Quantum Brother

His awkwardly adorned frame swayed apologetically, as if ashamed of its owner. Saul, his overseer, negotiated the various felled trees and planted himself in front of him. His heart choked in the shame. He knew that Saul reveled in his authority, preying on fear. Saul smirked, sensed the tension and knelt to wipe the moss off his bright red wellies. Each tortuous second felt like an eternity. Finally, satisfied with the state of his boots, Saul stood to do what he did best.

"Hank. You are behind schedule. Again." said Saul. He took pride in his usage of silence, pausing regularly to add drama. 

"I can't -"

"No. No Hank. Wrong answer. Try again" growled Saul.

"This axe -"

"No! Is that what you're going to tell your wife when I sack you?" 

Hank paused. Saul wasn't bluffing. 

"No sir. I'll get it done sir. I promise sir."

Saul took a step forward, leaning into Hank's face. His breath, laden with gin, poured into Hank's soul.

"To call you a piece of shit is an insult to shit. It is an insult to the pigs that eat, grovel in it and the maggots and flies that thrive in it. At least it serves a purpose. No, you are beyond comparison. You are pathetic beyond familiarity. You will live nothing, and be nothing."

Hank had ceased to listen. Somewhere in the midst of the abuse, he finally found tranquility. He couldn't understand it, but his body certainly did. His body had known all along that today was the day he be born. Call it what you will: fugue state or psychosis, Hank's body was on autopilot, fueled on an angst and hunger long suppressed. 

Saul is still preaching.  It is a one way conversation;  delivering a tremulous speech worthy of a theatrical soliloquy. He begins to stutter, his voiced laced with fear and the hopelessness of betrayal. He had seen the transformation happen inside Hank, his eyes now  alight with primal fire. He also saw the axe rise in the air. This didn't happen as he had planned. It was the fault of the world for keeping the reality of his insignificance insignificant. He lifts his trembling hand, the pointed finger oscillating in sync with his racing heart. He realises that death is a contradiction; acting as the ultimate wake-up call in its capacity as eternal sleep.

Hank held the axe above his head. His brain, accustomed to tackling tree trunks, calculated the trajectory and power needed to slice Saul's neck off clean. Saul saw the axe angle towards him. He crumples to the floor, his voice quavers into a whimper, his demands reversed into pleas. 

Silence ensues. Hank slowly lowers the axe, Saul tortured with every passing second that the axe stayed in Hank's hands. He lets it drop by his side, hitting the soil with a soft thump. As Saul descended into relief stricken tears, Hank turned around and sat on a tree stump, staring at his hands.

He marveled at his callus ridden palms, the leathery texture grafted by his axe. It was all he had to show for a life in which he was largely absent. He looked up at the sky and thought:

What if, in some parallel universe somewhere, his quantum brother had chosen to live earlier than he?