Our demons.

The tale of two brothers.

My older brother and I have demons within us. 

“You had everything.” - He would scream often, when we still talked to one another, showing no attempt to hold his demon at bay. 

“Not my fault you suck.” - I fired back. I had long had nothing for my brother but contempt for the simpleton he was.

Compared to his demon, mine was the stuff of legend. 

My older brother was never very smart. While I studied and worked and never asked for anything, my older brother hung out with friends and played video games. No wonder why my demon was stronger, and his was as frail as an imp. Of course, he was no good when the Angels cracked the sky open to destroy our city. Of course, he needed my help.

“D!” My brother warned. “Stop staring at the computer and help me!” 

Such haste was unnecessary, for my demon could single-handedly hold back the whole battalion of Angels. 

“I have class in an hour, A.” - It was 8p.m, and to grow the demon further, I had to also practise the piano afterwards. “You can stop them with fire magic.” 

I glanced over to see A. gritted his teeth and squeezed his fists, straining to summon the demon and cast his magic at the winged figures. Alas he punched the air, and with a crack two swirling fireballs engulfed the creatures. My older brother, the 8-year-old fire mage, jumped up and down his bed in joy.

"D! Chase after them!” Blood was rushing to his head, and he pulled and tugged at my chair and yelled. 45-minute before cram school and I have yet to finish yesterday's homework. I could already hear dad's click of the tongue if the teacher reported me again. This was what it takes to strengthen my demon.

“You go after them, A. The honour for this victory is yours.” - I said. He was confused at the word “honour.” I said it meant sweets, and he bolted out of the room, for every fallen Angels now promised cake.

When I was back from cram school, my older brother was sleeping. I could still hear the remnants of mom's lullaby. She said I needed none. My brother was smiling. His demon was weak, but he was smiling.

“D.?” - He scooched to the end of the bed, where I was playing on the piano with my headphones plugged in. 

"What is it, A.?" 

"Will the Angels attack again tonight?”

"I’m here, aren't I?” - Back then, he loved my demon and how strong it was.

My demon training was outside the door to our bedroom. Chess, English lessons, piano lessons, cram school, all to prepare me for boarding school. I had grown to hate the door, the portal to another world, where my demon is used on humans, and not the imaginary Angels.

“You had everything!” My brother would say that some time in the future.

The family reunions were the worst. Adults with demons bigger than skyscrapers duked it out to see who raised the best demon-spawn. We thought ourselves so wise, when my cousins went to this school and that school, and my nephews achieved this and that, and I was hailed as an example, the ultimate. I listened and smiled and stood there. “Do not touch the exhibit,” my mom's glare said to the others. Meanwhile, my brother was laughing and hugging and patting the heads of the children, and they seemed to be queueing up just to give him a hug.

We both know the Angels weren't real, but my brother could still believe. His demon was small, but its magic was permeating through my brother’s gait and chest and eyes. While I fed my demon its favourites of judgement and lies and vanity, he fed his with dreams and imagination. While mine grew to fit and appease this world, his lived.

I wore a suit and tie, he was comfortable in t-shirt and joggings. While he looks into the mirror and poses, I have not dared approach any reflective surface for decades. Was my hair right, is my nose too big, did I say that correctly, was I funny.

“Hey, D. How about we get some Angels today?” - He put out a hand that one day. 

But I couldn't reach for it. The demon won. We never talked again.