What I Know

I know that in five minutes, I am going to push my little brother out of the window of our twelfth floor apartment.  And I know that there is absolutely nothing I can do to prevent it.

It’s a huge window, more like a little door, really.  It stretches down to a few inches above the floor and then up again to the ceiling.  I don’t see why it’s so big.  Maybe it’s so we can get a nice view.  Our apartment overlooks Riverside Park, so there’s no one from the building across the street who can see in or anything.

Normally I like the window and how far it is from the ground.  Normally I like to look down at the tops of trees in the park.  In the summer, I like to open it and get a lot of fresh air inside the living room.  Now the thought of it frightens me.  I look at the glass of the window and all I want to see is a nice, thick brick wall.

I am going to push my brother out of this window.

I’ve done everything that I can think of doing, and still I know that there is no way of preventing it.  But I have tried.

As soon as I got home from school this afternoon, I went to the window and closed it.  I then searched all over for something to lock it with.  I couldn’t find anything, so I pushed an armchair in front of it.  When that didn’t seem like enough, I put a small table in front of the chair.  Now I am sitting on the floor, staring at my handiwork, wishing there was something more secure in front of that window.

I can move the table.  I can move the chair.  I can open the window.  And then I can push him out.  I don’t know how else to stop it.

I have four minutes before it is going to happen.  My brother isn’t even home yet.  I hope he doesn’t come home in the next four minutes.

For a second, I get the crazy idea of tying rope in front of the window to prevent him from falling, but then I realize rope will do no good.  Maybe if I made him wear a safety harness sort of thing when he gets home, I’ll be able to hold on to him and he won’t hit the pavement.  Or I could stack more furniture in front of that window and make it even harder to get to.

I know that these are stupid ideas.  I can’t fix anything.  I can’t control the window.  I can’t control my brother.

The only thing I can control is myself.

I leave the living room with the large window and walk down the long, narrow hallway towards my bedroom.  I just won’t leave my bedroom.  It’s simple.  If I don’t leave my bedroom, there’s no way I’ll be able to push my brother out the window.

And even while I’m telling myself these comforting thoughts, I realize that there must be some sort of glitch in my plan.  Something is going to go wrong.  Because even though there doesn’t seem to be a way for me to push my brother out of the window, it is going to happen.  I know it is.

I remember when I found out.  It was the old, blind man who told me.  I went to him to find out what my future would be.  I thought he would be some kind of fake, who would ask me questions, look in the palm of my hand, and then make up this whole future for me, a manufactured type of thing, vague and unrealistic, just like fortune cookie fortunes.  But the old blind man was above these sorts of dramatics.  He only said two things to me.

The first thing he said was, “What’s your full name?”  I gave him my full name.  He nodded and turned his head toward me, his eyes looking blankly above my head.  Then he said,

“On the first of June in this year, at five o’clock in the evening, you will push your brother out of the large window in your living room, and he will not survive the fall.  This is your fate.”

I know it sounds like a made-up fortune just to scare people, but there was something about it that made me believe it.  Maybe it was the way he talked so simply, without the usual dramatics of normal fortune tellers.  Or maybe it was the way that he was blind, yet he could see my future so easily.  Or it could be the way he said “this is your fate” in that final tone of voice, as though nothing I could do would change it.  Maybe the sadness in his voice when he told me what would happen, as if he knew it was a terrible thing and couldn’t be prevented.  Maybe it was the way he looked above me while he spoke to me, as if he was looking towards the supernatural.  I don’t know what it was, but I believed him.  And I still do.

There are two and a half minutes before I am supposed to push my brother out of the window.  I promise myself to stay in my room until five o’clock has passed.  I also start praying to any God that I’ve ever heard of that my brother won’t come home.  He’s still out with his friends for the afternoon, and if he doesn’t get here by five, then there’s no way the prophecy will happen.

Please don’t let him come home.  Please, please, please don’t let him come home.  I am silently begging whoever is listening up there, even though I’m an atheist and don’t even believe in God.  Please don’t let him come home.

There are two more minutes left.  Let him stay out for two more minutes.  Only two more minutes.  That’s not a very long time.  That’s one hundred and twenty seconds, an easy number to count to.  He won’t be home.  I feel myself relaxing with relief, my stomach becoming unclenched.  I stop wringing my hands.  It will be okay.  The blind old man was not telling the truth.  My brother is not here.  I can’t push him out the window.

And then the lock clicks in the front door.  My breathing stops for a few seconds and then comes back, faster and more nervous than ever.  My heart is beating hard and fast within my chest and my stomach is lurching and swooping, lurching and swooping.  I begin pacing, walking nervously back and forth between the walls of my bedroom, twisting my sweaty hands together, still breathing in short gasps.

“Hello?” someone calls.  I know that’s my brother.  I could recognize his voice anywhere.

“Just don’t go into the living room,” I whisper to myself.  “Don’t go in there, and there’s no way you’ll be able to do it.  He won’t fall if you stay in here.”   I try to take deep breaths to calm myself down, but it just makes me feel dizzy.  I’m shaking and sweating with nerves, I’m gasping, my pacing gets more rigid and fast and stiff.

“What’s all this?” I hear him call.  “Hey, why’s all this stuff near the window?”  I hear the sound of the table being scraped along the floor, and before I think about what I’m doing, I shout,

“Don’t touch it!”

I run into the living room, forgetting all promises to myself, forgetting that it is me who is going to do it.  I shove him away from the table and try to slide it back in position, but he is stronger than me.  He gives the table a forceful push, knocking me over in the process.  I watch from the floor, helpless, unmoving, just watching him move the desk and then the chair.

“It’s hot in here,” he says.  “Let’s open a window.”

“No!” I scream.  He opens the window.  I stand up and grab his arm, pulling him into the middle of the room, pulling and pulling.

“What’s your problem?” he asks.  “Get away from me!”

“Get away from the window!” I shout.  I tug even harder before it occurs to me what I’m doing.

I am fighting him in front of an open window.  The open window.  The window of our twelve story apartment.   I am fighting him, and it’s not yet five o’clock.

I let go as if I’ve been burned.

He stumbles backwards.  He was using all of his strength to pull against me, and now that I’ve let go, momentum carries him away from me and towards the window.  He is looking bewildered.  That’s the last expression I see on his face before his foot hits the window ledge and he loses his balance, falling backward and out of sight.  It is exactly five o’clock.