I’m spending the night at Mom’s tonight. My bipolar schizophrenic brother, Captain Crazy, is here, as well. He’s upstairs. A quiet whistle drifts down the stairs in between out loud conversations he’s having with the people in his head. I am awake. I am afraid. My brother terrifies me.
For such a large man, the Captain can be surprisingly quiet. He moves throughout the house; half ghost, half man. It’s unnerving. He’s upstairs one minute, and right behind the couch where I’m sitting the next. From his mouth come the most disgusting accusations and statements that I’ve ever heard spoken. His face is contorted and twisted as he spews his filthy words at me. It scares me to death. I forgot my pistol, again. I feel defenseless.
My mother is sleeping and I’m not quite sure what to do. I’m fifty one years old and am worried about waking my mother. This feels like a horrible dream. I hate how he enjoys my fear, even though I don’t show it. It’s as if he can smell it, or something. His eyes absolutely twinkle as he describes, in a girl child’s voice, how he wishes I were dead and that people like me will burn in the Lake of Fire. He says I blaspheme every time I talk back to him. He says he is God and that even Jesus Christ will pay for his blasphemy one day. He is God. He is God. He is God.
My chest hurts. I want to cry, but can’t let him see. I want to leave, but that would cause hurt feelings. I need sleep, but I refuse to close my eyes.