The Visitor

He always came at night, sweeping through my window and landing at the same spot every time. His visits were not regular and he always came when I least expected it. He was the best friend I never had.

His thin fingers held my face and he pushed it up gently so that I would face him. It had been months yet I had never properly looked at his face. My eyes ran over the crevices and the contours of his face; amazed. His complexion was untarnished. From the wrinkles you get from frowning or the laugh lines you get from laughing, he had none of it. But he looked paler than I remembered. I wondered if he had a life besides me.

He smiled at my awestruck state and began healing the wounds that had appeared since he last came to visit. He listened to my bemoaning and never interrupted. When I finally released the tears, he waited patiently and dabbed at my cheeks before cradling me in his arms, telling me I'm the most beautiful thing in the world. I never cared if he was lying because I'd longed to hear it. Hours passed and I fell asleep in his embrace, feeling relieved that all negative feelings had seeped out of me, slowly but surely. He was like a cup that had no end, whose main purpose was to amass my tears, my misery and distress.

When I awoke, his pale face greeted me, a small smile etched at the corners. I asked him why he was so pale but he didn't reply. Instead, he blinked slowly and reached forward and kissed me on my forehead. He held my hands for a few moments and said Goodbye. I was confused, he had never bid me farewell. Was he never coming back? Suddenly I understood it all. He only came when he felt I could not take the pain any longer, taking it away from me. Months he had endured it, trading his soul for my tears. His unending cup was full after all. His entity, once rich in colour had now faded to a rueful gray.



It was then that I realized I was never to see my dead brother again.