Brandon’s Head

"Nobility is dead", I sobbed in front of the mirror, yanking at my hair in a desperate frenzy. The crusades are long gone, I cannot even gain knighthood, why then, should I toil in this pointless existence?

“Today I won’t go”, I straighten with a jolt and observe the haughty face that glares back at me in the mirror. These hard, sculpted cheek bones, and those disdainful jeweled eyes are wasted in such a time, of ignobility and boredom.

But despite my proud words, I throw on a tie and stumble, blinking furiously, into the oppressive morning sun.

My thoughts are shoved down, when I’m forced to acknowledge the man gesturing at me from afar. The ill-fitting blue sleeve, accented by an garish yellow tie, waves frantically at me, in unbearably good cheer. It’s Brandon, the man that I hate most of all, but in such a world, my hate must be hidden.

With a shining faux smile, but eyes frozen over, I return the warm greeting so I can get on with the drudgery, but the blundering fool, unsatisfied with my smile, and having jogged up to me, throws at me a wall of meaningless words about his weekend at the beach. I loathe his weekend stories, and I loathe hearing about his family, but Brandon keeps pounding my ears with his words. 

His words that are so trite, and so ugly in their lack of nobility that I can feel my very character degrading as I hear them. The processes of my mind, in order to properly hear them, must, by necessity, allow them into my thoughts, and like a poison, they spread, tainting my intellect, the only thing I hold dear. And with a wayward glance, I realize that it is Thursday, and with a wayward thought, a compounding of remembrances, I realize that I have heard this poisonous drivel since the beginning of the week.

And as I ponder the damage that his words must wreak upon my delicately balanced psyche, I realize, quite suddenly, that I have to kill Brandon. And it must be tonight, for tomorrow is Friday, and I’m sure, if I hear such ugly, trite words for the whole week, I will lose all noble thoughts and become a fool, like everyone else.

Suddenly, I’m feel light, giddy almost, with such a good thought, a thought that rings perfectly to my inner true ear. It’s one of those thoughts that lifts you out of the situation, and I smile a contented smile as Brandon drones on about the quality of the sand.

 *****

A plan is easily made, although actions are much harder, I reflect as I sit at my desk at 6:00 o’clock. The others are stumbling up, throwing on their coats in mechanical motions, but Brandon, the insufferable tot, is prancing around and spilling chatter all over the floor. They hate him like I do, I can see it in their eyes, the way the colors dull when that man opens his mouth.

“While I threat, he lives”, I recite under my breath, over and over again, trying to work up the will. There’s a peculiar wall, that always stands in the way of great action, but I wail on it with my mantra until finally it gives way.

“Brandon”, I blurt out, summoning him over to me, “may I speak with you privately in the break room?”

The others, after throwing their grateful glances my way, hurry out, un-accosted for once, by the ghosts of Brandon’s weekends past. And I walk to the tiny, dimly lit room that houses the memories of awkward silence, and Brandon’s sporadic chatter.

He bounds in along with me, that enemy of mine, ecstatic with the thought that I actually want to talk with him. He is so bound up with this excitement, and so curious as to what I might say, that for once, he is silent, communicating only by his smile.

There’s poignancy in that, that he may die finally silent, I like to think some kind god may have given him a noble death. So I say,

“Brandon, close your eyes, and yes, hold out your hands. I have a surprise for you that will do you great good.”

The fool happily complies, and I rush to the drawer, I grab a bread knife, rush back to him, and after closing my own eyes and savoring the excitement, I plunge it into his throat, and sever his vocal cords, so that he won’t speak, for, as I’ve said, I wish him to have a noble death, and his words are unbefitting anything resembling nobility. 

Still, he manages to splutter, partly due to the outpour of blood that comes rushing out his throat, and I think, he tries to get some words out before he goes. 

I cannot know what he would have said, perhaps what they say about dying men is true, that they suddenly can foretell the future. But more likely he wanted to finish his story about the beach, and being inconvenienced with his unexpected death, was going to finally bring the story to swift end.

But regardless of what he meant to do, all he could do was splutter, and vainly attempt, with his hand, to stop the flow of blood from his throat. In a moment, he collapsed, in a most undignified manner upon the floor and then twitched for a while, while I watched.

I shan't say the twitching bothered me much, although it was vulgar in it’s movement, for it was not unlike the twitching he did when he was alive, although that twitching was of a greater scale, as he ran back and forth trying to talk to anyone who would listen.

So, seeing as how I would soon be rid of his twitching all together, I tolerated it, almost savored it with nostalgia.

And when the twitching stopped, I grabbed him by his hair, and dragged out his head, while his body, still connected by some un-severed veins, bounced along merrily. I was out of the break room, and halfway outside when I stopped, and considered what I was doing. Why should I hide the body, like I’d done something wrong? I who had just saved all the workers from Brandon’s intolerable speech. I couldn’t imagine that they would be upset and, sitting to ponder my actions, I soon realized that I was, in fact, a hero.

And the more I thought about myself, as a hero, the more I could see just what would happen, come morning. It was a beautiful picture, my mind painted for me, with the most delicate details and intricate expressions. I had never had such a clear vision of what was to be, and I’m sure that it came about because my mind was free from Brandon’s taint.

So I ran out the room, leaving Brandon behind, and set out to make my perfect image a reality.

*****

There was no rooster crow, nor no trumpets to start the day, but a modern day man must make do with what he can. I waited, for 30 minutes, for a confused crowd to gather around the now locked doors, before the servant I had hired opened them, and escorted my guests up to our offices. And when the unsuspecting crowd opened the doors, the most wondrous sight was waiting for them.

I, in shining, metal plated armor, was standing upon three desks, stacked one atop the other. My chin was thrown high, my countenance befitting a knight, and my bread knife was sheathed in an emerald studded scabbard. The room was filled with banners, and art, and a feast, which I had ordered, using up all of my savings left over from the armor and scabbard. And when their roving eyes, satiated with the pleasures of the beautiful decorations my life-savings had bought, settled finally on the centerpiece beneath my planted foot, they let out a cheer, so rousing it must have been heard throughout the block.

There, beneath my metal plated foot, lay the severed head of Brandon, his grotesque eyes rolled back and his hated tongue lolled, draped over his mouth. And I shouted,

“Sing my praises, all you peasants and fools!”

And sing they did, while they hoisted me on their shoulders, and merrily we paraded down the long dusty streets. The peasants and their knight could be seen by great thousands, they, singing my praises, and I, clutching the head.