NIHILISM

There are many things in this world, tangible or intangible, that we take for granted. Sight, love, a home, just to name a few, life especially and sometimes, the people within it.

Often we do not think of the value of what we have, only that which we covet.

Interestingly, the things people often neglect to consider as underappreciated is the self-image and sacrifices made by those around them.

Our self-image is based on our own perception added - or subtracted - by the perception of those around us. The more influential someone is in our lives, the more value we place on their perceptions. Because of this, we often gaze upon ourselves through societal eyes. Instead, we should view it via the reflection of majestic and mysterious technology, made from the earth and used for over eight thousand years.

In one such house-hold, one man has chosen to live devoid of the perspective of himself. Any reflective or polished surface that reflects an image has been covered up, abraded or sold. This man, having spent so much of his life helping others at the cost of oneself - true altruism - is a dying testament on how too much sacrifice never goes unpunished.

An old man, responding to the name of Jared Harper, was sitting upon his favourite chair, staring at the wall vacantly in the dark. The room he was in was devoid of any light source; windows, mobile devices, not even a television. He had but a candle and a box of matches, which would be used only if he needed to traverse his house.

His eighty-fifth birthday was coming up and he was expecting guests to come by. On the landline, he seemed his usual neutral self, but really, he didn’t want them to come. Another year meant nothing, but that wasn’t the only reason they wanted to come and see the recluse.

It had been nearly a year since anyone last saw him in person. In fact, in the last ten years since retirement, he made little effort to make contact with anyone. People did come by and visit him, bringing him gifts of food or books to accompany the hermit during his years of solitude.

Often he would reminisce about his work. He didn’t miss being young, or having friends or earning money. He missed the job and the mysteries that pulled him from his mind; that challenged him.

He was a vigilant student in the science of Medicine. When he was twenty three he had completed a five year double bachelor of medicine and surgery. In April, six months after completing his course and four months into his internship, his graduation was held.

He was driven to the ceremony, taken by his girlfriend at the time. That fateful day, on the way home from his graduation ceremony, he witnessed a double-decker collide with the car in front of him. The car that his father was driving, and his mother, brother and sister were in.

That day, the certificate of MBBS was forever tarnished with the loss of his family. For many years he worked, aging as father, and Jared’s twin brother were comatose, wasting away in another hospital. He had to bury his mother and sister and received three months of counselling before he returned to work his internship. His counselling continued another six months after that, but he was never the same.

That year, he had separated from his girlfriend. She didn’t appreciate the way he treated her; especially considering that he was much ‘nicer’ to his patients and colleagues than he was to her. Perhaps she didn’t understand that it was just the job and she was supposed to be there for him; perhaps he didn’t understand that she was grieving too.

Six months later, another tragic day befell Harper. After his, now ex-girlfriend’s parents died from yellow fever, the girlfriend had committed suicide. She left him a note that he never braved to open. Respectfully, Harper attended their funerals and was further scarred with grief.

That day, a fellow intern had accompanied Harper. The fellow intern could see the pain eating away at him and had convinced him to bury his sorrows in spirits. “I must be a necromancer.” Harper slurred between drinks.

   “Whatever do you mean by that?” Asked the friend, equally drunk but with a mind less weighted with remorse and self-defamation.

   “I saved three people this week… Three from an almost always fatal sentence.”

   “You’re a good doctor.”

   Harper shook his head. “I must have bargained for their life, in exchange for theirs… Unwittingly.” He sighed, eyes began to water before he washed back the tears with another drink.

It is true that Dr. Harper was brilliant. A legend rising in the medical field in the eyes of the academics and the physicians, and also the laymen. It was also clear, to those closer to him, that the brilliant doctor was treading within darkness.

By the time he was thirty, his father died. Five years later, having completed two Masters in Medicine and Surgery, his twin brother - Theodore - had awakened. A joyous occasion one may think, until you realize that the brother was devoid of any thought.

Arriving to meet his brother, he was told that his twin brother was essentially brain dead. He could breath on his own, reflexes were normal, but couldn’t move voluntary. “He will require a carer for cleaning and administering food. I believe that social work has already arranged funding for him. It should be approved, given the circumstances.” His attending physician informed.

Harper was given the name of an organization that would assist him. Carers, Dietitians, Occupational Therapists - Harper had his entire house reconstructed to accommodate his brother. He was a man, continuously brought down by unfortunate events: circumstances of life and debt.

“I’m sure saving your brother gives you strength, but you’re still young… You can start a family.” One of the assigned counsellors told Harper during his visitation after speaking with the care organization.

   Harper shook his head. “I can’t just leave him. And he’s not got a D.N.R or any issue that requires him to have a respirator. Anything that would end his life is murder. Either way I have to afford his fees and that requires me to work…. And working removes my freedom to socialize.”

   “Having someone to help you is important.”

   “Dumping my burdens on someone is not something that should be asked by anyone.”

For the most part, all nutrients and fluids were fed intravenously to Theo. Only nurses and carers and other allied health professionals took care of Theo; Harper wanted nothing to do with him. “I’ve lost my brother. I’ve lost everyone now.”

“What’s changed?” Harper sighed, staring into the darkness.

Euthanasia, even if it weren’t illegal, would not apply to Theo. He was not in pain. He was not terminal. He was, however, devoid of a life worth living; a blessing was that he was absent of consciousness capable of being aware of his situation. Most people did speculate that, due to his condition, he would not live another ten years.

He had no need for a car. Everything of need was delivered to him. Modern age of convenience had some perks and his life as head of Surgery and Internal Medicine gave him enough money to have his non-existent children retire. He was a man without want nor desire; but Harper was also a man truly bored and empty; devoid of life.

Every now and then, his gaze is caught by the attention of a reflective surface, hidden under a cloth or sheet. At these moments, Harper would be lost in thought, transfixed on the fragments of the images reflected upon him. These moments would cause him to drop into despair but before spiraling, he would often draw himself away from the cursed thing, covering it further if need be. Then, he would reach for the comfort of bourbon.

The few times he did have friends come over, they would discuss new medical literature that challenged their previous notions, or new medical techniques that would have made certain decisions or tasks easier or safer for them. He would not admit it, but during these discussions, Harper felt more alive than he has in the last decade since his retirement. Whenever the friends would leave, he quietly experienced mixed feelings. He was happy to be alone, but perhaps a little disappointed that his stimulation was over.

These moments of disappointment would be omitted when the visiting friends would question his health. He was often irritable, exhibiting slight mood swings between being friendly and abrasive, his walking appeared unstable at times. During overnight visits, his friends would observe a lack of sleep, nocturnal pacing back and forth, and jumbled speech when speaking to himself.

   They monitored his behaviours on several occasions. When he was speaking to himself in one room, he seemed slightly placid. It wasn’t until they saw him approach the mirror or gaze upon any other reflective surfaces that his responses were not only louder but more distressing.

   Despite assuring them he was fine, they remained insistent he seek medical aid. In response, he would tell them they were wrong about what they thought they heard and that he was not speaking to himself. He was speaking to his brother. Unbeknownst to them, the fact they weren’t interacting with his brother was upsetting Harper.

One of his friends, a retired psychiatrist, was increasingly concerned with Harper’s anxiety with mirrors and people, and his state of cognitive decline. Depression was a constant in his life which led to him living a lonely one. “Social isolation, agitation, mild hostility and anger, the hallucination of your brother - or at the very least, hearing voices - added with chronic depression…”

   “I’m fine.” Harper assured, firmly. “I’m just too old and tired to be young and patient.”

   “So fatigue?”

   “And I have pestering friends, like you, that I invite into my abode-”

   “Your paranoid-designed abode.”

   Harper huffed in response. “I’m particular. When has that ever been a problem?”

   “You are hypervigilant with respect to the mirrors. You have a compulsion to ensure they remain covered, even when your guests require their use.”

   “So now you’re trying to tell me I have OCD?”

   “I’m just enquiring as to why you have these behaviours and won't seek medical attention.”

   “Because I’m--” Harper sighed, taking in a breath. “Should I be asking you, when do you intend to return home?” Harper retorted, calmly - however passively hostile.

His other friends were too polite, or weary of mentioning their uneasiness about Harper’s dislike towards anything reflective. Even the cutlery and utensils were detailed to minimize the reflective properties of stainless steel. Anything they owned that they brought with them were requested to be placed in an empty shoe box he would offer them upon entry.

“It’s a cruel fate to keep you …active in such a state.” One of Harper’s coworkers remarked, seeing the twin sit lifeless in the hospital bed. Sometimes Theo would be staring lifelessly at his hands, which lay supinated upon his lap, other times he would be lost in the blank space on the wall. “He’s like a doll… An expensive doll.”

The brother would always be a topic of thought or conversation, but never with Harper. The brother was physically present during their visitations, but thankfully hadn’t the mind to comprehend their words. He’d just stare into nothingness as time ticked by; even when Harper would come to visit him.

At the hospital, the night staff firmly believed they could hear voices coming from his room. So quiet, so distant. This repeated so much so, that despite investigations and requests for testing, any and all analysis of his cognitive function would turn up empty. The brother, which anchored Harper to a lonely life, was truly a simple shell.

Eventually the physicians - Harper’s friends - started to ignore the twin, even going so far as to consider him dead. Logically and medically - to a degree - they were correct. The only thing alive and human about the brother was the resemblance he had with Harper. Harper, being animate, gave his twin a level of presence; however foreboding.

Though it was hard to move his twin around, Harper had tried to get his friends to actively communicate with his brother by bringing him into the living room. One day, the twin was sitting on the couch, often used by Harper. The granddaughter of one of his visitors came over - bored of the adults talking about ‘adult things’ and, with her head buried in her phone, sat upon Harper’s brother; completely oblivious that the twin was even there.

   “This chair feels… Lumpy.” She said, wiggling on his lap.

   Clearly, if Harper saw - or especially heard this - he would have been vocal. However, he and his guests were in the kitchen as he prepared them tea. A scream erupted from the lounge room and quickly the frightened young girl ran into the kitchen where she begged, pleaded, demanded, and screamed for them to leave. Apologizing for the commotion, his friends quickly departed.

One night, Harper had indulged a friend to stay over due to emotional troubles. She was recently widowed and he felt considerate enough - still - to give her some kindness. But he didn’t really want her to be here.

   Sure, in the past they may have had something. But that was then. Harper’s heart had suffered atrophy. She stayed in the guest room, where Harper’s twin had been staying for most of the nights. There was another guest room, but Harper hadn’t the time or patience to prepare it.

   She had woken up several times through the night, coughing, unable to breath, suffering night sweats and nightmares. Having woken up to go to the bathroom, she could hear voices - sweet innocent children laughing - coming from the bathroom. When she opened the bathroom door, the voices had stopped and the silence returned.

   The house would haphazardly creek. The wailing wind beneath the door would further unsettle her. But it was the movement that she caught something in her peripheral that caused her to run from the house screaming. Harper rose from the bed upon hearing her screaming and ran to the open front door.

   “What’s wrong?!” He shouted out to her, but she had locked herself in the car.

   She never said anything in response - driving off into the street. He ran back inside to grab his phone to call the police and ambulance to help her but as he grabbed his phone he heard the car crash. He froze staring at the time.

   4:04am.

   The car was found. It had wrapped itself around a yew tree after flipping over. Her friend was never found.

“What kind of life can he have like this? How can his mental health be looked after?”

   The doctor shook his head at the nurse. “He’s not aware of anything. He’s not alive.” He informed the young nurse, as the head nurse approached.

   “It’s not like he’s in a nightmare.” She agreed, moving in to change the IV bag. “Even a computer is more self-aware.”

A month after the visitor’s little girl had a fright, many of his friends had come to visit. One had a young boy with him. The young boy, almost seven years old, had ventured into the bedroom where the brother normally stayed. The wardrobe - in the bedroom - was opened, giving way to view the opening leading to the attic.

   Climbing up the set of draws, the child managed to fit through the gaps and emerge within the attic. It was dark and riddled with cobwebs, as no one had been there since the previous owner. The child explored the attic, finding a small table and chairs occupied by a series of dolls.

   Cautiously he approached them. They were without the coating of dust everything else had, suggesting that they had been played with regularly. “Hello?” The child greeted the dolls, moving closer. “May I join you?” He asked, eventually taking a seat.

   Little did the boy realize that the brother was sitting opposite the table of dolls, watching him. Perhaps the dolls had more life in them than he, but none-the-less, he was there, watching them play. The body continued to watch vacantly as the child conversed with them as if they were his friends.

   “Are you happy with your choices?”

   Harper rolled his eyes, placing down their hot cup of tea.. “Why are you asking me that?”

   “You told me long ago you wanted a family.”

   “That was over fifty years ago.”

   “And now..?”

   “Now - I have my brother.”

   The guest sighed. “Was it worth it? Are you fulfilled?”

   “You don’t find meaning in my life?”

   “I ask if you do.”

   After seeing the agitation creep up in Harper’s face, the wife of the guest touched her partner’s hand. “Let’s talk about something else.”

   “Maybe I’m done talking.”

   “Why are you removing the mirrors?” Another guest interrogated.

   Harper was taken back. After a moment to gather himself he turned away. “You ask too many questions.”

   “Will you not answer?”

   Harper shrugged, "I just don’t like the way I look.”

   “You’re still guilty because you live and your brother didn’t?”

   “He’s still alive.” His answer concerned his friends. “He didn’t die in the crash.”

   “Didn’t he?” The man sighed. “And what about the voices at night?”

   Harper shrugged. “What voices?”

   “We’ve heard the voices.” Another woman spoke up before playing the recording on their phone and heard a distorted voice mutter something inaudible. “What is that?”

Harper shrugged it off. “Maybe you should lay off the booze.”

   “Alcohol doesn’t create this.”

   “Tell that to my medical experience.”

   “At first I didn’t believe it but we have the recordings now.” Another friend informed.

   “It’s just my brother.”

   There was a silence before another man sighed. “Your brother lost the ability to speak more than fifty years ago. He can’t speak anymore.”

   “Yeah… I know you all think that… You no longer speak to him.” Harper retorted, feeling slightly cornered.

The following day he contemplated the conversation pertaining to the mirrors. It had been years since he completely gazed into the mirror and contemplated doing so again. But the memories of the images before seized his hand.

   He was haunted by the faceless man in the reflection and the beautiful home in the background, with a loving wife and seemingly wonderful kids. Their laughter and joy, tainted by the delay of the sounds and distortions that blurred their faces. He could only see his brother, alive and well - happy. His face the only one Harper could see, and his voice was the only voice that was clear. “█████”.

   Shortly, hearing his brother’s voice caused him to pull away from the waking nightmare, and drift over towards the door to escape the room. In passing, he caught a glimpse of the reflection from the window, where he could hear voices again. He turned around and saw the reflection in the vase in the hall. Only this time, it was the screaming from that day; the cheering from the graduation.

   His inner voice was screaming “no”, but he was already swept into the memory of that day - forced to relive the day again, if only for a moment. He tried to flee, but his eyes subconsciously searched for the reflections to gaze into those moments again, and again. Spirited into desperation, Harper pulled the curtain aside and broke the vase in the hall that caused him to recall the day.

   He collapsed, sliding down against the ground - oblivious to his hand dripping with blood. “Brother…” Harper exhaled, his head lolled as tears fell from his face. “Was I wrong?”

It was the middle of spring and Harper began the annual ritual of clearing out the cobwebs from his home, and shifting through documents in the attempt to organize them. One document was a letter he had received earlier that month, detailing a decline in registration for home assistance and a rejection letter of offer he had given to a young nurse. “How am I going to continue to look after you?” He mumbled to himself, staring at his trembling hand.

   Three years had passed since he had any aid from medical staff full time. Many previous nurses had tried to sue Harper for psychiatric treatment. They claimed to see his reflection in the mirror while they were in the bathroom. However, even their reports state that, when they approached Harper, he was fast asleep. Police had been in to investigate but found no condemning evidence against Harper. The psychiatrists diagnosed them with PTSD due to work stress, especially when they all stated seeing his reflection upon every surface.

   Continuing to organize the notes, he came across a file that he had procured from one of his contacts, involving the case. He remembered receiving the file, but not reading it. Curiosity coerced Harper to sit upon the chair at his desk and began to examine the contents.

   ‘Nurse Alison Green. Age: thirty two. Height and weigh-” Harper scanned over the statistics, flicking through the pages, coming to the coroner report. “Dead?”

   He was shocked at reading this. Once the idea had settled, Harper brushed away space from his desk, dropping a notepad down before gathering a pen. Reading the findings of the case, he made notes to compare to the other nurses. While not all of them had everything in common, he did find certain symptoms or conditions that repeated across the cases that were mentioned later in the detective notes. “Anemia, leukopenia, carcopenia, hypertension, bradychardia… Eventually, the nurses experiences, cyanosis, dyspea, jaundice and hematuria…” Harper began to ponder, when he was struck by a coughing fit.

   There was ultimately nothing he could do. He had no test data or anything else to ponder on. “Damn…” He sighed, closing the file, coughing into his hand once more. “I hope it wasn’t this old house that caused it…”

In his eighty-third year, having lost a handful of friends already, Harper had fallen ill. He had found it difficult to take care of his twin in his condition. Especially laying him back down in the crib before returning to bed. There had been minimal external aid for almost a year, and Harper was beginning to feel worn down.

   One morning, Harper had rolled over, struggling to rise from his slumber. He opened his dominant eye to observe the monitor on his tablet that displayed the security surveillance he had installed into his home. Although the device was operating properly - the correct time and date - he could not see his brother. Sitting up, Harper quickly gathered the tablet and began to shift through the different cameras to search for him.

   “Why aren't you in bed?!”

   Harper turned around, throwing off the blanket on the bed, bringing the tablet with him as he motioned to investigate. It was then he was startled by the sight of his brother, lolled within the wheelchair, seated beside his bed.

   Harper gasped. “How are you even here?!” He shouted from fear.

   His fear deepened, thinking about how his brother got up out of bed. More so, as he noticed him sitting there, staring intently at the direction of the mirrored door to his wardrobe, why he was here. Observing his eyes, it seemed he was looking more intently towards the entrance to the attic.

   Harper refused to look into the mirror. He remained staring at the mattress with his heart palpitating against the inside of his chest. Every now and then he built up the courage to glance up at his brother.

   The twin’s gaze is intent and focused, seemingly unwavering. Minutes passed before Harper moved closer to his brother. “Come on now… Are you hungry?”

   The brother continued to focus upon the mirror; devoid of expression. The curtain that veiled the mirror had begun to tighten - as if gravity was drawing it down. A creak resonated into Harper’s ears, jolting his heart with every rip and tear.

Soon everything became quiet and still, so much so that he could hear his heartbeat. Abruptly, the curtain that covered the mirror ripped off the nails and collapsed upon the floor. The sound of the curtain falling coerced Harper to flinch, but ultimately the lure was too intense. Alas, he was no longer able to look away.

   Once more he was forced to experience the torment he had been hiding from this whole time, only this time completely. Rather than a house, he could see himself sitting on the bed with his brother beside him. The children were playing by the foot of the bed, and in the distance he could faintly hear a feminine, ethereal voice call out to them. Eventually, the reflection of his brother began to rise from the chair beside Harper and moved towards the mirror.

   It was then the bright daydream Harper was captivated by, shifted towards darkness the closer the reflection of his brother drew to the mirror. Harper began to feel like the reflection was staring back at him - so much so that he did not notice that his own reflection had stopped moving.

Struggling, Harper turned his gaze from the mirror towards his brother, whom had rotated his head towards Harper, staring at him.

The sense of self is a comfort many do not realise.

Losing one’s sense of self, much like this gentleman, can bound you to a seemingly endless prison.

Or worse…

What do you think? What happened to the brothers? Will they find rest now? Or are they forever lost in [NOT FOUND]?