timber into the air. Connor and Brenden were engulfed by the gaping hole, crashing in a heap on the floor below. It was silent as clouds of dust and wood splinters settled around them.

The room was pitch-black other than an antique wall lamp, radiating a soft orange glow. Old furniture with weathered floral patterns was spread around the room in an irregular formation. An oil painting stood in an easel, towering over a shape on the floor. The glow from the lamp illuminated the canvas in such a way that the paint appeared wet.

“Where the hell are we? Since when did this place have a basement,” asked Connor. Brenden was silent, glaring at the lump on the floor.

Connor swivelled around as Michael walked towards his brothers, trying to hold back his laughter “Are you guys alright? That was awesome!” The room was quiet, even with the storm rumbling outside. The music had stopped.

“Yeah, yeah fine. Brenden are you alright? And what is that awful smell?” Brenden stood by the painting, his head flicking between the canvas and the shape on the floor.

“What have you found Brenden?” asked Connor.

Michael knelt beside Brenden and pulled back the thick grey throw covering the shape. “Erm… Connor get over here now.”