I put the key into the brass knob and turned left one half inch. I entered and flipped the bottom, horizontal switch, and around the corner of the hall, 2.5 meters away, the light flickered on. I pulled off my left loafer, then the right and placed them in the second cubby hole of my shoe rack. I locked the top lock, then the bottom, and placed my dark blue coat on the rightmost hook of my coat rack. I filed my papers from the day and folded my bookbag, ready for work tomorrow morning at 6:15 am. Eighteen strides of 0.75 meter length lead me to the mahogany and leather chair in the dining room. I sat in the single chair north-northeast of a 4 foot by 5 foot desk facing the wall and buried my head in my palms. My brother, John, was coming over. I was not adverse to his presence. Even though I am not inclined to appreciate company, John and I are on reasonable terms. However, in spite of our mutual tolerance of the other’s existence, I find myself exhausted when in his presence. Our differences outweigh any positive emotion I may hold for him. He is careless, slapdash, and haphazard. He is quite troublesome and difficult person with whom to deal. On my twelfth birthday, he crashed when skateboarding and gave me an oblong, two centimeter long scar on my hand, between my pointer finger and my thumb. I hated the asymmetry to such a degree, that, after tolerating it for three agonizing years, I replicated the scar on the other hand with a pair of kitchen scissors. With all my effort, it was for naught: the scars were still asymmetrical, and I still felt off balance when I looked at my hands, to this day. John was horrified when he saw my hand, but had the gall to ignore the truth that he had brought about the trouble by causing the imbalance in the first place. I often felt off balance when John was around. He did not use the faucet correctly, spoke two decibels too loudly, never locked anything, and always scratched his left cheek, but never his right. He steps on cracks, he disregards the subjunctive, and he is in constant motion. He reeks of imperfection and hates balance. He wears Hawaiian shirts and glow-in-the-dark shoelaces. I wear black turtlenecks and slacks. How we are brothers, I shall never understand.
“ALEX!”
I jump. John stands behind me, his cheeks scrunched to the sides in a lopsided smile. I ignore the urge to grab his face so it lines up properly. I have attempted this many a time in childhood, and none of those attempts have led to any tangible improvement, and that was at a time his face was much more malleable.
“John… I see you have not changed since last we met.” Seeing him is enough to make me feel tired, and I was already exhausted with the fiasco with Mr. Torrenson from earlier that day.
“You sound disappointed” he laughs.
“I do hope you will improve at some point, although I understand that my hope will likely be in vain.” He laughs again.
“Uptight as always. Still the pain, I see,”
“For your information, my habits are perfectly logical. It is everyone else who is not.”
“Yeah, whatever you say. ‘Cause if everyone acts one way and you act the opposite, clearly, everyone else is crazy, right?”
“Indeed. Just this month my immaculate bookkeeping allowed the company to determine that Mr. Torrenson had embezzled thousands of dollars.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” I pause, thinking. “I never liked him. He had the temperament of a toddler. He threatened me with every cliche he could think of when I reported him; needless to say, he could not threaten me for an extended period of time, so limited was he by his meager capacities. He only stole fifty dollars at a time because he lacked the brain-power to think of a higher denomination.”
“Wow. You really don’t like this guy, huh?”
I scoffed. “He always left the light on in a room upon his departure and never forgot to leave everything unlocked. He never pressed his jackets and never combed his hair. Yes, indeed, I do not like him!”
“Not that you like anybody. Hey! Wait a minute,” his face scrunches up. “Leaving stuff unlocked and forgetting to turn off the light? I do that, too!”
“Indeed. Now you are aware of how I think of you.”
“You’re gonna break my heart.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Boo hoo hoo,” he said, burying his face in his hands. He peeked through his pointer and middle finger to see if I had been moved by his theatrical performance. “Boo hoo hoo.”
“How infantile.”
He stuck out his tongue, validating my former point. “Annoying.”
“Insufferable.”
“Actually, you may have changed though. Just a smidge,”
“Pardon?” I frowned.
“You left the light on. And ya didn’t lock the door, either, didya?” He points to the bedroom, where golden light spills out from under the door. I stare at it. How was that possible? Had I really left it on without knowing? I scanned my memories of the morning. Suddenly my wandering eyes fall upon the silver kitchen sink. The spigot points straight ahead, directly at me, as though it were accusing me. I always turned the spigot to face north northeast, slightly to the left. If the spigot faced any other direction, I would have to wash my hands again. I would never ever leave it facing forward. The half assembled shrieks from earlier that day echo in my head. I start hyperventilating. John’s laughter ceases, abruptly.
“Hey man, you okay? It’s fine, you just forgot one time.”
“John…” I say, “that’s not it.”
“What is it? What’s wrong? Please tell me so I can help.”
“I locked the door,” I said, “And I didn’t leave the light on. I turned it off at 6:12am, before I went to work, as I always do,” I grab onto John’s right wrist and drag him to the door. He appears confused.
“Alex, what’s…”
He still doesn’t understand when the shots ring out. I fall to the floor. John stares at the shadow, taking in its uncombed hair and unpressed shirt, just like his own. The only difference is that John’s hands are empty, while Mr. Torrenson holds a shiny black instrument in his left hand. With another bang, John collapses to the floor, as well. Mr. Torrenson rips my watch and wallet away from me and darts to the hall. The door slams shut. I bet he forgot to lock it. I look at my brother. Each of us one shot apiece, snuggled up to our slowing hearts that cry red tears on the floor, leaving rapidly expanding pools of warm electric red liquid on my snow white carpet. I focus, or as much as I am able with my blurring vision, on John’s unpressed shirt which has a small red-rimmed hole in it, exactly matching mine. For the first time we are symmetrical. For the first time, I hate symmetry.