The Pedestal [Fiction]

I got second dibs on everything!

I paced the four walls of my isolation cell in juvenile detention. I started with a minor act of vandalism and moved up to shoplifting. My mother wept in court as the judge read my sentence. Eighteen months.

I scowled at her and my father. And Elias. It was all him. I was older and had my parents' attention until Elias came along. They treated him like a rare egg and the cheeky bastard took advantage of it.

Elias was always in the spotlight while I huddled in the shadows beside him. He was so bright in school and skipped classes until he was ahead of me. Everyone wanted to be his friend.

I wanted friends too. I wanted my parents' love and attention but instead got crumbs, the leftovers.

I pulled away from everyone and ended up in juvie. Things got worse—the long-drawn ordeal and irritation. I learned to commit my crimes better and also got into fights, hence the isolation cell.

My mother soliloquised in court once, wondering where she had gone wrong. I sneered at her.

* * * * * * *

The doorbell buzzed incessantly. Where is Martha, for Pete's sake? I groaned and stormed out of my private study to answer the door. It was a delivery man with a toothy grin.

He thrust a brown, crispy envelope at me and took off on foot. Nothing to sign? Strange. I shut the door and turned the envelope. It was addressed to me. I tore off the top and glossy pictures tumbled onto my hand.

"Honey, who was that?" Martha asked, walking towards me and blowing at her freshly polished nails. "Are you okay? You're as white as sheets."

"Of course, I'm okay." I didn't let her get close. I pushed the pictures back into the envelope, went back into my study and shut the door.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I paced the room. There was no note or demand attached to the pictures but clearly, this was a threat. But I was very careful!

I tried to pour a glass of scotch but my hands shook terribly. I clenched them and resumed pacing, trying to think of the best course of action. Am I in danger? Are my wife and kid safe?

I scrolled through my phone and called an old friend. He would know what to do.

* * * * * * *

After I got out of juvie, I did not return home. I crashed with Bob, a fellow delinquent who got out before me. I think my parents were relieved.

As the years passed, I kept track of Elias through the internet. The bastard became a lawyer, settled down with a pretty, classy woman and they had a boy—a spitting image of Elias. I smirked at their family photograph on Facebook, my insides boiling with envy.

The perfect son.

I got their home address and drove past the house. They seemed very happy. I got drunk that night, started a fight at the bar and spent the night in a police cell.

Elias was doing great while I moved from one low-paid job to another, from one petty crime to another. I was friends with most drug lords and peddlers in the city.

My life was a mess until the night I found my satisfaction. I was coming out of a bar in the slums when I froze in my step. Elias was getting out of his Mercedes Benz E-Class with a woman on his arm. She was not his wife. Well, well. What is the 'good son' doing in this part of the city?

I quickly hid behind the fender of a parked car and peeped at them as they hurried into a grotty hotel that I'd used before myself. I shook with laughter when an idea popped into my head.

I went into the boot of my rickety car and pulled out a fine camera that I stole from an airhead tourist. It was time to put it to good use.

An hour later, the happy couple walked out of the hotel and I snapped away until the fine, upstanding son and brother drove away.

The following day, I whistled cheerfully as I printed the photos, put them in two separate envelopes and sent one to Elias. He won't have a clue who sent them.

It was time for Elias' pedestal to crack and crumble into dust while I rise from the dust into the limelight.

* * * * * * *

"Man, you're fried!" Said Bob, the P.I. from the slums, his yellow teeth bared in a smug grin at me. "It was a lot of work but I traced the photos to my side of the town. Must be a local. You say he didn't ask for money or something, what do you wanna do?"

I blew out a sigh of frustration and combed my hand through my hair. "Can you get rid of him? B-but get the camera and destroy the SD card."

Bob grinned again. His ugly face made me uncomfortable but I hid my unease well. My friend said he was the best at making things, and people disappear. "Consider it done, man."

I turned to go when he shouted. "Oh, and it's going down tonight. You gotta be there. 10 pm sharp. Don't be late."

"Wait, what?"

Bob started his motorbike and drove away. Why must I be there? Shit! This wasn't the plan. It would make me an accomplice to whatever crime Bob would commit. Crap!

I would have to come up with an excuse to get out of this mess.

* * * * * * *

I'd just scored some weed and was strolling to my place when the familiar roar of a bike caught my attention. Then I felt something—someone getting close to me but I wasn't fast enough. Must be the weed.

A polythene bag came over my head and my assailant pulled it tight around my neck. A black Mercedes Benz E-Class, glasses tinted, pulled up beside us as we struggled.

Elias!

I couldn't breathe. The weed had messed up my brain. I glimpsed the wall of a building at the edge of my peripheral vision, threw my head back, a crunching sound and groan filled my ears. I shoved my assailant backwards with as much strength as I could muster.

We smashed into the wall, his grip loosened a little, and I quickly shoved my elbow into his midriff. He doubled over and groaned. He was as tall as me. I ripped off the bag, gasping for air as I drew in a breath.

"Bob?" I couldn't believe my eyes as I stared down at my friend and fellow delinquent. He glanced up in shock. "Are you crazy? You tryin' to kill me?" I yelled.

Bob coughed and blood spurted out. He pointed trembling fingers at the Mercedes Benz. The car took off at the same time, the tires screeching.

I threw my head back and guffawed. Yes, run little brother.

My second envelope should be in his wife's hand at that moment.

* * * * * * *

A few days later, it was Thanksgiving. I called home to greet my parents. My mother was teary on the phone.

Martha had left Elias, taking their son with her. The pedestal had crumbled into dust.

There would be no Thanksgiving celebration in my parents' house.

I hope you enjoyed reading my story inspired by the Scholar and Scribe November Invitational. My story does not count but I wanted to write something about it. You are welcome to participate in this contest!

Thank you for visiting my blog.

^{Image credit: Oleksandr P
Image credit: JJ Jordan}