Swansong Read Online Free Page B

knife wound that inflicted it, I guess it damaged the nerves…
    “To make sure I don’t kill you.”
    He’s joking, I realize, chilled.  Even so—
    “Why?” I ask.  I tuck my shaking hands beneath my knees.  “Why did you kill that man?”
    Judas’ face is quiet.  I know that doesn’t make sense.  What I mean is, it looks like the type of face you couldn’t glean a secret from, even if you took a chisel to it.  He’s hangdog and dejected and he looks like he’s lost everything.  And I guess he has.  And I guess it’s his own fault.
    I know it’s his own fault.
    But I feel sorry for him.
    “You have your artwork,” Judas says.  “Right?”
    I nod, reluctant.  I don’t know if I have it anymore.
    “What do you feel when you paint?”
    “Alive,” I answer.  I don’t need to think about it.
    “It was the same for me,” Judas says.  “I wanted to feel alive.  Wanted to feel…something.  Anything.”
    I don’t understand.  I can’t.
    He’s my brother.  He’s a murderer.  He’s all I have left.
    “What do you feel now?” I ask.  He has to feel something.
    “Regret,” Judas says.  “I ended somebody’s life.  Killing doesn’t end just one life.  If he had a wife—children—coworkers—their lives are changed, too.  Ruined.  I ruined a lot of lives.  I ruined Mom and Dad’s lives.  Don’t try and say I didn’t.  You don’t raise a boy and turn a blind eye when he spirals out of your hands.  All this shit—stuff, sorry—you don’t think about this stuff in the heat of the moment.  You don’t realize how many consequences your actions are going to have.  It’s not fun and games.  This world isn’t a game.”
    He was barely older than a child when he ruined somebody else’s life—and his own.  He grew up in prison.
    “I don’t think anyone’s all bad or all good,” I tell Judas.
    He looks at me.
    “Even the people who commit the most evil—in a warped way, don’t they believe they’re doing it for good? ”
    “You sure about that?”
    ” ‘If I hurt this person, I’ll feel better.  If I feel better, I’ll have more of myself to commit to the people and things that matter.’  You bomb a city and millions of civilians die, and it’s horrible, but you think you’re pleasing your God, or benefiting your civilization—it doesn’t excuse it.  It doesn’t.  But if you think you’re doing something good, and the world tells you you aren’t…it’s your word against theirs.  Aren’t good and evil a matter of opinion?  One opinion happens to be more popular; but it’s still an opinion…”
    “Are you trying to make me feel better?” Judas asks.
    “No,” I say.  “Maybe,” I say.  I don’t know.  “I think my brain’s been scrambled.”
    “It has,” Judas says.  “No getting around that.”
    “I wish I had died,” I say.  Even as I say them, I know the words aren’t true.  “If three people had to die, and only one could live—I wish I had died with Mom and Dad.”
    “So you wish your friend had survived.  Not Mom or Dad?”
    “No.  If Mom had lived and the rest of us had died, she’d be in the same position I’m in right now.  The same for Dad.  If Joss had lived—Joss’ parents are still alive.  And Joss is a singer.”  Was.  Why do I keep forgetting—  “If Joss were the one with brain damage, she’d still be able to sing.”
    “Don’t be so sure.  Sometimes brain damage affects speech, vision.  You’re lucky.”
    “My hands keep shaking.  They won’t stop.  I…”
    “You think you can’t paint?”
    I don’t know what to think.  “If I can’t,” I tell him, “I can’t go back to school.”
    Judas looks at me.  He looks away.
    He says, “One of your meds—Mirapex.  It’s supposed to help with your memory.  D1 agonist.”
    It’s the best news I’ve heard since my birthday.  I breathe with relief.
    “They give Mirapex to Parkinson’s patients, too.  So, who