The Perfect Act

Disease

THE PERFECT ACT

Three: The Disease

"I'm sorry, I didn't know who to call." Ivar looked at a dishevelled Ailey; a rare sight to witness. She crumbled into his arms, sobs ricocheting off the hospital walls.

"Ailey, what happened?" She mumbled into his shirt, but he couldn't understand a word she was saying. Arlen approached them, his appearance even more shocking than his sister's.

Ivar stared in shock at his disfigured face. He was almost unrecognizable; if it wasn't for Fitz's jacket that clung to his shoulders, Ivar wouldn't have known it was him.

"Ivar..." Arlen's broken voice gasped out. It was then that Ivar saw his wet shirt. No, not wet; bloody. Arlen started sobbing, falling to his knees. Ivar bent down to this familiar stranger, embracing the huge guy like fragile porcelain about to shatter. "Shhh...Shhh..." Ivar soothed the two siblings that clung to him. He was unsure of the situation and almost too afraid to ask any questions. There were dialogues running through his mind, but none that he could voice out.

The big brother regained some of his composure and drew back, his despondent expression more heartbreaking than his bruised-up face. "Ivar..." He whimpered. "It's Fitz. He's dead."

Ivar's whole world collapsed; he heard every loud sob Ailey released as her brother explained what happened. His hands fell from the siblings, and his heart turned into that fragile porcelain. That's why Fitz wasn't there, that's why his girlfriend called the brother instead. He looked at the jacket Arlen was wearing; it was the same jacket Ivar had stolen from his brother many times before. The one his mother hounded him to take that night.

***

Fitz's death was like an earthquake for the Atkins household. It was catastrophic and appeared out of nowhere, destroying everything with no care of the calamity left behind.

Ivar's father retreated into his work, he no longer watched Saturday matches on the big TV and opted out of their Sunday family drive around. His mother seemed to fall into a melancholic despair that left their cosy house in a cloak of desolation. For Ivar, he lost his role model, the person that taught him how to be a man; a real man. Not the misogynistic patriarchy he grew up in, but the kind of man that always stood up for friends, helped others in need, and never backed down from what was right.

Fitz was the one person on earth, Ivar believed, that deserved the ultimate best life the world could offer.

The fatherclock that had become a family heirloom echoed the hour throughout the house, his mother's whispers vanishing with the loud strike.

As a kid, Fitz knew how to calm his mother down. He had this magical power that made her say "alright my boy" and stop whatever jargon she was mumbling. Like a pillar, the moment he was gone, the entire weight of the Atkins family came crumbling down.

Ivar sighed, wishing his brother was there. Maybe he could ask for advice, or ask for help in his situation. His brother was able to make every situation seem insignificant in the grand scheme. What would Fitz have done if he was Ivar?

The front door creaked open and a booming voice echoed through the house. "I'm home!" Ivar's father thundered, cueing his son to descend downstairs. He took a deep breath, trying to look as pitiful as possible in the hopes his parents would go soft on him.

Ivar sat across from his dad, avoiding eye contact. He rolled the meatballs around on his plate, too afraid to take a bite. When he saw his father's face he saw all the emotions he didn't want to; anger, disappointment, disgust, and hate. Despite the tenseness Ivar found that his father avoided eye contact as well.