Kelan wasn’t sure what was happening. Things were twisted and turned around … inside out.
But no. It was just the opposite: He was outside looking in, like a spectator watching from the stands. He saw his brother—but also saw himself. It was as if in his mind he were peering through a window to another world, watching a magical TV that played dreams instead of shows. The actor he saw looked like him, but didn’t feel like him. In fact, he felt nothing.
The room, his brother, his mom—he could see her too, rushing up the stairs on another channel on this odd Daydream TV—were just hollow impressions, scratches on the surface of reality. Even time seemed to be slowing. He sensed a duality, his mind drifting between two distinct islands of thought, touching one, then the other, unable to bridge them. It was as if he existed in two places at once, his actor alter-ego leading and he following, unable to change the script.
TV-Eric was sickly gray. Blood stained his hands and his shirt. He was sobbing.
He reached for the doorknob. His slick fingers slipped on the metal, and his hand slid along the door, streaking it with blood.
“Not yet,” TV-Kelan said darkly. He kicked his TV brother, sending him into a scream.
Kelan’s eyes widened as he watched his mother take the stairs. Now she stood beyond the door, ready to burst in. But then she fell back and struck the wall.
His mom was choking. He wanted to cry out, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
TV-Kelan turned to the dresser and knelt before it. He took the branch from its hiding place, and with a sly grin, turned to his TV brother.
It was a good whipping.