It's All Over {Brooklyn Bridge - Tues}

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

This was it.

Thursday wrapped his thin black jacket around his slender frame and smiled bleakly into the cold autumn air. He was freezing, but it didn't matter. He'd be a whole lot colder in the next few minutes...and then nothing would matter, especially not being cold.

He'd given this an awful lot of thought; after all, Thursday Davenport wasn't a sad person by nature. He wasn't just going to off himself for some stupid reason like failing a test (ha, definitely not) or losing a girlfriend (not like he had one). No, a guy like Thursday needed a damn good reason to be so determined to do something like this, and in his mind, he did.

As he made his way on foot to the Brooklyn Bridge, he reflected silently on his purpose, that weak little smile still lingering on his face.

His brother had always been his only real friend. Tuesday, his left arm, his other half, his best friend...he knew it was stupid that he was so attached to him, but they were fucking twins. They did everything together...or they had. And it wasn't like Thursday was in love with him or anything - ew ew ew, no - but he did...love him strongly (platonically, of course). And ever since they'd come to this school, ever since they'd been sleeping in different dorms, ever since Tuesday had begun admiring Thursday's roommate...things hadn't been the same. Things would never be the same. No matter how Thursday tried to reach out to his brother, it seemed like nothing really worked anymore; every time, he only seemed to drive his brother farther away.

And he couldn't deal with the thought of losing his only friend. He wasn't ready for this degree of separation, and he wasn't ready to lose his brother.

He was just a big fucking screw-up, he thought to himself with a humorless bark of laughter. A big screw-up. The inferior twin. The unnecessary.

It was like...it was like buttered popcorn. Popcorn is really good with butter, and a while ago, everyone liked popcorn with butter. But then everyone started to discover that butter was pretty bad for you, that butter wasn't as great as it sounded, that butter definitely wasn't an equal to popcorn. It was just a condiment; a disposable coating. And now, plenty of people are happy with just plain popcorn with a little salt on it, and nobody really cares about the butter anymore. The popcorn is fine on its own, but popcorn butter? Well, it's just made for popcorn. So without the popcorn, the butter is just a greasy, disgusting mess.

And Thursday was the old butter.

"You're disgusting," he muttered to himself. "Look at yourself. Pathetic. Useless. Of course he doesn't want you around anymore. Why would he?" Another dry little laugh; the smile was starting to fade. "Just stupid old butter, huh...yeah, useless..."

With that in mind, the black-clad figure of Thursday Davenport stepped onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

Tuesday can cope with this sort of thing. Tuesday knows how to make friends. Tuesday's nice to be around even when you're not there. Tuesday can cope. Tuesday can manage. But I can't.

Tuesday will be better off without me...

He'd sent his brother a text message earlier saying only "I'm sorry," and then he'd turned his phone off for the last time. And he was sorry. He knew this was all going to come as a shock to Tuesday; maybe he'd even be sad for a little while. But that would eventually pass, and Tuesday would understand, and then he would move on to bigger and better things.

As he walked along the edge of the bridge, keeping one hand on the metal at all times, he continued to assure himself that Tuesday would be fine, Tuesday would move on, Tuesday would have a lot less to worry about with his stupid brother out of the way. Thursday had been harboring these growing feelings of uselessness for...God, months, it had to have been months. Months of separation, escalating into that incident at the mall...Tuesday really didn't want to do it anymore, did he? He wasn't interested in pulling elaborate pranks with his twin brother anymore, oh, no.

Well, that was fine. He'd get out of the way. Tuesday could do whatever he wanted now; he didn't have to do what annoying old Thursday wanted anymore...

Thursday was wearing his old black bandanna around his neck today as a reminder of the good times, and he pulled it up over his nose and mouth as he scrambled onto a metal beam. He began to walk solemnly, resignedly, arms outstretched, to the edge of the bridge.

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Tuesday wasn’t in the mood for people.

Hell, he wasn’t even in the mood for himself. Tuesday groaned and kicked a pebble against the side of the nearest building, turning irritably onto another random street. He could feel the whirlpool of feelings raging around in his mind: anger, confusion, weariness, stress, anxiety, emptiness…compassion.

Because even after what felt like years of separation, of isolation, of brushing past each other with eyes on the ground, fingers clenched in fists, he couldn’t hate his brother. Even as he felt him pull further away, even as he, Tuesday, felt himself pulling away. His brother was on one side and November and his group of friends were on the other side, and the two were yanking at his limbs with the strength of two WonderBread trucks with as much horsepower as the number of stars in the universe multiplied by the number of hairs on the body of every human on the planet, not including armpit hairs because those were really disgusting. Oh, and also not the ones in your...well, yeah.

But he couldn’t hate his brother. He couldn’t even hate what his brother was becoming, as every day of his life, Tuesday watched him descend into this ragdoll of a kid with quivering hands and restless, squinty, shifty eyes. He’d watched his beloved brother’s posture droop, his voice growing softer and less frequent. Tuesday was advancing to embrace his life, and Thursday was withdrawing, retreating from the world. And more importantly, from him.

And Tuesday should’ve hated that. He should’ve hated this shell of a person that his brother was becoming. He tried. He tried to glance away in revulsion whenever their eyes met, to cut off the familiar sensations that still washed through him when his brother felt pain or anger or passion. He knew that if he really, really wanted to, he could eradicate their built-in connection. He could suppress the foreign thoughts and feelings that flashed through his mind until they gradually weakened, ebbed, and faded into submission. But no matter how much he tried to cram his outlook into a narrow corridor of pessimism, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Maybe it was because deep down, he knew that the real Thursday was still there. Somewhere, nestled in the layers of resentment was the kid Tuesday had been diving into danger with since the day they’d both been born. And he also knew that it wasn’t Thursday’s fault he was trapped beneath all the gross angsty stuff. It was Tuesday's. Because he was a terrible brother.

Tuesday collapsed on a rickety wooden bench, staring down at his reflection shimmering in the East River. He liked this alone time, whenever he could get his hands on it. The chance to sit and mull things over reminded him that he was his own person, one singular person, that he didn’t need a brother to breathe, to think and imagine and live. He stared across at the Brooklyn Bridge, a thick, majestic line slicing open the horizon before him. It was a gateway to the mainland, to a new and different world. Tuesday had thought about it before, about strolling beneath the two towers and never looking back. To do something for himself, for once, something just for him. For Tuesday Davenport, and no one else.

But Thursday was a person too, as silent and empty as he currently was. And Tuesday knew he’d treated him horribly. The two had always been brothers, twins, and best friends. A unit. One. The brother part they’d never be able to change, but Tuesday knew that the title of “best friend” was slipping quickly from his nameplate. And he understood why. Thursday was smart, a thinker, a plotter, a leader, and Tuesday was a lazy, crowd-following procrastinator who enjoyed socializing more than anything else. He’d done nothing to deserve the kinship Thursday had given him their entire lives.

If I were someone else, I wouldn’t be friends with me. I’d hate me.

He sighed and pulled out his phone, scrolling through the new texts to the most recent one from his brother. I’m sorry. Sorry for what? What was even going on between them? He wasn’t sure how to put it into words, and even if he could, he knew that it would take a lot more than an apology to seal the gaping hole between them. At this point, it would take something huge.

Tuesday felt someone’s eyes on him. Jerking himself from his thoughts he glanced around, his eyes falling on a tall figure standing near the edge of the bridge. Tuesday raised an eyebrow, stuffing his phone into his back pocket. “Hey, uh, dude,” he called, clearing his throat. “You, uh, might not wanna stand so close to the edge there, man. I think it’s uh, dangerous or something.”

He stood up from the bench and brushed off his jeans, shaking thoughts of his brother out of his head. It was time to be heading back for dinner. And maybe he’d meet some friends afterwards and go get ice cream or something. No big deal. They’d help him through this. It was all going to be okay.

He took one last look at the figure. It still hadn’t moved. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Uh, dude,” he called, “you realize there’s like, water under there, right? Like, two feet away from you. And you can’t really breathe in it if you fall in.”

Yeesh. What an idiot. Tuesday spun towards the city and began the long trudge back to the school.

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

Just a few more steps, and he'd be gone.

Just a few more steps, and he'd go tumbling over the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge into the cold waters of the East River.

Just a few more steps, and Tuesday wouldn't have to worry about him anymore.

Just a few more steps, and he'd be free from guilt and resentment, and everyone else would be free of him.

Nobody wanted him around. Not really. He was going in the opposite direction of his brother; as Tuesday expanded out, Thursday shrunk in. He was like that old t-shirt Tuesday used to love, the one that one day he put in the dryer by accident and it came out all shrunken and small, and he couldn't wear it anymore. Thursday was sure his brother had been a bit disappointed, but he bounced right back, and that weekend they went out shopping and bought a bunch of much nicer t-shirts.

Yeah...Thursday was just like that old t-shirt, and November and all of Tuesday's new friends were those nice, brand-new t-shirts, stinking with their new t-shirt smell.

His hair wasn't even well done today. He'd stopped bothering. It didn't matter to him anymore; nothing did, really, because he could never stop thinking about what a failure he was, how every day he was driving his brother away and shrinking, shrinking, shrinking.

Right into nothing.

He took a few shaky steps forward before he heard the voice behind him.

"Hey, uh, dude. You, uh, might not wanna stand so close to the edge there, man. I think it’s uh, dangerous or something.”

Thursday froze.

He's here. What is he doing here?

Obviously, Tuesday didn't know that 'dude' standing on the bridge was his brother...or maybe he did. Maybe he was just mocking Thursday. The elder twin didn't turn around, though he felt his eyes begin to sting at the hurtful concept. Mocking him. Maybe he was. Maybe he hated him that much now; it wouldn't come as a shock to Thursday. Those disgusted looks...the general aversion to talking with him...hell, Tuesday didn't even seem to want to be in the same ROOM with him anymore.

Thursday laughed bitterly to himself and advanced. Well, brother, that won't be a problem anymore.

“Uh, dude, you realize there’s like, water under there, right? Like, two feet away from you. And you can’t really breathe in it if you fall in.”

Thursday felt himself choke on the tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to...he didn't even know what he wanted to do. He wanted to take the time to turn around and scream at Tuesday, and at the same time, the tone of his voice made him want to run right off the edge of the bridge. Tuesday didn't even recognize his own brother. Given, it was from behind, but it didn't matter; that thought made Thursday feel like he was already dead.

And what if Tuesday didn't know it was him? Maybe it should stay that way. After all, Tuesday wasn't the compassionate type, and he'd never seemed like he pitied suicide victims very much. Why should his estranged brother be any exception? No...he'd probably be disgusted if he knew. More disgusted than he already was. Disgusted. Because Thursday was disgusting.

As the tears clouded his vision, he laughed aloud, softly but hysterically, and screamed back, "THAT'S THE POINT!"

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Tuesday stepped from the grass onto the sidewalk, allowing himself to be re-immersed in the hustle and bustle of the city. He’d head down to the bookstore on the way back to campus, not because he like, read, or anything, but just to stand there, in the air-conditioning, and breathe in that new book smell that he loved so much. It smelled just like…okay, so you know when your mom took new cookies out of the oven? So like that smell, but like…wood instead. But not really, because trees actually smelled like, really bad. Okay so like…imagine if you took three-

"THAT'S THE POINT!"

Tuesday froze.

No, no, he must have misheard. He had to have misheard. That voice…he knew that voice. He knew that voice better than he knew any other voice in the world. That was his own voice reverberating across the East River, urgent and choked up and hysterical to the point of being unrecognizable. But Tuesday recognized it as well as he would recognize a picture of himself.

He turned around slowly, looking back at the figure that teetered on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. On the edge of death. Oh God, that sounded horrible. Death. That just sounded really, really, really, really bad. So…death-y. Ugh. Just ugh. But why would his brother…

And then it all came crashing down on him like a tidal wave, cresting and plunging downwards in a cruel, unfeeling spiral. In that single instant Tuesday’s mind was filled with an image of his brother’s face, his face, with those empty eyes, that desolate expression, that aura of hopelessness surrounding his every flicker of emotion.

And a single thought, a single sensation permeated every single one of the barriers that had been erected around Tuesday’s mind since that stupid shopping mall thing, and that was that Thursday couldn’t die. Thursday Davenport, his other half, his partner in crime, his sidekick in everything from school to McDonalds runs to online chats to random walks through the ciy at 4:53 in the morning…his brother. He’d always been there. He’d always be there. He couldn’t…Thursday couldn’t die.

Shit, dude. This was his own fault. This was all his, Tuesday Davenport, the biggest, most uncaring idiot in the whole world's fault...

Tuesday swore and began to sprint down the riverbank.

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

This was all going to be over and done with. Three, maybe four more steps, and he'd be over the edge.

It would all be over.

Thursday inhaled a shaky breath, trying to laugh at the situation that had just occurred - laugh it off, as usual - but he couldn't. He wasn't very good at laughing off his brother anymore. No, what was intended as a laugh (albeit a slightly hysterical one) came out as more of a mangled sob, and Thursday felt his eyes brimming with tears.

Big boys don't cry, Thursday.

Then he did laugh, at himself this time, and bitterly. Well, why the fuck shouldn't he cry, huh? He could if he fucking wanted to. He could do whatever he wanted right now with no repercussions; after all, by tomorrow, nothing he said or did right now would be of any consequence anymore.

Still, it wasn't exactly, like...classy to go out crying, and Thursday thought almost sarcastically to himself that he had an image to uphold. He swallowed hard and forced a smile, trying to refocus himself on the task at hand. Just a few more steps. Maybe four, five more feet. Three or four steps, walking normally; maybe six shuffly steps, but he didn't plan on shuffling. It wasn't like he was hesitating. His mind was made up now.

Thursday didn't glance back towards his brother (and therefore didn't know he was running back towards him, or he might have reconsidered his actions, if fleetingly). He took a deep breath and stepped forward, coming ever closer; if he leaned too far forward now and lost his balance, he probably couldn't regain it properly before he tumbled over the edge. The exhiliration of the pre-jump was in his chest, his heart fluttering, and every part of him but one, the rational and the irrational, was screaming at him DON'T DO IT, YOU'LL DIE.

But the biggest player of all just looked down on them all, smiled at them icily, and echoed Thursday's own words: That's the point.

Thursday took the next two steps a little more quickly and soon found himself looking right into the East River, the toes of his black boots just inches from the edge of the bridge. His blood pumping from the adrenalin, he spread his arms out on either side of him like a plane as he prepared to take the last step.

Twenty seconds to contact.

It was a long way down.

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Silence.

As Tuesday stared forward into what felt like an infinite abyss of time and space swirled together in unfathomable forms, his senses seemed to click off one by one like tiny light switches in his head. The smell of the river and the maple leaves drifting gently towards the grass, the crinkle of the river lapping against the shore, the soft cushion of ground beneath his feet, and the general atmosphere of the city around him faded into oblivion, and the spectrum of his vision narrowed. His brother was the only shape in a vast expanse of nothingness, and the shape was falling, slowly, slowly into it.

Thursday, you’re not going to die. The words echoed around the emptiness of his perception, hollow, impassioned, and as empty of conviction as the world around him was empty of substance. Not now, not ever.

He felt his arm reach down and grasp something hard, spongy, and buoyant. He felt his legs moving of their own accord, pounding and pounding against the grass and springing deftly into the air. Tuesday felt himself flying, soaring thousands of feet up, and as he glanced down he could see Thursday, a toddler imitating Tuesday’s syllables and laughing at the hilarity of such an inane mode of communication as talking out loud, a mischievous ten-year-old giggling hysterically as he spray painted the science teacher’s desk with his own creative adaptation of the Periodic Table of the Elements, a rebellious teenager winking as his nimble fingers twirled a lockpick expertly in the miniscule keyhole of the playing card store. And he saw himself as well, so far, far below that the two of them looked like nothing more than tiny ants, two molecules swallowed by an infinity of nothingness. They laughed, convulsing with spasms of hysteria until they panted and clasped their sides, the pure elation on their faces piercing Tuesday to the core. But he was falling towards them, he knew, and eventually he’d be down there with them. He’d be them again, what he and Thursday had been so long ago.

Which really wasn’t so long ago, actually. Now that he thought about it, it had really only been-

The two boys disappeared. And all of a sudden, Tuesday was bombarded with an onslaught of frigid cold.

Thursday, you’re not going to die. Not ever.

He was in water. He was in water, surrounded by water, and he was colder than he’d ever felt in his life.

Tucking the life raft he’d grabbed under his arm, he began to swim forward, calling his brother’s name louder than he’d ever imagined himself capable of calling.

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

Prepare to evacuate soul in ten.

Nine.

Eight.

What movie was this from? Fight Club, right.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Thursday was counting slow, so he felt himself hit the water before he reached "one." The cold water woke him up almost immediately, but he didn't shy away from it; he let the freezing liquid seep into his clothes, making them heavy. He let himself sink down below the surface, and he didn't fight. God, the water made his head pound like a drum...he could feel the cold in his body now, slowing the blood in his veins, his heart...

It was funny, because he wasn't even in the least bit excited to die. And at the same time, he wasn't in the least bit afraid of it. There was nothing to quicken his heartrate, so it just began to slow on its own.

He just wanted this all to be over.

The river was pulling him back up again, so he let out a little more of his breath, watching the bubbles stream up towards the surface. He couldn't see the bottom from here, it was so disorienting...

God, his head hurt...it was getting hard to think at all.

How long does it take to die in the East River? he thought to himself, feeling his body tugged along by the current. He was running out of air, and he didn't know. It didn't take that long to drown, did it? It couldn't. Once he stopped breathing, there would be no more oxygen to his brain and his heart would stop...or something like that. He wasn't sure. He didn't really pay attention in science, and he didn't really bother looking that sort of medical shit up online; it didn't really interest him.

He found it kind of funny that he was so intent on thinking in his last moments of life, but the way his life was actually flashing before his eyes, it was hard not to.

Tuesday and Thursday eating ice cream, about five years old. Tuesday drops his and seems as if he is about to cry. Thursday gives Tuesday his cone. "It's okay," he says, "'cause we're brothers. My ice cream is your ice cream."

But he didn't want Tuesday to share his ice cream anymore.

That was supposed to be a really cool metaphor for not wanting Tuesday to share his pain, but it didn't quite turn out in his freezing mind exactly as planned.

Fuck it.

He felt himself begin to sink even farther, and he smiled. He was running out of air.

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Tuesday had taken swimming lessons, once, back in like second grade or something, but he couldn’t remember anything about them except that he had ended up stuffing a Garter Snake in the pool filter. Oh, and the teacher had been a mad hot blonde. But yeah. He was basically on his own here.

Tuesday Davenport’s long-toned instincts seized control of his muscles the instant he hit the water. Within a split second he was doing what he’d always done whenever he was thrust into a dangerous situation, which was to cry out for his brother. “Thursday!” came his words, haggard and desperate as those of that starving camel dude in that one movie in the desert where Nicolas Cage ended up kissing that red-haired girl from Criminal Minds. “Thursday! Thursday!”

Tuesday and Thursday eating ice cream, about five years old. Tuesday drops his and seems as if he is about to cry. Thursday gives Tuesday his cone. "It's okay," he says, "'cause we're brothers. My ice cream is your ice cream."

And there they were again, the two boys, so different and yet, so similar. Like an eclipse of two stars in a vast, empty infinity; two identical pinpoints of bright light in an empty, apathetic darkness.

Tuesday and Thursday sprinting from an angry shopkeeper, two days before their tenth birthday. Tuesday’s foot catches on the edge of a pothole and he sprawls across the sidewalk, his forehead slapping dully against the rigid asphalt. “Keep going!” he shouts to his compatriot as he struggles to rise, massaging his temples. The thud of heavy footsteps and piercing obscenities grow louder behind them but Thursday sprints back, pulling Tuesday to his feet. “We’re brothers, you know,” he says as he patiently helps him along their course. “We gotta look out for each other.”

We’re brothers. We gotta look out for each other.

Tuesday had a brother. He had a brother who had been there his entire life, at his side, watching his back, cleaning up his messes and picking him up when he fell. And now he, Tuesday, needed to be there. He needed to be there for Thursday, who probably needed him more than he needed anyone else. But all of a sudden it was cold, and it was wet, and it was dark, and Tuesday was scared, and he was hungry, and he was thirsty and he was tired, more tired and thirsty and hungry and scared and cold than he’d ever been in his entire life. He was going to die here, alone, clutching this white floaty thing with the frigid water engulfing him, consuming him, and no one would ever know.

And really, who would care? He was one of two nobody, good-for-nothing pranksters. One half of an inconsequential entity. Maybe Thursday hadn’t been so-

His arm brushed something cold, limp, and arm-shaped. Tuesday groped, grasping it desperately. “Thursday!” he shouted, slinging his brother’s arm over the life raft. It had all the life and radiance of a dead fish, but Tuesday couldn’t have cared less. It was his brother. He had his brother.

“It’s alright, Thurs,” he whispered, treading water, running a hand through his brother’s sopping hair, and hoping against hope that his assertions might somehow hold even the tiniest grain of truth. “I’m here, bro. I’m right here. It’s going to be okay.”

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

Thursday's mind was drawing a blank. He was running out of memories to have flash before his eyes, and almost all of them were about his brother, which really didn't help.

Come on. He was doing the right thing...Tuesday didn't want him around...right? Right? He was the dead weight now, in this duo. The inferior half of one entity. Tuesday could survive on his own easily, he had already shown that...he didn't need Thursday...

Tuesday and Thursday are about thirteen years old...spraypainting something...what was it...what was it...

The cold and lack of air were taking over, and he was sinking, sinking, sinking, and it was so cold, and he just closed his eyes and waited for the lights to go out and...

Nobody would care if he was gone, anyway. Tuesday was the only one who had really considered his existence as important, and now, even he didn't see Thursday as worthwhile...right? He had to keep telling himself that this was the right thing to do...he was doing the right thing leaving these people behind. They wouldn't miss a useless guy like him.

He wanted this...

Eventually, the lack of air to his brain worked its magic, and Thursday lost consciousness.

Spinning around in the blackness of his subconscious, he didn't feel Tuesday grab his arm, didn't hear him calling out for him, didn't feel himself get thrown across the life raft. He remained limp, eyes closed, body inert and heavy; it was difficult to tell if he was even alive.

It would all be over soon.

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Time slowed down to the speed of a DVD on scan, when you first pressed the “forward” button on the remote control and it went like, frame by frame until you sped it up. Frame by frame he saw his brother’s eyelids succumb to gravity, like tiny feathers meandering down from the sky. Frame by frame he saw the expression on his brother’s face transform from hard determination into soft, hopeless, listless apathy. Frame by frame he watched his brother’s arms, his arms, the appendages identical to his own down to the very fabric of the chromosomes, droop softly to his sides.

Frame by frame he felt his life, his world, his existence, and everything throughout the full spectrum of the universe that had ever mattered to him in any conceivable way sink down through his chest and spill out into the water, drifting slowly down with Thursday towards the depths of the East River, and whatever disgusting worms and dirt and muck and seaweed and Nemos were down there.

Tuesday clung to his brother’s wrist, clinging to his world, to his emotions, to his grasp on reality, to himself. He wagged his arms and legs like some kind of idiotic starfish, progressing inch by inch towards the shore. “C’mon Thurs,” he whispered to what might have been a lump of wood for all the response he was getting. He struggled to hold his brother’s head above the water, but he could feel his arm throbbing beneath the weight. “Almost there, bro,” he gasped, spewing water from the corners of his mouth as he pushed forward against the rock-hard water.

He dragged his brother’s body up onto the bank, wretching and spluttering sea water across the grass. He collapsed on top of the limp pile of a boy beside him, murky water and tears streaming in a torrential downpour down his cheeks. “Thursday,” he whispered, shaking his brother’s shoulder. Don’t be dead. Please, please, please, bro, don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.

With quivering fingers he yanked his phone from his pocket, clumsily shoving the three numbers as far down into the bed of the keypad as they would go. As he listened to the dial tone ringing callously in his ear, he stared beseechingly into his brother’s blank eyes, hoping more than he’d hoped in his entire life that somewhere behind the drooping, languid features, his brother was buried.

“Please, Thursday,” he whispered, his voice lost somewhere in the depths of the East River. And he knew, in that moment, that he would give anything, anything in the world, if only his brother would live. “Please don’t go. Please don't leave me here alone.”