Reduced to the Absurd

Michael sat watching a movie when Morgan came in and sat across from him. Michael muted the television and looked across at Morgan, who'd obviously cleaned himself up, but had been in some sort of altercation. “What happened to you?”

“I was away on a contract.” Morgan said flatly. Sometimes getting Morgan to elaborate was like waiting for a pig to sing. Michael inventoried his visible injuries.

“You've an eyepatch, two facial scars and a bandage on one wrist.”

“Someone hit me with a car. It didn't end well for the vehicle or its driver.”

Perspective can make big things much smaller. “You survived an hit and run and could walk home?”

“I could walk on a multiple fracture,” Morgan reminded.

“So, how badly hurt are you?”

“I bruised two ribs and am very stiff right now, but the force wall took the brunt of the momentum.”

“Force wall?!”

“I'm getting better at mental projection.”

“Why didn't you ask me to go with you?”

“Because I'd planned on standing in front of a moving vehicle.”

“But you put up a shield.”

Morgan hemmed. “I thought of that at the last second.”

“You were just going to let a vehicle slam into you full force?”

“And while it passed over, snap its brake line. Mentally, if necessary.”

“Morgan... I don't know how to tell you how stupid that sounds.”

“I think you just did. And I did amend the idea at the last moment.”

“And the driver?”

“Got thrown fifty feet clear of the vehicle. This ought to make an interesting police report. Translocation was a challenge on this one. Timing myself in and out and then finding someone to repair me was difficult.”

Michael stared at Morgan in exasperation. Morgan closed his eyes and leaned back. Michael turned back towards the television, then clicked the sound back on to hear about a unusal crash during rush hour in Oregan. Eyewitnesses metioned a 'ghost' appearing before the car. Michael reflexively asked, “Did Mother put you up to this?”

Looking back, Morgan was shaking uncontrollably, giving Michael his answer. Then, Michael thought he heard a ghostly “Good Boy.”

Michael cursed her to the ninth circle of hell while running to the staircase and yelling down, “Get the cocktail. Morgan's having a fit.”

Morgan gripped his head, his entire body quivering. Michael took a handkerchief from his pocket, clamped his arms around him, and held him still. Morgan made an ghastly wail. His mouth foamed. Then, he said, in a strained voice, “Rum...”

Michael almost released his tense grip in surprise. “Rum,” Morgan repeated, “I neethe...”

“No,” Michael said sternly, “you can't have it with medicine.”

“No...” A gargle and bloody ooze issued from his lips. “No med...”

Michael worked his hand around to hold the cloth to Morgan's mouth. “Rum won't help, either.”

“Pleathe....”

“Morgan, no...”

“Voithes, no... voithes...”

“Alcohol gets rid of the voices?”

“Yeth.”

“We'll give you an antipsych.”

“No worcth. Her voithe....”

“Her voice? You mean mother's? Alcohol gets rid of mother's voice in your head?”

Morgan cried, “Yeth... yeth.. ack...”

Michael shifted their position and a mouthful of green bile came up. “So, that's why you drink so much. You can always hear her... when you're sober.”

Morgan was no longer coherent, but Michael was no longer in the dark about his brother's constant evasion of medication in favor of the liquor cabinet.